This Is What Democracy Looks Like: Joining a Quarter of a Million Marchers in New York to Welcome the Republicans

By Patricia Dunn

So it has to be a sign of aging when I remember to pack the sunscreen but forget the markers for the placards. I worry more about skin cancer and heat exhaustion than I do about arrest when I attend a protest these days. Probably because I know I’m out of there at the first sign of civil disobedience or as soon as I see the cops pulling out their riot helmets from the black bags they carry around.

I like to think that the reason why I no longer choose to participate in civil disobedience and risk arrest is because I don’t want to put my five-year old son who joins me in jeopardy. But the truth is my days of raw wrists from plastic-handcuffed hands, cavity searches, and nights in jail (though that was because of an outstanding seatbelt violation and not the political action I had participated in) are material for my memoirs. Still after twenty years of marching, my skin still shivers with hope when I hear, “The people united will never be defeated.”

On Sunday, I was among the quarter of a million people marching in New York City on the eve of the Republican Convention, the largest demonstration at a political convention in the history of the United States.

I don’t know how the other demonstrators spent the hours before the march, but mine were spent running around the house with my five-year old screeching, “We have to find my sign.” Ali refuses to go to any demonstration without the first placard he ever carried, “Toddlers for Palestine.” Even though he’s years past the toddler stage and no longer sits in a stroller, he refuses to march without it. We finally found the sign under a pile of Toys to Give Away.

We drove from our home in Westchester and found parking on the Upper West Side, and as soon as we got on the subway, the march began; parents and grandparents with kids carried signs and wore tee shirts of protest. Beat Back the Bush Attack. Only Four Months to Go. Bush lies, Who dies. A three-year-old boy in a tie die shirt sat on his father’s shoulders as his dad held on to him and the subway pole. When I looked at my son playing his Gameboy, I wondered if he was already jaded.

I knew the reason why I was there today was more for me than for my son, but I wanted him to see that standing up for his beliefs was something that is expected of him. And I wanted him to see what “democracy looks like” as the protesters chanted.

When we got to the beginning of the march and Ali wanted to make another sign to carry, I realized that Gameboy cynicism hadn’t yet taken him over. Ali's Aunt Mary sat on the sidewalk while Ali picked out a crayon and asked, How do you spell Evil?

“Look at my sign Mommy. It’s the real Bush in a robot Bush.” And it did look like a man in a robot. Over the caricature, Ali wrote the word "EVIL" in green crayon. My mother thinks we brainwash him, but I say we talk and he listens.

One of the organizers from United for Peace and Justice stood over us with a bouquet of balloons and asked if Ali would like one. He picked the purple one.

I tied the purple balloon to the ID tag that hung around his neck. His picture with his name, address, and phone number on the back and my driver’s license. There was no way I was to let him out of my sight, but you can never be too safe I suppose, or may be you can, I thought, as I looked above at the half a dozen police helicopters flying overhead.

As Ali marched I don’t think most of the people who looked at his sign understood it, but a girl of maybe six or seven looked at it and said, “Oh, Bush in a robot Bush,” and then she nodded like it made perfect sense, some profound political commentary.

I loved my son’s sign, but I do have to say one of my favorites was the "No CARB diet: No Cheney, No Ashcroft, No Rumsfeld, No Bush (and definitely no Rice)." And I loved the long pink dragon made out of felt worn by Code Pink women marching with pink slips.

I held the Toddlers for Palestine sign as we passed marchers carrying a Peace in Palestine banner. And when I read the End the Occupation signs, I mistakenly assumed it was a reference to Palestine, then I realized we had a new occupation, the one in Iraq.

My favorites in the march were the Raging Grannies singing "No more lies from Dick and Georgie, we deplore their wartime orgy." The Missile Dick Chicks were a close second.

Ali’s balloon suddenly flew away and he had a mini breakdown and started to chant, “I want to take a nap.” He no longer had any interest in counting the police helicopters over head, and the man with the large papier-mâché Bush head no longer was making him giggle. So we took Ali to an air-conditioned fast-food place that stuck tiny American flags in the burgers. Ali had a sprite and a French fries, then he declared that he’s a vegetarian for the next six weeks, which is why he probably liked the huge walking carrot, presidential candidate Chris P. Carrot to be exact, the best.

As we rejoined the march, Ali was now smiling again at the other marchers drumming and chanting, I knew that Ali may grow up and think of these times as things his crazy leftist parents made him do, but I’d like to hope that he would also think of these days as days filled with love, and with what “democracy looks like.”

Patricia Dunn has an MFA in writing from Sarah Lawrence College, where she also teaches creative writing. Her fiction most recently appeared in Global City Review. Her non-fiction has appeared in the Village Voice, the Nation and the LA Weekly, among other publications. A contributing editor for muslimwakeup.com, Patricia is finishing work on her first novel, “The Other Side of What.”