Few activities are more satisfying than a good protest march. One gets to hang out with like-minded people, people as intelligent, incisive and sensitive as oneself and have a sense of accomplishing something usually in the face of feelings of helplessness and despair.
I’ve been participating in marches since the early 60’s, shortly after I learned to walk. I marched for civil rights. I marched to protest the Vietnam War including while I was still in the US Army. I went in disguise, wearing a beret and sunglasses to conceal my military bearing. When I got out of the Army, I marched on the Pentagon which failed to levitate, but I did find myself facing at least one soldier with whom I had served and who, armed with rifle and bayonet, was now protecting the Pentagon from me.
While I enjoy demonstrating, I don’t much like chanting or singing. Having less than perfect pitch, I am frequently asked not to sing. However, during one anti-Vietnam march in Washington, I found myself among members of the Weather Underground prior to their going under ground. One of the Weather People scolded me for my non-participation: “How are you going to have a revolution if you don’t sing?” I didn’t sing. There was no revolution.
I marched against the Iraq invasion where I was particularly tickled by signs with pictures of George W. and the caption, “Have I told you about my lobotomy?” Additional good spirits were cultivated by “Billionaires for War,” a theatrical troupe in formalwear and evening gowns carrying signs like “Give Greed a Chance” and who chided their fellow protesters for insisting on peace.
But it is in the current era of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named that the most inspired signs have appeared, signs notable not only for their earnestness but also for their impressive cleverness and creativity. This burst of brilliance is probably due to the fact that the object of derision provides so much material to work with.
My latest foray into the wonderful world of protest occurred this past January 20 when I walked down the main street of Morristown, where I marveled not only at the range of protesters. from small children to aged great grandparents, but at the ingenuity of inscriptions on hand-made placards, statements so creative and moving that I scrambled to find pen and paper to record the messages which included:
Finely crafted poetry: “In your guts / you know he’s nuts” and “We need a leader / not a creepy Tweeter”;
Keen interplays between poetry and art such as: “Liar, Liar / Hair on Fire “ (under a portrait of you-know-who with blazing hairpiece);
Allusions to cultural icons: “Despicable He” (next to a presidential profile);
The punny: “Commander-in-Cheat”;
The subtly historical: “Orange is the new red” (next to a hammer & sickle);
And the wistful: “Make America Kind Again.”
It being a women’s march, there was a strong representation of women’s issues including graphics of women’s reproductive systems (uteri and fallopian tubes) with imprecations like, “Keep Out.”
More or less delicate were the signs “We are not ovary-acting,” and “Pussies against Trump” under a drawing of a kitten. In keeping with the pet theme was a picture of a poodle and the words, “My dog is smarter than the president.”
Male organs of generation got their due with such signs as, “Grab ’em by the ballots.” There was no accompanying pic.
Then there were the nonspecific expressions of frustration: “Enough Already” and “Ugh, where do I even start” and “Ikea has better cabinets” along with “Too many issues for just one sign.”
And, the most gloriously generic of all: “Whatever it is, I’m against it!”
The mood at Morristown was ebullient. There were attempts to incite singing which I continued to resist, and a range of speeches by New Jersey dignitaries including the newly elected and relatively svelte (compared to his predecessor) governor and his wife, the mayor of Morristown, and phone feeds from the state’s two senators who were stuck in Washington to deal with the government shutdown. That one, remember?
A strong police presence was exemplified by the appearance of an armored military vehicle fully capable of repelling an attack by enraged grandmothers.
All-in-all, this was an exceptionally successful march not only in its inspiring of so many entertaining signs but by the fact that only two weeks later, Rodney Frelinghuysen, the Republican congressman whose district includes Morristown, announced that he was not going to run for re-election. My participation in the march was clearly the deciding factor. Or perhaps it was my decision not to sing.
Robin Schore lives in Titusville.
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