This content originally appeared on Ethan Marcotte’s website and was authored by Ethan Marcotte
It’s cold out, and the sun’s hidden behind a flat, gray scrim. I look around the park. My brain immediately wants to make a comparison to the last time I was here for a rally — the last time things broke down. Back then, I was a tiny speck floating in an ocean of people. This time, I’d guess there are a few hundred attendees, maybe five or six hundred. When I think about the math, it hurts.
I then realized that my brain’s not exactly helping. Comparison’s the thief of joy, and all that. The air at the rally is casual, friendly. Toward the back of the crowd, small groups — friends, families, groups of chatting — are chatting. Many are laughing, their smiles bright; others are chanting, yelling, singing. I spot a couple to my right. I read them as a man and a woman, both much older than I am, and possibly married. She’s holding a sign I can’t quite read; he’s standing with his hands clasped behind his back, his figure a bit stooped. I wonder how many protests they’ve attended. I wonder how many more they’ll attend.
There’s a small stage at the center of the rally. A local elected official is speaking. She comes to politics through local organizing, and reminds the crowd that it’s okay to pay attention to your fear, to sit with it. But she reminds us that hope is an engine for fighting back. For getting your feet under you, for finding the people next to you, and — most crucially — for building something different. Something better.
I’m immediately and sharply glad I came.
After she leaves the stage, two speakers from a local trans and non-binary rights organization take her place. One of them speaks with clarity, precision, and more than a little fury. They’ll never take my joy, they say, their voice rising. We must never forget to dream: if we can dream it, we can build it; if we can build it, we can change it.
Some elected officials give perfectly fine speeches. As they leave the stage, they plug their Instagram accounts. I look at my watch.
I stay for a couple hours — I clap for the speakers; I holler when it’s appropriate; I cry when I’m moved, or scared about what’s coming — and then I head back to the subway. I have Ursula Franklin’s voice in my ears, and I get off a few stops early to pick up a nice cup of coffee.
I’m glad I went. I’m out of practice with showing up, and with raising my voice alongside others. I think, I’ll probably need to do more of that, and soon. I start crying again, but just a little. I feel like my feet are under me. I keep walking — toward whatever comes next, but also and always toward home.
This has been “Ames & Amherst.” a post from Ethan’s journal.
This content originally appeared on Ethan Marcotte’s website and was authored by Ethan Marcotte
Ethan Marcotte | Sciencx (2025-01-18T04:00:00+00:00) Ames & Amherst.. Retrieved from https://www.scien.cx/2025/01/18/ames-amherst/
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