One Saturday in June
"Baby's first protest!" I joked to my nineteen-year-old daughter as we marched. Then I realized that it was my first protest as well.
I’m waffling about attending, worried about childcare, about the meltdowns that bud and bloom red among my youngest children. My husband is more sanguine, making himself a sign on the flattened back of a Costco-size box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. He tapes it to a yardstick. We stop at our passport appointment first and cross out typos, write checks, take an oath. My photo is hilariously bad, like I just saw a ghost. A family in the next cubicle, the woman's sari bright against the beige room, pose their babies for pictures while we finish our paperwork. The office cheers when the second toddler, held above his father’s head smiles a little for the camera. Flash! At the protest my adult daughter runs to meet us as the loudspeaker blares and flags wave. The signs are beautiful and clever, some just drawings by children who wear paper crowns. Dan gets swallowed up by the crowd and my daughter and I hold hands as we walk for two or three blocks. Horns honk. I wish I had a sign, my daughter shouts in my ear. We duck into a store along the march route where the poster board is sold out, settling instead for large paper pads and thick markers. Kneeling on the sidewalk, cracking packaging off the pens, we write. “No Kings” is hers. “Abolish ICE” is mine. Nothing new, nothing clever. But we’re here, and I’m glad.
History changing and family togetherness
"Nothing new, nothing clever.
But we’re here, and I’m glad."
<3
Being here and being glad is a lot.