I turn when she shouts my way: “This is my first time!”
Her cheeks hold the blush of young promise, the whole world ahead. Her black crop top, faded jean jacket, bare feet in Birkenstocks defy the chilly air.
I’m a stranger, face wrinkled with life’s roadmap, crows-feet telling too many secrets, upright in my practical shoes, warm socks, fleece zipped to the neck.
How lucky I am to be standing close when she has something to say, overcome with the joy of whatever this is for her, unable to hold her words.
“This is my first time…!”
I watch her scan the crowd, growing and spilling onto Congress Street, colorful flags flying, clever signs held high demanding HANDS OFF, NO KINGS, drums banging, tambourines jangling, horns honking the symphony of the day.
I stop to remember my first time, decades ago, when boys- barely men – were taken to fight in foreign jungles, lost to reasons meant to confuse those they left behind.
When women lived with the edicts of “NO”. NO to equal pay, NO to credit cards, NO to careers, NO to the right to their own bodies.
When people of color, lashed to otherness and racism, rose again and again against the multitude of NO’s , facing down billy clubs, fire hoses, snarling dogs, men in white hoods, history.
Seared in my blood and bones, my first time holds memory of joining forces, a tie-died, long-haired,rag tag rebellion of youth; a force of nature, boots on the ground, fists in the air, singing anthems of peace and justice, soundtracks of Seeger, Ochs, Guthrie, Dylan showing the way as we marched the streets to buildings that held men of power, over and over telling them we had a say.
Lately, I have questioned whether new generations will ever know the joy of THEIR first time, the jubilation of “We The People…”
I have not seen or felt them. Instead, I see graying parents, aging grandparents , slower in step, some with canes and walkers, yet still informed by purpose and urgency, marching against the NO’s of this time now.
NO to health care. NO to books. NO to Education. NO to the environment. NO to food. NO to safety nets. NO to equality. NO to identity. NO to immigrants.
I worry that those the age of my first time have only known these things as Yes’s, do not yet see the threat of NO’s, distracted by platforms, brands, tik-toks, Insta posts, Facebook feeds, followers, influencers; seduced by the gospel of attention economies deceiving and dividing.
My question hangs in the air: Will they ever feel in THEIR blood and bones the first time of gathering to fight against the NO’s?
The jolt of her words answers, as if she hears my question before I ask it.
“This is my first time!” her declaration vibrating and alive with the discovery of this place, this feeling.
She cranes to hear a man close by, loud above the crowd, ask me,
“Where were you in the 60’s?”
“Doing this!” I holler back.
Eyes crinkling, he yells:
“I thought you looked familiar!”
At that, she turns to me again, voice raised to get my attention,
“There are so many here that, that….look like you! It feels like you’ve had practice.”
I shout back.
“Yes! We have! We’ve done this before. The reasons today are the same as they were then. When we see them coming, we know what to do.”
She waits to hear more, as if to learn.
I move closer, tell her this.
“There is one difference, though. Then, it was for us. This time, it’s for you.”
She reaches for me, a stranger with crows feet, standing in practical shoes, and a zipped up fleece, comes in close for a hug before holding up her sign and says,
“Thank you for then. Thank you for now. I’m so happy to be here for my first time.”
To which I answer,
“Welcome. We’ve been waiting for you.”