I Was One Of Millions - Of 12.1 Millions Exactly.
My No Kings protest!
Usually I can’t stand large crowds any more. The days when I enjoyed dancing to live music in venues stuffed with people are long gone; they ended when I moved from Berkeley, California to an isolated village in sparsely populated northern New Mexico. When you spend over twenty years in almost perfect peace and quiet, it’s difficult and sometimes painful to get used again to all the noise and commotion of a city. But a protest rally? Against the (empty) head of the current regime, a wannabe-dictator who’d love to turn this democracy into something like North Korea? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
And it helped that the city in Massachusetts where I currently live is relatively small, with a population of about 106,000. I looked at the demographics, and white people are a minority. In 2020 it became the first city in New England with a majority-Black population, according to Wikipedia. When I grew up in Germany it was almost completely white, homogeneous. After meeting many peoples and cultures when I traveled through India and Southeast Asia, and lived in Japan for four years before moving to the U.S., I feel so much more comfortable living amongst many different shades of skincolor. But that’s just an aside, I thought it was worth mentioning. Back to the rally.
It was raining, but that didn’t dampen the enthusiasm and joy the roughly 200 of us experienced. We came equipped with signs (mine soon became soggy) and flags and banners, we sang, we shouted: “Hey hey! Ho ho! Donald Trump has got to go!” and “No hate, no fear, Refugees are welcome here! No hate, no fear, Immigrants are welcome here!” and more. We stood in front of the local Veterans Administration building, along the sidewalk of a busy street, and to experience the many cars (and trucks!) that honked loudly while driving by, the many waving hands from open windows that supported us, was simply exhilarating. Yes, I got wet and cold, but I didn’t care! I happily waved my sign before it disintegrated, and joyfully shouted my lungs out.
While we were gathering, a police car showed up. I was immediately suspicious, it’s a reaction almost as old as I am. Ever since I can remember I am allergic to uniforms, even as a little kid I didn’t like them. Anything reminiscent of war has always been highly uncomfortable. But on Sunday my susceptivity was unwarranted. The police officer stopped traffic so that we protesters could safely cross the street. Later, he parked his car in such a way that traffic couldn’t get too close to the sidewalk.
The first demonstration I ever went to happened in Munich in the summer of 1967, right after Benno Ohnesorg, a young student who attended a rally in Berlin against the visit of the Shah of Iran, was shot. He had never been to a protest before. His death galvanized the left-wing student movement, and in a way changed my life. Justice always mattered to me, and I never believed the story that the police officer who shot Ohnesorg had done so in self-defense. After forty years it was revealed that this officer actually was working for the East German secret police (Stasi), and that the West-German police probably covered up the investigations. Just another reason why I’m generally suspicious when it comes to the police.
The demonstrations and rallies I attended in Munich were entirely different from the event on Saturday: the police almost always attacked us. My fellow protesters (and I) irritated ordinary citizens simply by our attire: the young men had long hair which at that time evoked an aggressive reaction from other males who may have desired a life of “free sex and rock-n-roll” but were stuck in an authoritarian system which forbade such independence. And the young women? In the early 1960s mini-dresses were frowned upon by Germany’s bourgeois society. But when hippie girls started wearing long, flowing skirts (I remember, we raided some of our grandmas’ closets), the conventional, stuffy rightists were not happy either. Not only during protests, but almost all the time and everywhere we encountered antipathy and hostility.
Sunday’s experience was so entirely different. Okay, there was ONE pickup truck with the driver giving us a “thumbs down” sign. This town used to be the site of several large manufacturing industries which have long since left, and some of the older, white population are rather right-wing, resentful of all the people with different skin colors and different cultures. But by and large: everybody was supportive of our protest! It’s a lovely arc after nearly sixty years of demonstrations, to hear loud cheers. It certainly was worth getting wet and cold and tired for!
Looking forward to our next protest!