“You gotta come!” my son-in-law pleaded, referring to the big women’s march down Fifth Avenue to Trump Tower. Frankly, I was planning to be in solidarity with my sisters from the comfort of my cozy apartment. I was not really interested in standing in the cold. And, even as a child of the ’60s, I am not convinced these protests can effect real change.

But I agreed to make a sign as my contribution to the cause. We sat on the fluffy rug in their living room creating our signs from unfolded cardboard boxes. My son-in-law suggested Bad Comb Over and decided that since I’m an artist, I ought to make it. So I wrote Bad Comb Over in black marker with some straggly blonde hairs draped over the O. My work was done, no need to actually march or anything.

Son-in-law had been busy texting, assembling a small, resolute group to convene on 47th and Third Avenue. I was starting to feel a slight pressure to go. A convergence of extraordinarily different people from all over, marching together in fellowship down Fifth Avenue! Geez… I decided I would need to go. I mean, it’s history. I’d stay home and wonder all day long how it was going and why I wasn’t there. Plus, as a mother, I needed to go to keep my daughter from getting crushed in the stampede, like when those nightclubs get crowded and people go crazy. If I was sitting at home and there was a stampede, I would feel really terrible.

The train was overflowing, people carrying signs and men and women wearing pink hats. We got off at Grand Central and walked east toward the march, amid great crowds, tho we were still several blocks from the planned route. We stood on the corner of 45th and Third waiting for our group to arrive and ate a traditional New York breakfast sandwich- The BEC – from a little diner on our corner. It was chilly. Clearly I wasn’t dressed well. We all expected 50 degrees but it was considerably colder than that, and cloudy. But the atmosphere was warm, jubliant. Friends arrived and we headed uptown (meaning we turned to face uptown, but no one was actually moving.) Anyone who dared venture out in their car was going nowhere. Might as well get out and leave it on the street, there was nowhere to go. Streets were closing all over the place, the crowd was on the sidewalks and curb to curb. A great clatter of laughter and chanting and talking filled the streets. We were a giant colorful carpet of bodies, moving inch by inch, well, mostly standing still, but happily chanting, “Hands Too Small! Can’t Build a Wall!” and raising our signs. So many families, dads carrying kids on their shoulders, old people, babies…amazing. A sea of signs waved back and forth, mostly written on cardboard, some looking pretty professional: “Melania: Blink Twice If You Want Us To Save You,” “Super Callous Fascist Racist Extra Braggadocious,” and a 20-something guy, smiling and carrying one that read, “Men Are Overrated.”

The day got long (5+ hours of very slow walking) but it was exhilarating. I’m happy I had a small role in it and got to spend the whole day with my daughter and son-in-law. I’ve never been a part of anything as large and momentous. To me it’s doubtful to have an impact on the people in charge, but as son-in-law stated, “you have to do something!” So we did. And there were no stampedes.