What positive joy and inspiration to march amongst tens of thousands of like-minded people today in the glorious heat of a beautiful spring day in the East Bay.
We painted our signs, flew our flags, sang and chanted, played drums and blew bubbles. And marched.
Our route even went through the tunnel from downtown Oakland to Lake Merritt! What a thrill to march where no feet have gone before.
And under the large “PEOPLE HAVE THE POWER” painted wall above our heads
So I’m standing in a BART car packed with mostly white people tired but euphoric returning from our three hour action protesting tRump, ICE, and kings.
Suddenly music floods the car, louder than the cacophony of activists’ satisfaction of time well-spent.
I peer through the other passengers’ bodies to see a young boy, wide smile, open hopeful face, maybe 10 or so, fingers flying over a small red and white accordion, accompanied by recorded music.
He even sings, a powerful, clear voice.
He’s singing in Spanish. Hat now extended in his hands, as he walks through this crowd of protestors who willingly open the way for him.
I wonder if he must have thought these surely empathetic people on this BART, these anti-ICE peeps, coming from taking such courageous action, would be willing to reward his courageous action, giving us his lovely voice and talented playing, let alone share a tiny bit of our wealth with him.
He picked his way around adults, from the middle of the car to both ends, shy but hopeful glances peering from under thick curly black hair, accordion held snuggly over his heart, outstretched arm proferring his upside-down empty cap.
Not one of the tall white grinning men in their designer shorts and “no kings” t-shirts – nor any of the women – reached into their pockets to hand him a bill or toss him a coin or two.
I have no cash. I want to scream at the affluent people I’m surrounded by to give this boy something.
Don’t they see he’s the face of what we were just gathering to protect?
I want to rage that he might be the bread-winner left in his family.
His parents might be imprisoned right now.
And even if they are safe and maybe watching him across the isle, they are not safe. He is not safe. His skin color and his accent makes him a target right now, right here.
I turn back to the older white womon I’ve been talking with about our next steps, and implore her to give the boy something after I explain i have no cash.
She tells me she only has a 10 dollar bill & a couole of twenties.
The wrong denomination, she says.
The wrong denomination for her to care for a child trying to feed maybe more than himself.
