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Why I Protest
Though I’m often told it doesn’t change anything
This week has been a bit of a blur. I’m applying for schools, putting out articles, working on my next book, trying to make some time to read and exercise, taking advantage of opportunities to see my friends where I can, and attending four different protests.
Wednesday morning I woke up late, and had to inhale my breakfast like a vacuum cleaner, shower in half the usual time, and brush my teeth while packing a bag — all to rush off to somewhere I wasn’t asked to go and wasn’t paid to be.
After getting there, I’d march around in the noontime sun, holding my sign, and chanting along with a group of languid retirees, “No justice, no peace” and “A nation united will never be defeated.” None of my friends would come; they don’t see the point of it. For that particular protest, they may have been onto something: Two dozen people, walking down a mostly empty street in the middle of a weekday, isn’t exactly an inspiring scene.
A protest’s real potency is all about its size. When I attended the “Not My President” protests right after Trump was elected the first time and we blocked off a highway, it made a real commotion. The Women’s March that I attended in Miami, but that was accompanied by sister protests all around the globe was an incredibly powerful statement. The…
