Maya Jimenez 

Humanities 
2nd March 2020 
 
The Route I Follow  
 
I moved along with the rushing current of a rage-driven crowd as far left of the political spectrum as 
possible, when I noticed a lone man standing stories above us in an apartment building underneath a 
massive TRUMP banner and a sign immediately to my right with the blatant phrase, “Trump Chinga 
Tu Madre”. The stark contrast stung like a bitter wind.  

Earlier that morning, it had been bitingly cold. By the time all 10,000 marchers were on the street, I 
had the itching urge to peel off the two jackets underneath my volunteer shirt. I had anticipated this 
moment since I confirmed my internship with the Women’s March of San Diego. As the heat beat on 
my back and burned my hair, people stood on all sides roaring a chant and gripping homemade signs. 
I scanned for ones that particularly stood out to post on the WMSD instagram. Normally, I would feel 
claustrophobic. 

As a child, I hated crowds. I liked to be alone with my thoughts. They were mostly questions: how, 
when, why. Instead of being told an answer, I would investigate myself. I needed accuracy, truth, both 
sides equally explained. I needed to ​know​. Know that I wasn’t being manipulated or duped. Know 
what it was that made people believe in something so ardently. Know that not everything was black 
and white.  

If I were a child in that crowd, I would have grown anxious and inflicted with sudden irritation or 
with the slow panic of suffocation in the clutches of a crowd. But within the march that I had worked 
towards creating a reality, I wanted to read every sign, see every performer, listen to every speech. Most 
of all, I wanted to see both sides and their contrasting elements. Professionally printed anti-vaccination 
signs held by middle-aged women next to “Vaccines Save Lives” handwritten in colorful letters by high 
school girls. Representatives from Planned Parenthood chanting about abortion being a right standing 
across from a small group with signs the words, “Abortion Kills”. 

Seeing these clear contrasts led me to revisit the question I had asked in my last year of middle school. I 
participated in a small group at school that delved into the humanity of the legal system and in the 
thick of the discussion, I asked my teacher the very same question: H
​ ow do I know what is right?​ A 
simple phrase, but one that required a dive deep enough to find exactly what continued to drive my 
questioning. She replied with an equally simple answer: You don’t. You have to follow your moral 
compass. 

While portraying Thomas Jefferson and quoting the Declaration of Independence in a school play, I 
knew what was right. I knew his intentions and story, yet I also understood the meaning behind the 
words I had memorised to declare in front of the audience. I recognised that there were two sides, but I 
knew where I​ ​stood.  

In other words, I knew what I was doing. I was following my moral compass.  

This knowing drove me to turn my gaze away from the screaming man in the apartment building 
above the flow of the crowd and away from the handwritten sign with severe language years later in the 
Women’s March, and towards the route that I needed to follow to arrive at the place I had already 
decided I was going to stand.