Reflecting on my first protest

About a week ago, my partner drove me to a local craft store to obtain supplies for my first protest sign. I had a decent idea of what I wanted — posterboard in shades of pale blue, pink, and white, adhesive or non-adhesive block letters, and possibly Velcro.

Earlier that afternoon, the usual anti-Trump group had been out on the end of our street, and I had always felt like they were missing something. Yes, the American administration was bad — and yes, it was enabling pure evil overseas, to say the least — but some of us, in this very town, were scared and suffering right here. These protestors were admirable, no doubt, but at least they could visit Florida or get a passport. Never mind that I can’t even live in my own home state anymore. But I tried to put that cynical little growl aside, because we were in this together. We had to be.

I ended up with just the letters and a cardboard trifold. My fantasy of an elaborate, multi-occasion sign with interchangeable Velcro characters was not to be, but I still had two sides to work with and an embarrassingly-expensive menagerie of metallic silver, gold glittered, and whimsical black and white adhesive letters. I sorted through the sad pile of untouched rainbow construction paper I had at home and pulled out most of the pale blue, pink, and white sheets (Crayola may have seriously shrink-flated its paper thickness since I was a child, but it still comes in a whole lot of colors — including the exact hues I wanted. What luck!). Then I cut the wings from the trifold board, scolded myself…