I am the white guy in the work boots and blue jeans, a little older, wearing a grease-stained Carhartt jacket — the one Donald Trump wouldn’t expect to be in Lexington’s King March.
But I was there, with my union workmates, my African-American teammate who works next to me building a better community and with my neighbor who speaks in Neruda’s tongue. With all my sisters, who own their own bodies.
We were all there in record numbers, more resolute than ever. Saying to him, “No more.”
Perhaps he didn’t hear us so we are going to him. If he has the courage to sleep in Lincoln’s house, in Barack’s place, in the people’s house, we will greet him early in the morning after his illegitimate inauguration.
If the ghosts of the slaves who built the house don’t haunt his dreams, we will. There will be thousands of us at Saturday’s Women’s March on Washington — shoulder to shoulder, fists raised. Relearning resistance. We are not afraid of alt.right goons, the tainted FBI, nor even his Russian friends.
His tweets are harmless against us. For, “he has loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword, our truth is marching on.”