March to Your Own Drum

on the many ways to be an activist

Today, hundreds of thousands of people will march in America—probably even around the world.

With shoulders back, signs high, voices rising, they will fill the streets in every city and in many towns within all fifty states.

I honour them. I admire their courage so much, their clarity, their presence.

I also honour those who can’t, or choose not to for a myriad of reasons, but are still marching in their very own way.

Not everyone’s protest can move on pavement.

Some are caregiving, or grieving, or working three jobs.

Some are in the hospital, or recovering from illness, or from surgery.

Some are undocumented, immunocompromised, or carrying trauma in their bones.

Some are planting gardens in food deserts.

Some are writing letters to editors or legislators.

Some are writing opinion pieces that aim to spread truth and awareness in a non-confrontational way.

Some are showing up at school board meetings.

Some are making art that tells the truth.

Some are reading banned books to children in living rooms and libraries.

Some are donating to supportive causes consistently, quietly.

Some are staying tender in a world that would rather numb them.

Some are just keeping going—that, too, can be a kind of protest.

I’ve always leaned away from confrontation—not out of fear, but because it is my nature. In the past week I’ve had this April 5 march on my mind almost non-stop, trying to figure out why I tell myself I don’t want to be there. I know there are many ways to be an activist, and I am involved in a lot of them, but when it comes to gathering in the streets—that has just not been my way.

In November of 1983, I was in Athens on my way to an archaeological dig at Ephesus in Turkey. It was an academic study program with my college. One afternoon I was in the center of the city with a small group of friends, having no idea it was the anniversary of the Polytechnic uprising. My friends and I were suddenly caught in a sea of protest—chanting, sirens, smoke. We tried to leave, but the crowd carried us. I’ve never forgotten the feeling of being swept into something I didn’t choose, of not knowing how to find the edge again. It was a traumatic experience for me, a person who is not comfortable in crowds to begin with—one that my body and psyche have not forgotten. It taught me how physical and unpredictable a protest can be—and how memory clings to bone and spirit.

Since then, I’ve chosen to follow a different drum for my own activism. Not in judgement of other ways, but in truth to my own person. Quieter, perhaps, but steady.

I still march—with my words, my work, my choices.

And maybe you do, too.

There are many ways to say: this is not okay. But we MUST find our ways to say it.

Many ways to say: another world is possible.

Whatever drum you follow, may it be to a rhythm of truth. May it carry us all forward. I applaud you all.

If you are marching today, stay safe. I hope that millions arrive to peacefully lift their voices. May it echo around the world. Peace, peace, peace, peace, and good will toward all living things.