No Kings

Content Warning: Some of the pictures in the image gallery show signs featuring strong profanity. It's not my personal style, but I included them here to give a realistic view of people's outrage. This protest was peaceful, but that doesn't mean it was polite.

Oh my heck!

When people who aren’t Ninja Turtles call protesters radical, this is what they mean.

At the Ogden sign.

The crowd begins the march down 25th street.

Lots of flags and iconic patriotic sayings at this protest.

At the Ogden sign.

Not exactly a violent riot.

Protesters cross the street in Ogden. The LDS temple is in the background.

Two very different trumps.

We stayed on the sidewalk, even though it was hard to fit.

There was some kind of music group playing in these pavilions.

Beginning the march down 25th street.

Latin and dinosaurs. Powerful.

Another view of the crowd marching down 25th.

This veteran gave a speech about his service, and how the things he fought for are being undone.

The crowd listens to the veteran.

As a teacher, I can relate.

Amen.

Is this irony, or a description of a defense mechanism?

One of the protest organizers speaks to the crowd.

That middle sign: that’s the thought that has haunted me since 2016.

Cheeky penguin. They probably don’t taste very good.

The back of this sign said “Democracy Meow.”

The bat that fell on my daughter’s head.

Nice getup. It looked like a 4th of July parade.

I’ll let you decide.

This girl kept raising her hand right after all the protesters did.

Odds are good it did.

Tragedy. Travesty. To be laid at the feet of Trump.

This was the driving sentiment behind the protest.

How quickly we forget.

One of the men who helped the woman who fell into me.

On Saturday I attended the No Kings protest in Ogden, UT with one of my daughters. I wanted to record some thoughts about that and share some photos.

First of all, why did I go? It’s the first protest I’ve been to since one during the last Trump presidency protesting the separation of immigrant families. It’s not the first one I’ve wanted to go to, but the first one where everything worked out. I thought I would miss it due to a fathers and sons campout my ward was holding and that my son really wanted to go to. I’m ambivalent about camping, but he really wanted to do it, so of course I said yes. Anyway, the protest was scheduled later in the day than I thought, and I was able to get home from the campout, shower, and get out the door in time to catch the train up to Ogden. Jeannie, my eighteen-year-old, wanted to come along.

On the ride, she asked what specifically was being protested (she knew it was Trump related, but is not very online, so she doesn’t always have the latest info). I explained the military parade and birthday context, then started listing things the Trump admin had done that people were upset about: ICE raids, outrageous comments, encouraging violence through pardons and payouts, mobilizing troops against citizens, etc. I mentioned the assassination of a Minnesotan state senator, and the poor treatment of other Democratic lawmakers at raids, protests, and press conferences. She said that any one of those things would be worth protesting, let alone all of them. I agreed. There were other things I could have mentioned too: cuts to US agencies and research grants, the impending budget bill of doom, revoking visas of legal immigrants and residents, targeting education, and much more.

But my biggest reason for going was perfectly stated by the first speaker at the protest, who told the crowd that forever after this, when their descendants asked them where they were and what they were doing during these historic times, they would be able to answer that they were not sitting by, keeping their noses down, focusing on being “good people,” while letting atrocities rage around them, but were instead fighting back, resisting fascism, racism, authoritarianism, and the other evils that are seeking to overthrow our freedoms.

Protesters begin their march down the street.

That’s the persistent reason that sits in my head day and night. I want to be able to answer my children, grandchildren, and (God willing) great grandchildren that I was awake to what was happening in my country and threw my lot in on the side of righteousness. And not just by shaking my head in disgust or making posts on the internet, but doing things that might be noticed, even if the risk to myself is greater.

I think this is the choice we all face right now. The present moment will define the future of this country in dramatic ways—perhaps as dramatic as any period of our history. This decade will be as important to our national story as World War 2, the civil rights movement, or women’s suffrage, and just as in those times, the choice we have to make is as real as it is clear.

The right choice is obvious. It is moral, far more than it is political—a matter not of party preference, but of good and evil. In the end, the evils seeking to take our country captive will be rejected, by us or by the rest of the world, and in a coming day those of us who chose to fight this wickedness will be rebuilding our communities and reestablishing peace, while those of us who sided with evil will be facing the consequences of that. And those who sat too long on the fence or tried to wait out the conflict will be lumped in with the latter as enablers, and be left to try to explain how they could have been faced with so much evidence of evil and done nothing about it, or else how they could have cared so little as to not have noticed what was going on around them in the first place.

For those of us who profess to follow the teachings of Christ, or to believe in the doctrines contained in the Book of Mormon, that is doubly true. I want a clear conscience when I stand before God to be judged someday. I don’t want to look back on this time with regret of any kind, and there seems to be only one path that leads that way: the path of resistance.

So that’s why I went to the protest, and why I will continue to do so, as well as resisting in whatever other ways I can.

As the crowd chanted and cheered, this little girl consistently mimicked the protesters by raising her hand either open, as seen, or in a fist.

Now I just want to make a record of my experience there. Maybe it’s for posterity, or maybe it’s just for myself.

We took the train to the protest, along with many others. It was held at Union Station in Ogden, a place whose identity is defined by its association with the completion of the transcontinental railroad, which happened nearby. One of the organizers, in addressing the question of why we met at a train station instead of a government building, said it was because of that association. This place was symbolic of the whole country being united by a common thread.

That railroad may have been the first thing to physically unite both ends of the country. Being there can remind us that we are also united spiritually by resistance to authoritarian rule, and love for the values that our country has aspired to since its beginning: liberty, equality, and justice for everyone. These are ideals we’ve never fully lived up to, but they have always been our north star. We’ve been chasing them for centuries, and that pursuit requires us to stand up and do what we’re doing now.

Sentiments like this one were abundant on the signs. People were here because of their love of others in their families and communities more than anything else.

I don’t know how many people were present. It was at least several hundred, but it felt like a thousand or more. It was enough to fill the plaza at the station and spill down the sidewalk in both directions. Many people were wearing masks, both medical and theatrical, and many held signs.

It was hot. I was near the middle of the crowd, and it was hard to hear what was being said at times. My daughter, Jeannie, who turned 18 this year, was with me, both of us standing in the sun, near a curb by the front of the building.

At one point, a woman tripped, stepping off that curb and falling straight into me from the side. I didn’t see her coming, and stumbled myself, then turned and asked if she was ok. I tried to help her up, but she wasn’t ready. Her knees were giving out. Some other protesters came over, and we helped her roll into a sitting position. Someone gave her water and someone gave her shade. She wasn’t seriously hurt, so after a few minutes we helped her stand up again.

Hard to find a sign I agree with more than this.

Shortly after that, Jeannie was hit in the head by a bat.

Of the flying, mammalian kind.

It was so hot that bats were literally dropping out of the sky as they tried to fly around. We saw it happen twice. One of them bounced off Jeannie’s head on its way down. It was tiny. There’s a picture below. People knew not to touch the bat, so they used signs to contain it. Then a woman came over and scooped it up in her shoe with a latex glove on top and carried it to a shady place away from the crowd. The second one fell a little in front of us a few minutes later, and was similarly rescued.

This is the bat that hit Jeannie on the head.

There were several speeches by young looking people. Some were hard to hear. Those we could hear were passionate and inspiring, about freedom, safety, equality, and laying out the sins of the Trump administration that had motivated us all to be present that day. They emphasized the importance of non-violence and encouraged us to de-escalate any tensions that arose and prevent others from engaging in violence or vandalism. One speaker encouraged us to take back the symbols of our country like the flag and the national anthem that have been co-opted by right wing authoritarians. We sang the first verse of The Star Spangled Banner together. It was all very patriotic and peaceful.

They announced that we would be marching from the station down to the Ogden sign, which is a large arch over one of the city’s main streets with the name “Ogden” on it. They told us there would be police, and that we should stay on the sidewalk. They even led us in a chant of “sidewalk,” which we found amusing and effective.

Protest organizers from the 50501 group (pronounced fifty-fifty-one, symbolizing fifty states, fifty protests, one voice), spoke for the first hour, then, as we prepared to march an older veteran got up and gave a passionate, impromptu speech about how he had fought for our country and wouldn’t stand by to see it destroyed. The crowd responded well, but drifted away to prepare for the march. There were calls of “Thank you for your service!” and cheers for many of his words. He called for peace, but said if violence was necessary he was willing, and that was when he lost the rest of the crowd. He quickly backtracked on that, and called for peace again before ending his speech. Nobody there wanted violence, and there was none that I saw or heard of.

This veteran gave an impromptu speech to the crowd.

The only disturbance happened when a big white pickup truck with a massive Trump flag drove by and intentionally spewed black diesel smoke all over the crowd. It only dampened the atmosphere for a second, thanks to the wind that blew the smoke after the truck, but it did serve as an apt metaphor for who and what Trump and his ilk really are.

A little after 2:00 we started the march. We went up historic 25th street, the part of town leading to Union Station where shops and buildings from the Pioneer days are preserved. That part of the street had been shut down, which by itself said a lot about the way the city was supporting the protest, because it was a peak shopping time on a Saturday, and that street is extremely popular for residents and visitors to shop at. There was minimal police presence. Some people, who I guess live in the apartments above the shops, were watching us from balconies and windows (almost like a parade, heh).

Oh my heck!

Then we turned onto Washington Blvd, arguably Ogden’s busiest, longest, and most important street. There were enough people to line multiple blocks, and traffic was flowing, but slowly because almost everyone who passed us slowed to honk in support, shout encouragement, wave peace signs and thumbs up, or otherwise cheer us on. Occasionally you’d see a driver or passenger studiously avoiding looking at us, but mostly it felt like the entire city was standing behind us. Far more than the speeches, it was electrifying and invigorating.

I hadn’t expected much opposition, as Ogden is among the more liberal cities in the state, but still, this Utah, and even in liberal strongholds, conservatism has a strong presence. But like I said, this protest wasn’t about liberals vs. conservatives. It was about democracy vs authoritarianism—freedom vs fascism. It’s charity, empathy, and human love vs bigotry, selfishness, and fear.

As Jeannie and I walked, occasionally cheering, chanting, or responding to supportive calls from passers-by, and of course taking pictures, I couldn’t help reflecting that this protest had covered the same ground that I often walked with my students as we searched for interesting photographic subjects or short film locations. We stayed within walking distance of my school the entire time, on familiar roads I had walked more times than I could count. But I had never walked them quite like this. I don’t live in Ogden, but this is the place I’ve spent almost every day of the past 13 years, teaching, serving, making art. These were the people, apart from my family, that I’ve lived most actively among. Many of them are immigrants, or low-income families. Many are social, political, ethnic, or racial minorities. My school in particular caters to the outcasts and rejects of the standard education system. Usually, I walked those streets as one of them. That day, I also walked those streets in their defense, and the defense of all Americans of any background or condition.

Two very different kinds of trumps. Note: this photo has been edited to remove some distracting power lines.

We reached the Ogden sign just as the organizers announced we were wrapping up and heading back to Union Station. The scheduled time of the protest had ended, though not everyone had finished the march. Jeannie and I didn’t go back with the group. We were out of time and had a train to catch. So instead we took a route that lead us under Washington along the Ogden river walk, one of my favorite student photography locations. There are places like that in Ogden where you can be a block from downtown, but look around and hardly see a sign of buildings, roads, or anything but the natural world.

We talked a little, but were mostly quiet. We were tired, and despite my precautions, I was on the verge of collapse. In the previous 24 hours I had been camping, hiking, biking, and doing community service with my son and a church group, so I’d only spent about an hour indoors in all that time, and I’d gotten a terrible night’s sleep. By the time we reached the station, I was soaked in sweat under my backpack straps, and I was almost out of water. My feet were throbbing, even through my good walking shoes. Also I'm an introvert, so I was exhausted. I was grateful to sit on a bench and wait for the train.

A couple of my just-graduated students, who I’d seen at the protest, arrived a moment later, and we chatted about who else we knew that we’d seen there. I told them it was good to see them out here, standing up for something good. They said, “You too!”

The train came. We sat on the upper level and ate the crackers I’d brought, finishing our water, which restored a lot of our strength. Still, we were mostly silent.

My wife picked us up from the station, right on time. I had a mind full of thoughts, a camera full of pictures, and a house full of family waiting for me. I was determined that I wouldn’t stay silent for long.