Kumbaya, Baby

Baby Phoebe learning to read.

(Ed. note–for the first five weeks of the protest, I wasn’t posting about it, and I was barely journaling, because I couldn’t stand to write down what was happening around me. My interactions with people because of the sign made me want to write again.)

Feb. 26, 2017

Writing this stuff down makes me see how much I missed by not writing this stuff down.

People have stopped crying when we talk. I think mid-month might have been the last one: a guy in his twenties, longish red hair, polar fleece hat. I was leaning against the door on the downtown 2/3, he was holding the bar above the guy sitting to my left.

“I like your sign,” he said. (I haven’t been writing this stuff down, so I can’t vouch for the accuracy of the dialogue, but that’s how like 8 out of 10 conversations start.)

I usually say something like, “Thanks, I hate having to carry it. How’s it going for you?”

He was shocked, he said. He was unable to believe what was happening, and how bad it was — the hate crimes, the travel ban, Steve Bannon. He didn’t want to think about how much worse it could get. He grimaced, and tears came to his eyes.

I put my hand over his on the bar. “We’ll do everything we can. We’ll take care of each other.” He nodded, head down, tears falling.

That was the kind of vague platitude I was running on for the first three weeks, when I saw no hope of sunlight: “We’ll do everything we can.” When he cried, I cried. I didn’t know what the fuck to do either. Why else would I be carrying around a sign in public?

I don’t see sunlight yet, but at least I believe that sunlight still exists, and that’s something. I think other people are feeling that way too. If nothing else, we know we’re not alone in the rain. If you cry, I cry; maybe we’ll both feel a little bit better. We’ll do everything we can. We’ll take care of each other.