My wife and I have always tried to raise our daughters (one now seventeen and one fourteen) to be strong, independent women – critical thinkers who don’t just believe what they are told, but who are eager to dive into a subject, whatever it is, research the facts, and develop their own opinions.

It is with this mindset that I was approached by my eldest a few weeks ago with the question – “can we go to the ‘March For Our Lives’ event in Washington D.C. on the 24^th?”

A protest march?

I have to admit, I’ve never been one to display my political views too openly, and have certainly never been to any sort of protest march, but my eldest has had strong feelings on gun violence after seeing the images of the Parkland, Florida shooting (as well as the numerous other mass shootings that garner nationwide attention), so being a supportive father, I told her that if she really wanted to go and it was important to her – I would take her.

Now I’m not here to try to convince any reader of this column about what view on guns is right or wrong.  These decisions are to be left up each person as an individual.  I just want to share the experience of our father/daughter journey to our nation’s capital to take part in the marquee event of the day’s festivities, which included many smaller marches in other cities around the world.

I opted to drive only as far as the end of the D.C. Metro line (Shady Grove) and ride the subway into Washington proper, as the expected crowds and my unfamiliarity with driving downtown would have no doubt been an adventure all its own.  It was easy to see that this was going to be a big event, as the crowds at even the end of the transit line were already ramping up.  The ride in would cover around seventeen or eighteen stops, but after merely three, the cars were already full – a taste of what was to come.

My daughter was giddy with excitement.  All around us, people were holding signs or even working on them during the ride into D.C.  Conversations were already beginning between complete strangers.  How big is your group?  Where are you from?  How many people do you think will show up?  There were men, women, retirees, families with strollers, and youth groups.  I was genuinely surprised at the cross-section of people this was drawing in.

My daughter and I opted to get off at the “National Archives” Metro station stop, which was right in the middle of “protest central” on Pennsylvania Avenue.  As we ascended the escalator into the midday sun, we were greeted with an image neither one of us are soon to forget.

It was a sea of people.  I’ve never seen so many human beings crammed into such a small area (and I’ve seen some crowds in my theme park days).  As far as one looked up and down the avenue, from the Capitol building on one end all the way down past the old Post Office (now ironically a Trump hotel property), it was a solid mass of sign-wielding humanity.  Officials estimate that there were well over the expected 500,000 people at the event, and I believe it.  I’ve never been part of a crowd that large in my life.

I was nervous as we waded in, but the crowd was surprisingly joyful, peaceful, and polite.  An organizer handed out granola bars to people coming out of the Metro stop.  Vendors were hawking shirts, flags, and buttons.  Large jumbotron screens lined the streets, as the small main stage by the Capitol building would have been impossible to see from anywhere but directly in front of the stage area.  People were taking pictures of signs, the crowds, and their groups at the event.

We shuffled to a spot directly across from the Archives building (in another twist of irony, we were less than 100 feet from the building that actually houses the U.S. Constitution).  My daughter was all smiles, taking it all in.  You could sense she felt she was taking part in something special – something she would remember for the rest of her life.

As the afternoon event unfolded, there were youth speakers (many survivors from the Parkland tragedy), entertainers such as Arianna Grande, rapper Common, and Miley Cyrus, and all the while videos against gun violence filled the screens between acts.  Even Martin Luther King, Jr.’s own 9-year old grand-daughter took the stage in a plea for non-violence and change.  Through it all we stood – body to body with the crowd, as my eldest cheered, clapped, and enthusiastically spoke with her neighbors.

After two and a half hours, it was over, and the crowds slowly dissipated for the rides home.  As we finally sat on a subway seat after being on our feet for over six hours, my daughter – sunburned, tired, and with a head full of memories, leaned her head on my shoulder and simply stated:

“Thanks for bringing me, Dad.  I love you.”

Love you back, kiddo.  Any time.