I’ve been struggling with a case of writer’s block at the prospect of blogging my experience of the March for Our Lives in our nation’s capital ten days ago. But, no words have felt big enough.
The first expression to come to mind about the march is “community,” which seems to be a good and big enough word. I carried the names of people who had asked me to put theirs and their children, grandchildren, nieces, and nephews on my shirt. So while I was there, I felt a kind of halo of beloveds around me. And this struck a chord with others there that would say something like “ Nice shirt; that’s why I’m marching too!”
But the entourage on my shirt did not overcome the sense of puniness I felt when arriving at the corner of C and 4th and walking into an ocean of people with other brave and awesome homemade signs.
The Gathering of a New Us
Along with my self-image of tiny-ness was a humongous expanded sense of We. “We” may be a big enough word. It was big enough in “We the people… in order to form a more Perfect Union.” And our larger ‘We’ was marching all over the country. All over the world. With the same goal of stopping senseless killing, some life-affirming joy-based action at its heart.
We were there to support new life itself in the form of children speaking their truth. It was a wake. They were proud and sad, making us listen to their sorrow, their songs. The Psalms of our time. They were David of the Old Testament. They were our Prophets speaking uncomfortable truths in front of millions via media and half a million breathing souls weeping and hanging on every word as if we were at our own sister’s funeral.
March for Our Lives as a Writers’ Event
I do not want to gloss over the importance of these contributions and the significance of the entire three hours of this event. Here were original heart-wrenching stories, poems, songs, and material YES! Yay! All in the genre of memoirs – all from very young people. This punctuated by professional musicians. You can see the entire event recorded here. But I do want to highlight two breathtaking moments.
Yolanda: “We Are Going to Be a Great Generation”
A few hundred meters in front of me Yolanda Renée King came out to speak, the day’s youngest presenter. Like at a Passover feast, she embodied why this day was different from all the others. Her very being was larger than any words. Reciting from Dr. Martin Luther King, her grandfather’s 1963 speech, itself a luminary incandescent piece of literature and history, created a time machine.
“My grandfather had a dream…” she began in her perky nine-year-old voice, “That his four little children would not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. ” The sad relevance of those words brought millions more into awareness that Saturday when Yolanda Renee King spoke them anew.
Yolanda added, “And I have a dream that Enough is Enough!” And we truly all became the same crowd marching through time. “Repeat after me,” cried the child, “We. Are Going to Be. A Great Generation.” We were connected from one mass of marchers to the others who had gone before chanting together.
A Writer’s Dream
In August 1963, only a short walk from where we stood was where Dr. King spoke of his dream. Just as here and now people marched with one another, with the spontaneous brave decision to make a stand, we were all together giving voice to our dream.
Time collapsed for me like a Janus telescope looking into the past and future. That’s exactly what I want my writing to do, to bring together the past and the future in a timeless now.
Here over eighty years of demonstrators in Washington stood in this place among us like ghosts holding our hands. There were the thousands of WWI veterans who gathered nearby during the 1933 Depression when First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt wandered among them. There was the Poor People’s March in 1968, and its earlier incarnation in 1963, all the way in history to the Women’s March last year. The tradition of marching felt proud and long and brave and yes, big enough.
Emma and the Power of Silence
Then Emma Gonzalez came to the podium and simply read the names of her young friends and how they would be missed, those who had been killed just one month before while we collectively stood. While she looked on, weeping, she made us feel every millisecond in our hearts and our expectations, of the six minutes and twenty seconds it took to destroy the seventeen names she said.
That is when the names and the worlds each name represented extended into the sky and beyond. When the words were big enough. And when the infinite hope that each child should be born with crashed into ashes. Gone forever.
This very personal pain, this lament, may have been the only way to birth a new hope of action to change the shameful reality. “Fight for your lives before someone else has to;” Emma called to action a generation.
I did not count her words, but it was a low number. Sometimes silence has the power to light a flame in each heart with a quiet invitation to our souls to care enough.
I can’t think of a stronger writing lesson than those seconds passing in the hearts of half a million strangers whose breath surrounded me.
The Content of Their Character
Today, April 4th marks the 50th anniversary of the murder through gun violence of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. I am old enough to remember crying for hours with my dearest friend, Rueben. Even as a young child, the words of Dr. King rang deepest true, and that is what I felt all around on Saturday. The sound of Truth – with or without words.
K.M. McNeel holds degrees from Vanderbilt University, Trinity University, and Central St. Martins College of Art and Design, London. In the 1990s and 2000s, she was known for her interventionist art collaboration with the Natural History Museum of Oxford, England. She is currently creating a solo performance, a memoir of her time working as a communications officer traveling for charities, and a mystery novel.
Photos courtesy of the author.