Brilliant … But Bouncy

We Were Able to Feel It.

On Saturday, for the first time, our entire family attended a protest march. We walked in the nation’s capital, as part of March For Our Lives.

All four of us strongly believe that banning assault weapons and having stronger gun laws would save lives in this country. And we went with other people – friends and grandparents – who also supported the cause. In fact, we went with hundreds of thousands of other people.

It was an intense day, with emotions running high on stage and in the audience. We got off of the subway and headed to the rally spot, an experience that Shane and Dylan had never had.

We walked into the street, holding our handmade signs proudly and high. As the kids stared wide-eyed at the other activists, reading other handmade signs and seeing so many people supporting the same cause, we kept walking. We walked until the crowds got thicker and we had to walk more slowly. We walked until we couldn’t walk at all. So we stopped, and we waited.

We couldn’t see the stage, but we could almost see a giant screen broadcasting the rally. Shane had joked about taking selfies with Miley Cyrus, but when she came on stage, he didn’t know it was her until the end of her song. We weren’t able to see what was going on, but we were able to feel it.

We listened while the teenagers who organized the march – and some pre-teens, too – called for stronger laws. They taught my kids, who really didn’t know, that there were elections every two years, not just every four years. They reminded my kids, and everyone else’s, that they will have a voice, that they will have a vote, and that all they have to do is register in order to make their voices heard.

Shane asked twice how long we would be there, and Bill had issues with his leg going numb, so the two of them swam back through the hordes of people until they could sit down. It was a long day.

Dylan and I stayed until the end of the rally. We were there for what has been called the loudest silence in history. We stood for six minutes in the midst of 800,000 noiseless people, crying for the loss of lives and holding up two fingers, high in the air, begging for peace.

Later I told Dylan that I’d always wished I could have been old enough in the sixties to use that peace symbol more regularly. After March For Our Lives, I realized that holding up that peace sign takes a lot more arm muscle than I’d realized.

“I know,” Dylan said. “My arm was tired, too, but I didn’t care. I just kept holding it up.”

The entire experience was far too profound for a simple blog post, but there is something about protesting as a family that makes me not only proud, but hopeful.

I am, sincerely, hopeful that this march – that the marches that took place all over the world – will produce some change.

And if they don’t, at least my children now know what it’s like to be part of history – and what they need to do next to keep that hope alive.