A Year of Pussy Hats, Protests and Isolation

My dad said that in order to be a respectable woman,

I should keep my liberalism to my mind, and I should

act and speak like a conservative in public.

So, I decided to spend my four years of college

tethering between suicidal and depressed,

And getting a degree in creative writing.

I got out of class and walked through the quad,

the New York Times live report of Trump’s Impeachment

on the new IPhone I’d bought for myself because I thought

the credit card debit wasn’t going to matter when World War Three

seemed an ABC News alert away.

A small snowflake landed on my screen and the noise of my boots crunching

the snow underneath me was masked by a group of girls screaming in excitement.

Their signs dragged against the snow, making their “I love my wet pussy” signs actually wet.

They were waiting at the Stony Island stop to catch Bus 2 to head to the march in downtown.

A march that was full of women my dad would hate for me to be around.

I’d be at the march,

I’d wear a pussy hat too,

If only they came

in my color.