I am so grateful for you all, and I want so desperately for us to keep going, so what better time than now to live that gratitude out loud

Advice for myself (and all of us? I think so)

So many things are true at once. Trump is shrinking. The protests are massive, but more crucially they are everywhere. We— this motley movement that spans tactics, ideologies and geographies— are discovering our strength. As for Trump, all he has to celebrate is an empty parade route. His tanks? Desultory. How can a tank be desultory? It’s an armored terror machine. I never thought I’d see a tank whimper. But then again, back in November, when Trump was triumphant and all the pundits were talking about “vibe shifts” (so embarrassing, on so many levels), there were legitimate worries as to whether we’d see millions of us out in thousands of places. And yet.

But also. It’s so scary. Scarier than before? Some days it feels that way. There are assassinations now, men with hit lists in Midwestern suburbs. In Salt Lake, a march was shot up. One dead there. In Home Depot parking lots and residential neighborhoods, ICE continues its reign of terror. In the Middle East, American bombs are now being dropped on two separate countries. We are dealing with an administration that knows only intimidation and bluster. They will keep trying to pump us up with fear, because that is their only move.

Here’s another truth. I believe we are going to win. Or, to put it more cautiously, I believe we can win, and that we can build something beautiful together in the post-Trump era, if we remember what makes us strongest. I’ve shared this line before, but I’ll never tire of it. The Serbian organizers who brought down Slobodan Milošević talked about how they succeeded because “we loved life more than they did.”

So too, I trust, do we.

That isn’t easy to remember, though. Not when people who also love life are being loaded into vans and others are being bombarded with “less lethal” rounds and others are being killed in their homes.

Not equivalent, but also true: It’s even hard to remember to love life when all of us, even those most cocooned from violence and horror, have to balance building a movement with all the minor annoyances of an average day. In the movies, the ragtag group of freedom fighters never has to do laundry or shuttle kids to summer camps or deal with seasonal allergies or annoying bosses. Do you know how I spent Saturday’s protest? Leading a crowd? Rallying the base? Hearing the music swell behind me as I marched into history? Of course not. I passed out granola bars and water and entertained a small gaggle of kids (a funny high five duel with a friend’s seven-year-old proved more successful than a staring contest with another friend’s four-year-old). That’s not a “look how good of a guy I am” flex, mind you. I didn’t really have a choice. The kids were there, in front of me, getting antsy. When I left (we had another event to attend; another thing they don’t show in the movies), I’m sure one of my friends took a turn.

Plus, I wasn’t alone, trying to keep kids’ spirits up. You want to know how to get inundated with knick knacks (American flags, radical buttons, other people’s signs)? Bring an eight-year-old to a demonstration. People get it. The speeches aren’t even engaging for adults. Protests are mostly just standing around. Sometimes there’s walking. Everything kids love the most, famously. So we all try. Elsewhere in the crowd, I heard, there were bubbles. Another way of saying “kids, we’re so glad you made it; parents, we see you trying to hold it together.”

Returning again to the multiple things that are true at once. Look at what we’re building. But also, look at what we’re up against. Two realities, both alike in urgency. The latter truth only increases my gratitude for the first truth. We are not out here because Trump and his cronies make it easy for us. The National Guard is in Los Angeles, friends. Literal troops, summoned to keep us home. And yet, here we are! Millions of miracles, out together. What a tiny personal tragedy it would be, then, if I didn’t do everything I can to express that gratitude in public.

We aren’t always good at this, us righteous lovers of justice. Do you remember the summer of 2020? So much energy, so much trying, but also so much recrimination. We scolded each other for being too performative (did we actually know who was performing and who wasn’t? and what that line meant, anyway?). We scolded each other for being too radical (or not radical enough), too scary for middle America (or too easily co-opted by Madison Avenue cretins). It was hard to keep track. We jockeyed, constantly, for rhetorical position. Just the other day, I encountered another think piece about black squares on Instagram. My friends, that was one day on social media, five years ago. Let us, for once, extend one another the tiniest bit of grace. None of us know, without a shadow of a doubt, what we’re doing.

That finger, by the way. It’s pointed at myself. I’ve been a righteous do-gooder for three decades now, and I too have spent too much of that time judging and critiquing rather than offering thanks for my fellow imperfect strivers. For the organizers who worked overtime. For the thirsty marchers. For the mutual aid collectives and prison visitation crews that coalesced half a decade ago and never quit. For the many millions, over the past five years, whose politics are far from pristine and whose commitment levels are widely variable and yet who, at one point or another, gave it a go. I love all of them, but how would they know?

On Saturday, I played silly games with a few kids I love because I was so grateful they were out there, with their butterfly signs and tightly clutched dolls and newly acquired stars and stripes flags and abolitionist pins. A tiny way to say “thank you.”

If I can do that for kids, I can do that for the rest of us too. It’s not hard, actually. All it takes is paying notice to my heart swelling, and acting in kind.

Across the country, there are exhausted organizers who have been holding together groups for years. Stalwarts who managed both a surge of energy after the election and a predictable crash as winter turned to spring and new recruits got busy or distracted. I’m so grateful for them. Some of them know it, others don’t.

Across the country, there are undocumented immigrants who are holding their families tight in the most frightening moment possible. There are movement veterans who still brave the streets in spite of frequently being on the receiving end of state violence. There are newcomers who’ve never protested before (and who especially never imagined attending a “left wing” protest before) who are with us now. There are managers of spreadsheets and procurers of permits and heroes whose work (for reasons of safety, disability or having to work multiple jobs) will always be online rather than in-person. There are, in our glorious midst, teens and nonagenarians; grumps, clowns and grumpy clowns; people who are somehow actually compelling on a megaphone and absolute geniuses who wonder “what if I brought a cooler full of popsicles?”

I’m so grateful for all of them. And I’m so scared of what we’d lose if we didn’t all cross the finish line together.

When I put it like that, I don’t really have a choice. It’s gratitude season. Not because it’s cute, but because it’s life or death.

But how?

For one, obviously, by actually thanking people. The writers and thinkers (even the famous ones, but definitely the more anonymous ones) whose work keeps me going. The email addresses (often anonymous, but read by somebody) on the bottom of flyers and websites. The people I encounter on the streets who most buoy my spirits. The neighborhood heroes who seem to be at every event. The organizations and individuals who do good work and who I know would benefit from a few bucks and a kind note tossed their way. “I see you. you inspire me. I’m so glad you’re in this world.”

Sure. But how else?

Well, I hope, by being the kind of person who helps others lift. Somebody who comes to the meeting that a tired veteran activist (still committed but annoyed at the rest of our collective flakiness) has been hosting for decades. Somebody who signs up for non-sexy volunteer positions. Somebody who remembers that a funny sign or a costume or a street dance party or a bulk box of candy bars is another way to say to a stranger, “I’m so glad you’re out here, and I hope you come out the next time.” Somebody who (in my case) lives in a body that, when the demonstrations get scarier, can stand between a cop’s blows and other human beings. Somebody who remembers to bring water to flush out eyes (when that’s what the moment calls for) and treats for the kids (on the days when the streets are safe for strollers).

Sometimes, my gratitude may cause me to offer loving critique of other activists, but not so much, I hope, that it keeps me from giving oxygen to those who leave me breathless with their genius. There’s a lot of us trying, and not everything will be for me. That’s ok. Better to focus on the million things that are, and the millions of people that have me awestruck.

Like every good idea in a Pinterested world, acting gratitude out loud can sound annoyingly trite. “Live Laugh Love Liberation.” Honestly, though, I don’t care. I’d much rather be cringe than miss the chance to let you know directly.

Before millions of us marched this past Saturday, there was an assassination. The killer did not love life. He wasn’t grateful to share a country with people who sought to expand the web of care and community to all. He burrowed himself deeply into a small, hateful worldview. He followed the world’s saddest path to its logical conclusion. In his wake, so many are mourning, none more so, of course, than the victim’s families.

Have you seen their statement? From Rep. Melissa and Mark Hortman’s kids? Oh my goodness.

“Plant a tree. Visit a local park and make use of their amenities, especially a bike trail. Pet a dog (a golden retriever is ideal, but any will do). Tell your loved ones a cheesy dad joke and laugh about it. Bake something— bread for Mark or a cake for Melissa, and share it with someone. Try a new hobby and enjoy learning something. Stand up for what you believe in, especially if that thing is justice and peace.”

I know you’re scared right now. I know you’re full of rage and heartbreak and the bone deep fatigue that comes from a lifetime of surviving a world that’s not yet the one we all deserve. Oh God I feel all that with you. And I don’t begrudge any of it. But I hope there’s room for one more emotion in that pot. I hope you’re grateful for a neighbor’s baked goods, or a loved ones’ stupid jokes, or a political hero’s courage, or a forgotten bureaucrat’s advocacy for new bike trail and school building, or a town’s ability to come out in huge numbers for a march, or a smile from a stranger you didn’t believe you deserved.

I hope that all that’s in there too. And I hope you live that thankfulness out loud. Because the truth is, we haven’t arrived yet, and rage and heartbreak will only get us part of the way. Those last miles are only passable if we lift as we move. There’s still time to tell each other thanks, but it will not be that time forever.

End notes:

1. Thank you, to all of you. I say it a lot, and I mean it. And not just to those of you who write me notes or share these pieces or support me financially (though yes, thanks for all of that). For all of you, who have found your way here (and so many places like it) I know you’re trying, and it means so much.

2. I’m going to repeat that list again, because it’s gorgeous and true: “Plant a tree. Visit a local park and make use of their amenities, especially a bike trail. Pet a dog (a golden retriever is ideal, but any will do). Tell your loved ones a cheesy dad joke and laugh about it. Bake something— bread for Mark or a cake for Melissa, and share it with someone. Try a new hobby and enjoy learning something. Stand up for what you believe in, especially if that thing is justice and peace.”

3. Thanks to the weekly community discusison crew for the best conversation I can remember having about protests (we just shared our stories). You all inspired this piece.

4. I love this song (and it’s been a bit since I’ve done a song of the week). “I Care” by Turnstile. Enjoy it (and all the other songs of the week) on Apple Music and Spotify.

   By the way, if you want one more reason why me (a painfully earnest middle aged guy who has long since aged out of a circle pit but who still loves community) is optimistic about this moment, a tiny party of it is that right now one of the most popular bands on the planet puts on free shows like this in its hometown.