by
Win
McNamee/Getty
Images)
I
parked
at
the
Science
Museum
of
Minnesota
—
about
a
mile
by
foot
from
the
state
Capitol
grounds.
I
started
alone.
At
the
first
stoplight,
a
woman
came
to
my
side.
We
crossed.
A
few
more
protesters
emerged
and
clustered
around
us
as
we
passed
side
streets.
The
sky
was
a
deep
blue,
save
for
a
few
wisps
of
flattened
contrails.
The
cold
was
biting.
More
and
more
people
joined
our
group,
like
individual
water
droplets
merging
into
a
single
moving
mass.
There
was
a
quiet
word
passed
between
friends
now
and
again,
an
occasional
light
laugh,
but
for
the
most
part
the
mood
was
somber.
It
reminded
me
of
waiting
at
the
border
to
cross
into
Ukraine.
A
chopper
thwacked
through
the
air
overhead
and
circled.
I
peered
up
into
the
brightness
between
the
high-rises
but
couldn’t
tell
whether
the
helicopter
was
the
police
or
the
news.
It
didn’t
really
matter.
That
sound
always
raises
goosebumps
on
my
flesh
now.
As
we
got
closer,
several
strategically
parked
St.
Paul
Police
cars
kept
the
roads
closed
to
traffic.
We
crossed
over
the
freeway,
and
the
moment
I
set
foot
on
the
Capitol
grounds
a
blast
of
wind
nearly
knocked
my
cap
off.
The
group
that’d
coalesced
around
me
on
the
way
there
melted
into
the
massive
crowd
already
present.
I
walked
past
the
columnar
Peace
Officers
Memorial
and
found
a
place
where,
with
the
aid
of
my
binoculars,
I
could
see
the
far-off
stage
at
the
foot
of
the
Capitol
building.
Speakers
were
already
pontificating.
The
audio
system
projected
their
voices
clear
and
crisp
all
the
way
to
the
back.
As
much
as
I
understand
the
importance
of
restraint
when
addressing
a
crowd
of
hundreds
of
thousands
of
pissed
off
people,
and
as
much
as
there
were
plenty
of
joyful
and
even
silly
elements
(including
about
a
dozen
attendees
in
large
inflatable
frog
costumes),
I
wanted
more
of
those
at
the
podium
to
match
the
simmering
mood
on
the
ground.
The
crowd
was
very
diverse,
as
was
the
roster
of
speakers,
and
that
was
self-evident.
There
were
way
too
many
unnecessary
nods
from
the
stage
to
those
of
every
imaginable
creed
and
heritage
and
sexual
orientation.
The
one
acknowledgement
that
was
then
needed,
to
recognize
the
demographic
group
that
had
been
most
harshly
and
most
unfairly
targeted
of
late,
was
to
Minnesota’s
immigrant
community.
The
crowd
repeatedly
rewarded
those
who
made
this
particular
acknowledgment.
However,
when
the
first
chance
arose
to
boo
the
brutal
federal
oppression
of
the
Twin
Cities
in
the
guise
of
immigration
enforcement,
the
crowd
howled
deafeningly,
much
louder
than
they’d
cheered.
Shouts
of
“Fuck
ICE!”
sounded
all
around
me.
Tim
Walz
gave
a
hell
of
a
speech.
The
man
would
have
made
a
powerful
vice
president.
He
introduced
Bruce
Springsteen.
It
was
the
first
time
I’d
ever
listened
to
the
entirety
of
“Streets
of
Minneapolis.”
The
Boss’
tribute
to
Renee
Good
and
Alex
Pretti,
sung
there,
sung
then,
felt
like
a
moment
that
would
matter
beyond
the
next
news
cycle.
Around
the
time
Bernie
Sanders
started
excoriating
billionaires
I
realized
cellphone
service
was
down.
No
doubt
the
network
was
overloaded.
A
good
friend
had
arrived,
and
I
tried
to
make
my
way
to
the
intersection
he
said
he
was
at
in
the
last
text
that’d
come
through.
I
made
it
across
two
rows
of
short,
spindly,
still
leafless
hedges
before
the
crowd
became
impenetrable.
I
never
did
find
my
friend,
but
at
least
now
I
was
positioned
in
front
of
one
of
the
jumbo
screens.
Jane
Fonda
announced
that
she
wouldn’t
give
a
speech
because
things
were
behind
schedule,
which
everyone
appreciated
at
that
point.
As
soon
as
she
said
this,
as
either
a
sign
of
divine
approval
or
a
fortuitous
coincidence,
a
gust
of
wind
ripped
a
sheaf
of
papers
from
her
hands.
She
recovered
and
instead
read
a
short
statement
given
to
her
by
Renee
Good’s
wife.
It
had
been
about
two-and-a-half
hours
since
I’d
arrived.
After
Joan
Baez
sang
a
song,
the
trickle
of
people
who’d
started
to
bow
out
turned
into
a
surge.
The
very
last
speaker
finished
up
around
the
three-hour
mark.
By
then
I
could
get
right
up
to
the
stage.
After
the
end,
10
women
dressed
as
handmaids
stayed
pressed
against
the
frontmost
barrier,
still,
silent,
staring
straight
ahead.
I
wandered
aimlessly
for
a
bit
with
the
other
stragglers.
A
handful
of
State
Patrol
officers
wearing
neon
safety
vests
remained
at
their
posts
adjacent
to
the
stage.
There
hadn’t
been
a
single
violent
incident.
As
I
departed,
I
noticed
two
more
handmaids
stationed
at
the
far
end
of
the
Capitol
grounds.
One
was
off
to
my
left.
The
other
stood
among
the
columns
of
the
Peace
Officers
Memorial.
Jonathan
Wolf
is
a
civil
litigator
and
author
of Your
Debt-Free
JD (affiliate
link).
He
has
taught
legal
writing,
written
for
a
wide
variety
of
publications,
and
made
it
both
his
business
and
his
pleasure
to
be
financially
and
scientifically
literate.
Any
views
he
expresses
are
probably
pure
gold,
but
are
nonetheless
solely
his
own
and
should
not
be
attributed
to
any
organization
with
which
he
is
affiliated.
He
wouldn’t
want
to
share
the
credit
anyway.
He
can
be
reached
at [email protected].