We are here, we are marching, chanting, protesting; we are at the front-lines braving buckshot, teargas, bullets and arrest; we are delivering medical supplies, reporting, documenting, celebrating; we are burying our sons and daughters, tending to the injured and tortured, defending our imprisoned; we are working, organizing, managing our households. We are here.
We are here, and still you will not see us; still you will define and judge us by our hymens and level of use or abuse of our vaginas; still the cry of an assaulted man will ring louder and more honorable to your ears than the cry of a tortured woman; still you will find more dignity and heroism in taking a bullet than in braving sexual assault; still you will try and impose on us your masculine view of acceptable risk, tell us when and how to have our fight, explain our boundaries to us.
We are here, and we will not be silenced; we will not be scared off our streets and political action; we will not retreat to whatever sheltered bubbles any classist illusions of social standing or gender roles afford us; we will not be confined to what you tell us are our appropriate places and spaces; we will not be intimidated, we will not be shamed.
We are here. We will not be silenced, and we sure are fighting to the end. We are here. We are the revolution.