No Kings Day

When Trump ran the first time, in 2015, my son was eight years old and in third grade. His class had a mock election and he came home that day and told me the name of the one person, let's call her Cheyenne, who voted for him. The rest of the third graders picked Hillary. We live in a blue city in a blue state so this wasn't surprising. Atlas told me that Cheyenne defended her position by saying that her uncle told her that Hillary had robbed a local bank.

During his first administration, my son told me that his father said, "Give him a chance." Which is how I found out that my ex-husband and his wife were Trump supporters.

And here we are, nine years later.

Yesterday, I took my son to the New Haven green for the No Kings Day protest. Just like the Hands Off protest on April 4th, I found it comforting to be there. Something is shifting slightly, I think.

I hate the fact that for ten years of my son's seventeen years on this earth, this man has dominated the news.

When my son was eight, I kept my political rants mostly to myself. I wondered what he would believe when he grew up. At seventeen, his views are clear. Today, I asked him if he knew anyone his age who supported Trump and he said no.

Standing on the green yesterday, my son and I chanted together. Hey Hey Ho Ho, Donald Trump has got to go. We watched a woman dressed like Ruth Bader Ginsberg cross in front of us with flowers in her hand. We elbowed each other when a large man wearing a taco hat and a "Fuck Trump" cape walked by. We admired the bonnet and red cape of a Handmaid's Tale protester.

"Thanks for coming with me," I said.

"It's important," Atlas said.

And it is.

Part of me kept a lookout for Cheyenne. I imagined her all grown up now and wiser for the years gone by. I still have a vast well of hope and it keeps me going every day. I'm hanging onto it with everything I have. I hope you are, too.

Thank you for reading.