by Emily Rose Prats
I am unabashedly excited for the Million Women March. And that's a privilege.
Some I know are afraid--to be targeted by police, harassed by Trump supporters.
Some I know are struggling, the exertion a difficult prospect for those with physical and emotional disabilities.
Some I know are risking a lot, losing pay and maybe even their jobs.
Some I know are alone, seen as traitors and troublemakers by families who don't understand.
But marching is easy for me.
My family--my mom, my sister, my boyfriend--will be marching right beside me.
I'm white, middle-class, and wholesome-looking. It's unlikely I'll face discrimination tomorrow.
I can march all day long on my two feet, full of energy, eating protein bars and PBJ.
I don't have to miss work. I was able to afford train tickets. I'm lucky to have a friend so gracious as to open her home to my whole family, saving us all the cost of accommodations.
I treasure this feeling of camaraderie, of solidarity. I'm grateful for this opportunity. I'm so happy to see how much good has already come of the Trump villainy.
But I recognize how lucky I am to be in this position, and I salute those for whom tomorrow--and the next four years--will be far more difficult.
For feminism to be the intersectional place we want it to be, we have to celebrate our own joyful perspective and be conscious that others can't share that joy. We must be sensitive to these disparities. And we have to see them for what they are: evidence that there's always more work to be done.
Emily Rose Prats is a dog-lover, Pride and Prejudice obsessee, and marketer raised in Kentucky and living in Brooklyn. She's trying to live well, fight consumerism, and be a good role model.
by Emily Rose Prats
I’m not sure what I’m doing in BTWC. I’m here because I need a place to learn and to share, a place where the desire to do what’s right is a central premise, and not some naive ideal. But I don’t share the conviction that art—in the site-specific, downtown-Manhattan, blackbox-theatre sense—is an effective form of protest.
On the first day of acting class in college, our instructor asked what acting meant to each of us. I declared it to be a responsibility: introducing the audience to “the other,” building empathy, connecting one human to the next. But the longer I was in the business, the more I realized that for most actors, the vocation is a commercial one—whether by choice, because one’s goal is to make money, or by necessity, because a person needs money to live—and for most audiences, the arts are a brief escape from the burden of consciousness.
And even in a city like New York, where thought-provoking theatre happens nightly, and truly indie films screen regularly, it still takes work to find these dots of light among countless Disney spectacles and the plethora of film stars.
So I’m not sold on performance as protest.
Heck, I’m not even sold on protest as protest.
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