I attended my first protest ever

*Published at Minnpost on June 23.

Last weekend (June 14) I went to my first protest ever, the “No Kings” event at the St. Paul Capitol (Minnesota), where more than 20,000 gathered as part of nationwide protests. It took me 47 years to go to my first protest, a fitting number, given the circumstances. Millions of people turned out in cities across America to push back against a rising tide of authoritarianism. One man, many executive orders.

But St. Paul’s event was somber, and most of the speakers were cancelled out of public safety concerns after the tragic, senseless murders of former Minnesota House Speaker Melissa Hortman and her husband, and the serious wounding of State Senator John Hoffman and wife.

Still, the crowd’s energy was peaceful and positive overall, if subdued, and it felt good to be there with so many others who are not only paying attention, but standing up—if a little reluctantly and only recently, like myself.

People who know me personally probably find it hard to believe I’ve never been to a protest. After all, I am mad about a lot of things and have opinions I like to share. But I’m not really a sign-making person, and signs are definitely key to protests. Otherwise you’re just another person in a crowd who’s unsure of what to do with their hands.

I do other things, of course. I write to my representatives. I donate to organizations fighting the good fight. I write. But I’ll admit that I’m a peripheral kind of person when it comes to being physically present just about anywhere.

So I found myself lingering in the back of the 20,000. Unable to hear the speakers over the inadequate sound system, and unable to see them because of all the signs, I wandered around until I stumbled across a brass band. They were called Brass Solidarity, formed after the murder of George Floyd, with a mission to stand up for social justice through sound.

There were a couple of trumpets, a few drums, some trombones, a tuba, a flugel, and a tenor saxophonist who could really rip. I stood there and listened for an hour, doing my little shy middle-aged man dance, on the verge of busting out my moves big time, because that kind of sound really gets me going. A lady tapped me on the shoulder and said “I can see you have some moves in you. You should go, go.” But I didn’t go. I just kept waddling to the beat. Usually I save my big dance moves for weddings when I get some drinks in me. Then I get brave.

I visited New Orleans once, nearly two years after Hurricane Katrina. The city was rebuilding, but the people and the energy were still off the charts compared with anyplace I’d ever visited, in or outside of America—and I used to work for an airline.

I remember I was walking down a busy street, mid-afternoon, when I saw a group of nearly two dozen musicians start to gather with their instruments on a street corner. There were tubas (plural) and trombones, trumpets and saxophones, drums and clarinets. I think one guy had a whistle. And then they started to play. New Orleans style. Loud. Good. Tight, I think musicians call it.

The sound filled the air, reverberating off of buildings, chasing down alleyways, rising up like a sudden rain hitting an asphalt street that has baked in the sun all day, a hot and humid levitation you could almost see. People—tourists, sure, but locals as well—started to gather around. Cars that were stopped at an intersection were put in park, and people got out and started dancing. No one honked or complained or yelled. They joined in.

I was looking around with my mouth open. I was laughing. I couldn’t believe it. What spontaneous world was this? A moment ago I’d been walking down a busy street, and now suddenly a crowd was hollering and clapping and stomping their feet and dancing in between cars while a brass band boomed with such … authenticity, is what it felt like. Something real—not something disguised as something else, but just something that was what it was.

It seemed to me like pure joy was being pushed out of the lungs of those musicians and into their instruments and back out as a sound, a gift so welcomed and so fulfilling for those of us nearby to hear that we were nearly transformed, that we, too, were maybe the sound. And then it ended. The musicians dispersed, and the crowd, too. And soon I was standing there thinking, wait a minute … come back, please. We were just getting started. It left me wondering at how quickly things can change. Much more quickly than any of us can believe.

On Saturday June 14, listening to Brass Solidarity, I felt a little of that energy. But in truth, the band was a little thin. Another tuba would surely have helped. Another trumpet. Another sax player that can really rip. A few more musicians, sure, but a few more people brave enough to dance along, as well as those of us just ready to listen, to carry the sound.