A First Protest: Women’s March on Washington

Rani Wilder, Baltimore, MD

This was my first protest march ever and I knew I had to do this, to be with like minded women who believed in basic human decency.

It was truly a wonderful and eye-opening experience. Naturally we found the best place at the rally, the community gardens! The kale and spinach held up strongly as we chanted “Garden! Garden!” and people tried to gently avoid the plants. We sang, chanted, danced and screamed with gusto.

Everyone there was kind and helpful even as we were squeezed at times by the massive crowds. People were friendly and appreciative of each other, it was extra special when I caught that meaningful and confirming gaze of a brown person. I was in awe of this peaceful yet outspoken protest and thrilled to be a part of it.

Just Delicate Needles

It’s so delicate, the light.
And there’s so little of it. The dark
is huge.
Just delicate needles, the light,
in an endless night.
And it has such a long way to go
through such desolate space.
So let’s be gentle with it.
Cherish it.
So it will come again in the morning.
We hope.

-Rolf Jacobsen (translated by Robert Hedin)

I Am the People, the Mob

I am the people—the mob—the crowd—the mass.

Do you know that all the great work of the world is done through me?
I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the world’s food and clothes.
I am the audience that witnesses history. The Napoleons come from me and the Lincolns. They die. And then I send forth more Napoleons and Lincolns.
I am the seed ground. I am a prairie that will stand for much plowing. Terrible storms pass over me. I forget. The best of me is sucked out and wasted. I forget. Everything but Death comes to me and makes me work and give up what I have. And I forget.
Sometimes I growl, shake myself and spatter a few red drops for history to remember. Then—I forget.
When I, the People, learn to remember, when I, the People, use the lessons of yesterday and no longer forget who robbed me last year, who played me for a fool—then there will be no speaker in all the world say the name: “The People,” with any fleck of a sneer in his voice or any far-off smile of derision.
The mob—the crowd—the mass—will arrive then.

-Carl Sandburg