The tribes were gathering, the stage was set.
The bombs were already exploding in south Portland.
Instead, I just felt old.
The futility of the whole scene was running strong.
As was the realization that things are not changing.
The pre-action meal of beans and rice and water with protest songs and punk rock failed to lift my spirits. It was cold and rainy, and I felt like we should all take a step back for a group nap or something along those lines.
No, instead out into the cold and the rain to watch kids get beaten by cops, to chant and scream to no avail.
Here’s to you, and your misguided dreams.
And then I went, and I marched for four hours in the cold and the rain, and it was fantastic. My faith was restored in the fire of the youth. I came home literally dripping, starving, with a smile on my face. A write up is soon to follow.
Whose streets? Our streets.