On the barricades

I came out for my fifth protest on Saturday; not just my fifth protest of Trump 2.0, but my fifth protest ever in my sixty years of life. I’ve always admired people who take it to the streets, but I never felt moved to do so myself until January of 2025. 

I didn’t go to the big march in Washington DC. I went instead to my local neighborhood protest. We gathered in front of a shopping center on Georgia Avenue, old people and middle-aged people and parents with young kids carrying homemade signs. A few people wore No Kings t-shirts and hats, and there were one or two costumes, but most of us looked like we were just stopping off to protest for an hour or two in between Saturday errands, which is actually exactly what I was doing. I showed up at 12:30 and I was out at 2. 

It was rather cold out there on the proverbial barricades, with high temps in the 40s and a pretty brisk wind. A lady in her 70s had brought a huge bag of red handmade Norwegian hats, and was handing them out to anyone who wanted one. I didn’t take one. I’m not a hat person. But I loved the idea and I appreciated the gesture. 

Another lady, who was unfortunately standing next to me, kept up a running commentary, interrupting herself every few seconds to yell at passing drivers to honk their horns, making helpful horn-honking gestures so that they could understand her even if they couldn’t hear her. Most of them did honk their horns (and would have, even without the encouragement). About 80 percent of the drivers who passed us honked and waved. About 15 percent studiously ignored us, staring straight ahead and not looking at us for a second, even when they were stopped at the light. 

That leaves the actively hostile five percent, jeering and waving their stupid little middle fingers as they passed. Some dumbass yelled something about Trump Derangement Syndrome, which certainly exists but it’s not what that guy thinks it is. Another guy drove by twice, yelling “Domestic terrorists! You’re all domestic terrorists! This is terrorism! This is an insurrection!” He was holding up his phone as he was driving, trying no doubt to get pictures and video to turn in to the FBI. After the second pass, the police stopped him, and he went on his way. I was glad to see him go. He seemed a little unhinged and I would not have been surprised if he’d brandished a gun at us. Psycho. 

*****

Did we make a difference? I don’t know. I think that 8 million people nationwide are thought to have been out on Saturday. Based on US population estimates of around 340 million, that puts us well over 2 percent of the population, but well short of the 3.5 percent that historians say is the tipping point for mass movements. So we’re getting there.  

It made a difference for me, at least, to be doing something other than doomscrolling and raging at the injustice of it all. It was nice to connect with other people. It was nice to see how many of those other people felt the same way I do. It was nice to go home afterward and warm up a bit before going out to a late lunch/early dinner with my husband. I know that public protests aren’t always easy and pleasant, but that one certainly was . I just hope that I’ll have the courage to continue even when it gets dangerous.