Reading · My journal — Ethan Marcotte’s website

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.

Hundreds of protestors gathered at a rally on Boston common on a cold, gray day.

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.

A handmade protest sign reads “Billionaires aren’t our role models, they’re our oppressors” in big, blocky letters.

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.

Three protestors stand shoulder-to-shoulder, each holding a handmade protest sign. The sign on the left reads “The smallest man who ever lived”. The middle sign reads “Love, not hate, makes America great.” The sign on the right says “Staying silent in times of injustice is privilege.”

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.

A view of the Boston skyline, taken from the banks of the Charles river. The river is partially covered with a thin sheet of ice. The bright blue sky above Boston’s skyscrapers is streaked with white clouds.

Ames & Amherst.

Further reading

Parker.

A catalog.

Notes from a protest.

Thread.

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