March

Yesterday I took the train to London to march in solidarity with my American friends, as well as with — to borrow the perfect wording from Lesbians and Gays Support the Migrants — all those affected by the global rise of the far right. A march is of course only the first step in what is sure to be a long, hard, and often dispiriting fight; nevertheless, yesterday gave me more political hope than I’d felt since the 24th June. And that, too, is why we march — so we’re surrounded by fellow humans who remind us with their presence, with their bodies and with their voices, that we’re here to fight together, to prop each other up; that we cannot and mustn’t do this alone.

(The sign above: it kind of sums up my life.)

It meant a lot to me to be a part of this — to be marching in spirit with my close friends in Seattle, Los Angeles, San Francisco, and upstate New York; with blogging friends all the world over; with none other than Lin-Manuel Miranda and Sir Gandalf himself in London; with my beloved Angela Davis in DC. It mattered to me that people were gentle with each other and deliberately kind. It mattered to feel the opposite of the wariness, of the exhausting suspicion of my fellow citizens, that I felt after the Brexit vote. That feeling alone won’t rid us of the threat of fascism, but it’s a fundamental starting point. As they say, “rebellions are built on hope”.

A few photos:


This sign ensured I started crying before I event left the train station.


♥




My heart.












Oh my god.




Simple but to the point.




















It me.









You all bring me hope, too. Thank you for being here with me.