my body, my choice (?)

The rain nipping at my face, sign slipping out of my arms, “my body, my choice” making my voice hoarse, I wondered why I had been dragged here. The purple poncho we had bought especially sagged below my shoulders, and I gazed wide-eyed at the noise, the flashing colors, and the occasional naked person on the peripherals of my vision. Shouting especially fervently was my mother- who, ironically, had denied me the choice of staying in our warm, dry home. Nevertheless, I chanted; not yet understanding, I let my voice cry, sign bob, outrage- at my mother, at the rain, and at something bigger- join that of the crowd. Now, my older, wiser self knows the nature of the protest, but I still don’t understand why our voice, our signs, our outrage- didn’t change anything.