Nearly sixty years ago, while still in my teens, I marched at People’s Park in Berkeley. I sat in and demonstrated at the University of California at Davis, where I was an undergraduate. I did so in the firm belief that mass, visible protest could bring down the powerful. We could end a war. We could end racial injustice by the power of our presence and our voices. We could, and we did.
I realize now it was never that simple. The war ended largely because the same power elite we despised decided it was no longer winnable or in their best interests. The politicians we despised did the work behind the scenes to enact the laws. Still, it was the collective voice of millions that set the stage.
Today I still go to demonstrations but I am there mostly for the photo op, to be one more body that gets counted. I haven’t felt since those heady days of the 60s. that what I was doing was going to change anything. I live in Canada now, and if there is a demonstration for any cause I care about, I still go, but the demonstrations for No Kings Day (No Tyrants Day here) drew only a few dozen people. I still go, because I was formed by the 60s, and that’s just what I do.
And now, there’s this, an election that shook the windows and rattled the walls. I had forgotten what that feels like, and though I can no longer literally jump for joy, my heart is doing cartwheels. The me that never stopped marching in one way or another through the six decades that began with that teenager and just kept going through every job I held and every vote I cast, rose up yesterday. Senators, congressmen (and women), it’s on you to heed the call. The millions who marched and then voted have told you loud and clear that the times have changed, and we aren’t going to settle for less than an America we can believe in again.