The Women’s March Proves Solidarity Can’t Exist in a Bubble

Early Saturday I was standing knee deep in snow, listening in awe as The Daily Show's Jessica Williams gave one of the most powerful speeches of the morning, at the Park City Women's March at Sundance. She recounted an emotional story about getting average grades in high school one semester and having her mother tell her in no uncertain terms that as a black woman she could never afford to "be average." There was a particular irony in hearing that story in front of thousands of wealthy/middle-class white women. But the most important part of her speech came at the end when Williams, shortly after shouting out "Black Lives Matter," noted that she was proud to stand with all the women that morning and hoped that when she needed these women to stand with her, she could expect the same turnout. It's a sentiment I've been thinking about since the March on Washington and its many successful sister marches around the world.

There's no question that seeing that many women gathered together in solidarity, marching for their daughters, mothers, sisters and friends, was powerful. I spent the morning slightly detached because I was there to work, but I gave into my emotions talking to other women, allowing myself to tear up alongside them because there is nothing more important than expressing our humanity together. Protests are not new for me, I've been marching since I was a child, from Take Back the Night vigils to anti-war demonstrations, and I believe completely in the power of public unity. But since the announcement of the Women's March I have been asking myself why I couldn't quite see myself there. The historical absence of women of colour from the frontlines of the feminist movement have kept many of us from participating actively in what can often seem like exclusionary politics. It's hard to reconcile the notion of solidarity of all women against this president when we know that 53 percent of white women voters cast their ballot for Donald Trump. Though this march had the promise of unity, after looking at the many Instagrams and media coverage from the weekend, I'm still left feeling like we're being excluded from the conversation.

And it's not because we physically weren't there—I know many women of colour who attended across North America. But the face of this movement, in many cases the only voices of this movement, have been middle-class, able-bodied white women whose echo chamber grew to millions on Saturday. And in the end it still feels like they're just talking to each other. Intersectionality was mentioned, but the images of the overwhelmingly white frontlines and the "pussy power" chants quickly proved that, for now, intersectionality is a lovely buzzword that lets you feel better about your pink hat. Jessica Valenti, a Guardian columnist and founder of Feministing, posted, then deleted a very telling tweet that pointed out there were no arrests on Saturday, ignoring the racialized police response at most demonstrations. It was a glaring blindspot, but one that she shares with many women whose political action is usually relegated to 140 characters. In Vancouver, the Women's March didn't even bother to contact the local Black Lives Matter chapter.

It's not a surprise that Jessica Williams feels compelled to ask the women present on Saturday to stand with her next time there is a Black Lives Matter protest, because they have historically not shown up in the past. While the Women's March on Washington felt like the beginning of a movement for many, the undercurrents of resistance have been alive and well in Ferguson, Flint, North Dakota, and North Carolina to name just a few. So do we really stand in solidarity? I was given a bit of an answer to that question the afternoon before at another, less visible demonstration in Park City.

On Friday afternoon, frontline Indigenous leaders who continue to fight for clean water in North Dakota took to historic Main Street with NoDAPL signs.

Despite declaring victory at Standing Rock in December, the reality on the ground is far from celebratory. I spoke with activists whose friends had been hit at close range with rubber bullets just days earlier. Bobbi Jean Three Legs, from the Oceti Sakowin camp in North Dakota, was front and centre at Friday's protest and has been battling the pipeline since the beginning. Her declaration about the status of the fight was much clearer. "It's not over," she told me.

There was a lot of celebrity presence at Standing Rock, actor Shailene Woodley even spent an afternoon in jail. There was no such presence here on Main Street this past weekend. Dozens of protesters walked up the festival's hub calling for support and other than a few curious photo-takers and some grumbling about blocking the sidewalk, they ended their march with the same numbers as they started with. There was no solidarity that afternoon. Curiously though, Shailene Woodley is scheduled to speak at a sold out "Standing Rock" meets Sundance event Monday afternoon. None of the Indigenous women from Friday's protest are on the bill.

What happened on Saturday was important and it was powerful. But it can't happen in a bubble. What will be inconvenient for the majority of the marchers for the next four years, will be life-threatening for black, brown, and trans women. If our activism happens in an echo chamber, however large, if we erase the people we're "fighting for" from the fight, then we risk repeating the mistakes of the people we're marching against. We stood with you on Saturday, will you stand with us today?

Follow Amil Niazi on Twitter.