The next day, I took the hat off as soon as I arrived at the march— it was too warm. But the reason that I have not worn it since is more complicated. In the year that’s passed, the warm wash of relief I felt when seeing those blonde women in pussyhats has transformed into a gut-reactive side-eye, like the one I shot an older, well-to-do white woman on the train the other day, suspicious that her hat was the most audacious action she’s taken on in the name of feminism this year. Seeing the well-worn knit cap atop her head, I felt ripples of contempt and hopelessness and absurdity knock on my throat. I knew that in most practical measures, we were on the same side. But the few inches between our shoulders has never felt so vast.