‘Hell Hath No Fury Like 157M Women Scorned’

Emmy-winning writer Merrill Markoe, who once marched with Martin Luther King Jr., reports from the pussy-hat-packed streets of Women’s March L.A., as the Botox set went missing and (polite) passion ran high

- Merrill Markoe

You have to be galvanized to go to a march. Or, as Webster further elaborates, “jolted, shocked, impelled, stirred, spurred, prodded, urged, motivated, stimulated, electrified, excited, roused, awakened.” I was one of 750,000 people, at last count, who have had a building sense of all of those things since the election. So there we all were Jan. 21 at the Women’s March L.A.

I had a feeling it would be a big crowd, so my friend, her eighth grade daughter, her daughter’s friend and I decided to get to the Metro station at 8 a.m. in a futile attempt to outsmart the situation via public transportation. Though the trains were running on time, a detail I’m sure President Trump will want to take credit for despite the fact that he’d only been in office for less than a day, our car was so tightly packed with humanity that if it had lurched to a halt, and we had been a cartoon, we would have tumbled into a pile of tangled human fettuccine, then exited as a molded block of a Metro car with feet and hair.

Once we were out on the street, we were instantly a part of an endless tributary of sign-bearing people. Most were women, but there were more men and trans people than I expected. Quite a few Were wearing those homemade pussy hats, a little too Hello Kitty for me. I secretly was hoping for a more disturbing variation of a hat made to look like a vagina.