Slutwalk Chicago 2011: A Reflection

I had no idea what to expect. For the most part, anytime a form of activism is posted on Facebook, it's either virtual, or cancelled within a week of the pending date.

But this one wasn't, and I am SO GLAD I went.

I stepped out of the doors of the Clark and State El Station with two ladies and a sign, saying, "This is not a Walk of Shame". The air was thick with humidity, and the sun beamed down onto the heads of hundreds of people in front of us.

Wait-- hundreds? The three of us looked at each other as we watched the crowd wrap around the corner, and begin marching down the street. And they were still coming. Running to catch up, it was easy to get into the spirit of the march. The energy was all around; and it was dressed in nighties, fishnets, jeans, shorts, corsets, dresses, banana hammocks, stilettos and miniskirts. They came from everywhere, and traffic was at a standstill.

Hm... maybe we broke a thousand.

People looked on in horror, pride and humor. Vehicles from all around honked in support. We screamed anytime it felt right, and had a few rotating chants, like,

"No means No! Yes means Yes!"

"Gay, Straight, Black, White, all Unite for Women's Rights!"

and one of my favorites,

"What do we want?"

"Consensual Sex!"

"When do we want it?"

"Now!"

That last one didn't catch on like many of us hoped. But it kept the spirits light.

We marched down Michigan Avenue, scaring tourists. There were cameras all over, taking pictures of the throng--actually, our sign was pretty popular (I can't take credit for it, unfortunately--another member of our awesome trio was the genius there).

We were dripping with sweat, losing our voices, and making a stand. And I had a little moment of reflection as my feet padded the pavement:

I'm doing this for my sister, who lost her life at the hands of an abusive man. I'm doing this for every other person who has experienced sexual assault, abuse in any way, been made to feel less than Zero, or that they don't matter. I'm doing this for myself, to remember that I never have to feel like my liberties are any less than a man's. Of course I'll scream til I lose my voice. I'll walk til my knees give out. I'll make sure someone fucking hears this, and listens, and understands.

It was a necessary reflection, a validation that I was indeed, alive, kicking, and standing up for something I believed in. And it felt really good. And I think 'she' would be proud.

~Pusher. Of. Pens.~