Often people declare, ‘This is it’ and I am tempted to question, is that so? Did a divine presence send you an informative message, perhaps accompanied by a croissant? But here it is: We need you this Saturday. The situation unfolding in Los Angeles with the National Guard is not merely President Trump’s strategy to overshadow recent controversies. It’s an incremental move on his path towards autocracy. This Saturday, Trump will be commemorating his birthday in Washington via an grand national parade, projected to cost upwards of $45 million. It’s like Broadway meets regime-specific showmanship, and it’s why we need you to think about attending one of the ‘No Kings’ protests taking place nationwide. I intend to join one, not only because it’s essential but because it will heal my dispirited soul. And it could do the same for you – elevate you, make you remember your true identity. You participate, we provide optimism.
This week, we stand at just a week shy of the summer solstice, marking my celebration of the last week of spring. Summer doesn’t appeal to me with its biting insects and trendy attire. But spring brings renewed life, lush greenery, and growth. Amphibians once again fill the air with their melodious tunes in the premature rainfall. Their wait is over, and now they proclaim I’m here, hydrated, and ready to share. Spring represents rebirth and novel voices. After a MAGA-wrapped winter comes a season for new thought-leaders and speakers to rise from this weekend’s protests. We’ll be the symbolic springtime amphibians.
For those who argue that something cannot be done, we kindly ask them to step aside and let the ones who are attempting to make a difference carry on. I will be celebrating the last phase of spring among a multitude at the Civic Center. Just regular townsfolk distinguished by their moral compass, we will not bring with us a foolproof plan or solution for this nation’s wounds but a willingness to present ourselves, heartbroken, infuriated, calm, and energetic. Among us will be youth and senior citizens alike, babies, the X, Y, and Z generations, and people from diverse ethnic, spiritual and secular backgrounds.
Our love for this shared, burdened democratic country of ours will be our beacon, illuminating our path and casting light on others. Consider a time when a small local group were retreat guests at a secluded forest location. As an evening ended, a torrential rain descended. Their journey to their lodging place was plunged into nighttime obscurity. Confidence waned as they distanced from the light from the retreat house, finally reaching complete darkness. A slim, unsteady bridge was all that separated them from their accommodations, a daunting task to cross sightless. However, one of the aged gentlemen had a keyring with a modest flashlight attached that projected enough light to provide guidance. With trust in each other indicated by a human chain holding shoulders and waists, they successfully traversed the path, illuminated by the humble flashlight.
My wish is that all the expected attendees in my city could share tears for all the destruction and disgrace we’ve witnessed, but our response is different, we worry as a young child does. I admit it is how I respond. What we’re planning this Saturday is interweaving a peaceful opposition to dictatorship, to the politics of inhumanity. One of the people caught in that rainstorm during the retreat forty years ago was a woman named Mary. She loved me despite my rough exterior. Her life was troubled with a son serving jail time, declining health, and financial constraints, but in her sadness, she always reassured me, regardless of how grim her circumstance, ‘I know my time will come.’ And it invariably did.
I used to reside in a houseboat with limited financial means, while she occupied a subsidized housing project. In her kindness, she would gift me small pouches filled with dimes, secured with tie-twists. But, when life’s hardships seemed unbearable, I’d recall Mary’s brave spirit, sharing her struggles and pain at the community altar, declaring, ‘But I know my time will come.’ It inevitably did: a breath of fresh air, a surprise visit from a long-lost companion. I still treasure one of those pouches on my bookshelf, which I’ve preserved all these years — these desperate times make that memento much more significant — reliance, compassion, optimism; virtues to sustain us. Our time will come, perhaps not within a foreseeable schedule, but it will happen, as long as we stand united, resist surrender and continue making the right decisions.
Keeping this in mind will be a token from this Saturday’s demonstration. Thus, this is it. You, who are consumed by fear, sorrow, weariness, and sheer disbelief, might want to consider joining us this Saturday. Become part of our democratic process.