Whenever
I noticed one of the hardcore Antifa members, face covered, gas mask, sometimes
in a spiky helmet and/or knee and elbow pads suitable for roller derby, I checked
my instincts. What I found there was nothing but calm, an eerie-quiet feeling
of we’re-all-in-this-together, even though this person would almost surely have
called me a shill (or worse) if I’d met them online in 2016. What I felt was trust
and compassion. I don’t always feel that way towards the younger, whiter
factions of the left, but it was a relief to feel it that day. I felt like they
were there to protect those of us who are less fighty, or less able to fight.
When
the contingent of young socialists behind us in the march, diverse and carrying
a “Black Trans Lives Matter” banner, began chanting “No hatred, no fear,
immigrants are welcome here!” I was moved. I was overcome by an almost
supernatural joyful sadness, a deep ravaged gratitude that felt like it came
from the center of the earth.
I went
ahead and sobbed. I let so much out on that hot, loud, humid street—the years
and decades of pain and fear, the children in cages, my childhood trip to the Statue
of Liberty during which I took the words of Emma Lazarus’s poem VERY SERIOUSLY,
it all streamed out of my face and my throat as I marched down the street with
my best friend and thousands of strangers.
A
nice man patted my shoulder and asked if I was okay, and I cry-said “Yes, I’m
fine, I’m just so happy that people are SO AMAZING.” He looked a little
nonplussed as I thanked him and kept on sob-walking.
If I
could push a button and cry like that for a few minutes every day, I would. As
the tears subsided and the chants did not, I felt like I was floating, like I
was awash in a sea of empathy and healing. I’m not religious, but I’d call this
a religious experience. In those moments of crying I felt myself merging with
the crowd, I felt myself filled up with the best name for god I know: love.
At each
intersection, I wondered if this was where it would happen—the confrontation,
the violence, the attack, the clash. But from where I was standing, it never
was. Though I don’t usually find a police presence comforting, I appreciated
the hands-off (from what I saw; I’m sure it looked different for people of
color and/or for trans participants) organization of the D.C. police force. Plus,
there weren’t huge tanks stationed around like there were at the March for Our
Lives—I guess because this wasn’t specifically about guns. From my no-doubt skewed white
perspective it felt like we, the left, were the ones who were being protected
from the bad guys, but I guess it might just have been comforting that so much
effort was being put into facilitating free speech, even if it was the free
speech of horrible white nationalist monsters. I’m weirdly patriotic sometimes,
and only sort of ashamed to admit it.
Finally,
we made it to Lafayette Square, which was already packed with liberals of every
stripe. My body felt tense and pained with the possible proximity to Unite the
Right, with the anticipation of confrontation. Determined to confront my fears,
I craned my neck over the crowd where the nazis were supposed to be, but I
could see nothing but a vast partition and then police.
The crowd
chanted “Shame! Shame! Shame!”
We could
tell by the way the whole crowd tensed up that the other “rally” had arrived.
(We later learned that the nazi demonstration was about 25 people, far outnumbered
by the number of police) Mounted policemen took their places in front of our
side. We all peered over the fence and braced ourselves, though I’m not sure
for what.
Next Time: A panic, a rainstorm, a victory.
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