People marched on 1/21. These are their stories: Shannon Miller

I will never forget the feelings of sorrow pouring through me at that moment. The moment I apologized to my son, who towers over me, on behalf of our country, our generation.

In November 8th around midnight I set my alarm and turned off my bed lamp with a heavy heart and the same sense of hopelessness as about half of the voters in this country. The next morning, weeping as I wiped sleep from my eyes, I hugged my 16-year-old son closely. I will never forget the feelings of sorrow pouring through me at that moment. The moment I apologized to my son, who towers over me, on behalf of our country, our generation. Of course I had voted. I made an afternoon’s worth of phone calls on behalf of Hillary and Zephyr Teachout. We proudly planted yard signs at the end of our driveway where it intersects with our windy, country road. But it was not enough to look my two children straight in the eyes that morning.

When someone told me about the Women’s March I immediately knew that I had to go. I reserved a seat on a local bus that would leave from the parking lot of a nearby elementary school. The bus left at 2 a.m. to barrel towards our nation’s capitol. Local men and women filled three chartered buses to capacity. At 8 a.m., with wobbly knees and a faintly nauseous feeling from the ride, I stepped out into that parking lot and for the first time felt a resurgence of hope. That day, we walked 7 miles in the heart of our capitol shoulder to shoulder, I became a patriot. That day, as I strained my voice to be heard in the White House and Capitol Building, I became a citizen. That day, as I celebrated my right to publicly protest the speech and actions of our newly elected President, at the age of 48, I became a proud American.

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©2017 Nadine Robbins. Unauthorized use of the images and copy from these stories is prohibited.