My wife and I were two of the estimated 75,000 participants in the New York "No Kings" march on Saturday. It was more her idea than mine, seeing that it was raining with a ReelFeel in the 50s. Sure, protesting Trump's overreach was important, but did I have to catch a chill in the process? I'm pushing 70, after all.
But there was no way I was going to let my wife go alone, especially when there were going to be plenty of silver foxes just itching to recreate the good old days of marches against all things Nixon, Reagan, Bush, and Bush II. (Gerald Ford didn't stick around long enough to incite any protests.)
There were plenty of fellow Upper East Siders on the Q line heading to Bryant Park, the designated No Kings meeting place. Many were 60+, with at least one literally blue-haired little old lady. Sue and I seemed to be the only marchers not carrying signs. That was OK with me. As in background work, I dislike holding props for long periods of time. Besides, once we the march was over, we were headed for two art galleries with a stop at a cafe in between. How stupid would it look dragging a sign reading DUMP TRUMP while admiring the works of William de Kooning? (I didn't particularly admire them, but that's another story).
Fifth Avenue was closed to vehicular traffic from 42nd to 24th, along with most if not all the cross streets. The entire route was lined with cops in tactical gear, although they were there more as observers than anything else; they were using their visors not to protect their faces from flying objects (there were none) but the rain. Most of them had expressions of Pretty easy gig today or I'm standing in the rain for a parade?
There were the usual chants that protesters have been using since the Tet Offensive, only updated to reflect current events. Hey ho hey ho, Donald Trump has got to go! and No justice, no peace! I wanted to start a round of Hey ho hey ho, JD Vance is such a schmo! and No kale, no peas!, but my wife wasn't having any of it. Any time I spotted a sign referencing another cause, like the local mayoral race or the mideast, I successfully suppressed the urge to shout, "Wrong protest, Skippy!"
What struck me was the number of people taking selfies, like they were at a concert, on vacation, or documenting a natural disaster. I wondered what they were going to do with their photos and videos. Show them to their friends? Watch them on their HDTVs while sipping white wine afterwards? I couldn't help but feel that for them, this was an event, rather than something that would actually cause "a regime change."
They were right. Until large numbers of Trump voters start protesting -- as Nixon voters did when their sons returned from Vietnam dead or damaged -- these marches will do nothing but make the participants feel good while preserving the illusion democracy is alive and well in America. And so we all returned home that night to watch the news, secure in the knowledge (subconscious or otherwise) that things will get worse long before they get better.
And if they don't get better? Hey, see you at the next march! Hey ho hey ho, what good is this I'd like to know!
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