It’s been a year since the Women’s March. And although it was a historic event, with protests springing up all over the country and half a million people descending on Washington D.C., I have mixed feelings about it.
I grew up in a middle-class, suburban county in New Jersey, but now I’m a twenty-something intern living in a low-income part of Washington, D.C. The realtor euphemism for such neighborhoods is “transitional,” a word that implies ongoing change. This is ironic because I feel that so many of the residents here feel as though things will never change, and will always stay the same. Since moving here, I’ve already become accustomed to the wail of sirens, the disconcerting, yet reassuring pulse of blue and red light through the heavy bars on my windows.