For days after we come home, when I close my eyes at night, I hear it. The rhythm of the drums coursing through me as my heartbeat joins in. The rhythm, the echoes of a movement. Tens of thousands of people I’ve never met and whose paths would never cross mine were it not for this common cause. It’s not about money and it’s no longer just about worker’s rights, though those are certainly concerns. It’s about the right to be heard, to say to those who hold power over you, “Enough!”
The straight-laced meets the activist. Those who consider themselves “Republican” meet those who call themselves “Democrat” or “Socialist,” “Independent” or more. Hard hats and firefighter’s helmet meet teacher and janitor. Across divides, across the state, across the lines. For one common goal.
Two people can keep each other
sane, can give support, conviction,
love, massage, hope, sex.
Three people are a delegation,
a committee, a wedge. With four
you can play bridge and start
an organisation. With six
you can rent a whole house,
eat pie for dinner with no
seconds, and hold a fund raising party.
A dozen make a demonstration.
A hundred fill a hall.
A thousand have solidarity and your own newsletter;
ten thousand, power and your own paper;
a hundred thousand, your own media;
ten million, your own country.
It goes on one at a time,
it starts when you care
to act, it starts when you do
it again after they said no,
it starts when you say We
and know who you mean, and each
day you mean one more.