Test Case: 'Pussy Grabs Back!' A Law Firm Partner Joins A (Peaceful) Post-Election Socialist Protest Mob.

Partner Allison Peryea takes to the streets, in a Tahari work dress and high-heeled shoes.

Allison Peryea with a fellow protestor.

Allison Peryea with a fellow protestor.

There’s a scene in the movie Shakespeare in Love where, after spending the first night with her paramour, Gwyneth Paltrow’s character throws open the curtains and exclaims, “It’s a new world!”

After this frightening presidential election, I feel the same way. Except that this new world is sad and scary, and I want to close the curtains and not open them up for another four—or, dear God, eight—years. Or maybe not ever, now that I conclusively know so many people in this country could elect a crotch-assaulting bully as our commander in chief.

I feel like we are now living in an apocalyptic teen lit series. Like I am going through the worst breakup in the history of breakups, and half the country cheated on me. Like my liberal, bleeding heart has been ripped out of my body and is being feasted on by a pack of woman-hating hyenas—including, inexplicably, a bunch of female hyenas—that was hiding in the shadows all this time. I don’t know if I feel naïve for thinking everyone saw this presidential campaign through the same lens that I did, or proud that I live in a community where I could safely make that assumption. (Excluding, of course, my gaggle of conservative Facebook friends from high school, whose political views will never change).

The night of the election, I went to bed early, paralyzed by grief. Eventually I started sobbing those wrenching, ugly tears that get louder as you try to quiet them. I wasn’t just crying because our country let the monster under the bed crawl into bed with us. I was also crying for the third-grade Allison who wanted to be president when she grew up, before life taught her that the world has different expectations for women, and for my 102-year-old grandmother, who came so damn close to seeing a woman elected president in her lifetime. And for Hillary Clinton, who slogged neck-deep through a river of crap only to lose to an orange bucket of human excrement.

Waking up the next morning to go to work was one of the hardest things I have ever accomplished. My firm shareholder meeting felt like a cruel joke: Why were we planning our holiday party when the world was burning around us? I couldn’t read the news or look at social media, needing to suspend my disbelief a bit longer. I wasn’t quite yet ready to wallow, or analyze, or joke. I tried to focus on my clients’ legal questions, but it felt like doing homework at a funeral.

Pre-apocalypse, I had made Wednesday-night plans for a belated birthday drink with a friend. I had selected a swanky bar by my office, since I am normally quite pro-swank. That evening, however, even a vodka soda in a wannabe-Vegas bar could not blunt my despair.

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Allison Peryea protest 3Halfway through my drink we noticed that there was a swarm of people on the street outside with signs. My law office is on Fourth Avenue in downtown Seattle, near City Hall and the King County Administration Building. I frequently look down from the eighth floor of our building to watch various marches for causes I support. I have always been confused about how they get the word out about these protests. Is there some sort of Protesting Stuff That Sucks social network that I needed to join?

I decided that it was time to join the fray. I asked the waiter: “Sir, could we please close out quickly so we can join that mob outside?” Unfortunately, I was not wearing protest-march-friendly clothes: A Tahari work dress from Nordstrom Rack—black, to commemorate the election—and some high-heeled shoes. This was not going to be a podiatrist-approved decision.

You know the difference between bystander and participant? It’s the three steps that it takes to walk off the sidewalk and into the street. We were immediately surrounded by people of all ages and colors, chanting and waving signs. The march was apparently planned by some sort of Socialist group, and I appreciated their initiative. Mainline Democrats like my family and me seemed to be mourning by themselves (as my mom said, “like Yoda escaping to a deserted planet to wait out the dark forces”).

I almost instantly felt less alone. People were chanting “Not my president,” and “My body, my choice,” and “A rapist, who’s racist—he doesn’t represent us.” My particular favorite: “Pussies grab back!” They were waving flags for a fictional (future?) nation called Cascadia, which is apparently made up of Washington, Oregon, and California. That’s right, we liberals don’t want to share our wine country with you anymore.

Despite my high-school cheerleading background, I was still too stunned to participate in the chanting. But I basked in the surprisingly peaceful outrage while police on bikes cleared roads and waited for mayhem. (Apparently five people were shot in the same location a bit after the march departed, but it wasn’t protest-related. This was a friendly mob.)

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I know we were basically just pouring our anger down a well, but it felt sweetly cathartic. Since the night before I had been navigating the seven stages of grief, and I was stuck on Step 4: “Depression.” But now I was at a support group of strangers in hoodies waving signs that said “Love Trumps Trump” and it felt good. Or at least better.

Eventually, we began climbing up Pike Street toward Capitol Hill, and we all started getting sweaty. I was glad I had been too miserable to attend my lunch workout, because it was becoming clear that this march had no apparent end and I was going to need all available energy reserves.

Allison Peryea protest 4I asked a dude in a plaid shirt if I could snap a picture of his sign, and he said I could just have it. I was now a bona fide protester. It was way more fun to have a protesting accessory to wave around angrily.

By the time we got to north Broadway Street, we had walked three miles and my feet were finally in more pain than my soul. The march continued north toward Canada. My friend and I stopped at a local bar to split a chicken sandwich. Being in a mob requires calorie replenishment.

The next morning in the shower I noted that the end of each of my toes was bruised from walking miles in pointy-toed heels—ten tiny, deep-purple reminders that we don’t have to take this shit sitting down.

I finally had the courage to peek at Facebook and see that some of my friends are trying to get to Step 7: “Acceptance and hope.” Yeah, I get that the sun is going to rise another day. But it also rises every day in Syria, where life is a war-torn hell.

I’m not over it, and I’m probably not ever going to be over it. The effects of this one foolish decision by our country will be felt for years, on the Supreme Court, in foreign policy, and in our uteruses. I feel wounded by the people of America, who revealed something about themselves I wish I didn’t know. (Except you, good citizens of Cascadia and millennial voters.) But this wound is going to heal into a badass scar, and one day it is going to make me tougher. Maybe not as tough as Hillary Clinton has been, because I don’t think that’s possible. But if she can make it through the waking nightmare of this week—probably in heels higher than the ones I wore during the protest—I guess I can too.


Allison Peryea is a shareholder attorney at Leahy Fjelstad Peryea, a boutique law firm in downtown Seattle that primarily serves community association clients. Her practice focuses on covenant enforcement and dispute resolution. She is a longtime humor writer with a background in journalism and cat ownership. You can reach her by email at Allison.Peryea@leahyps.com.