This, Too, is Protest

Activism, by another name

I’m not an activist.
At least not the kind that marches in big crowds and carries signs.

In college, I majored in Environmental Studies – a kind of protest in itself, although I didn’t see it that way at the time. Now I understand that it was a quiet form of resistance, grounded in care, in systems thinking, in wanting to work toward something that could have a positive impact.

I remember one of my professors talking about the importance of activism. He said we need visible protest – loud, public action that grabs attention and applies pressure. But he also said something else that stayed with me: not everyone will protest in the same way, and that’s not only okay, it’s necessary. Some people work from within institutions. Some push from the outside. Some use negotiation. Others rely on direct confrontation. Some protest through art or writing, or simply by living in a way that challenges the dominant culture.

That moment gave me something I didn’t realize I needed: permission.

Permission to trust the way I naturally move through the world. I’ve never felt drawn to big crowds or megaphones. I tend to speak through subtler channels - through healing work, teaching, writing, through the spaces I hold, through the quiet choices I make. Each one an intentional act toward the kind of world I want to live in. The kind of world I wish for my daughter.

I’ve come to understand that this, too, is a form of protest.

It’s a style that fits my sensitive nature. And while I’ve questioned it at times, I’ve never felt it was less real, or less powerful.

Still, the one time I did find myself protesting in the streets was in 1991.

I remember it vividly.

I was sitting in a college classroom listening to a lecture when a student came in and announced that the U.S. had begun dropping bombs on Iraq. A silence came over the room. We’d been anticipating the action, but didn’t know when or how it would happen. Now it was real. For the first time in my adult life, we were at war.

The professor dismissed the class immediately. Most of us walked out in a daze, unsure what to do with ourselves.

I’d heard that my university had been intentionally designed without a main gathering spot, unlike Sproul Plaza at UC Berkeley, which had been a central hub for protest during the 60s. They didn’t want large crowds to be able to form. So we wandered into an open grassy area, looking at each other, not sure what to do. There were no cell phones. No way to call or text our friends.

A few of us started walking. Others joined in, and our group began to grow. Someone said we were heading toward City Hall. That gave us a direction. It felt good to have a goal, a mission.

By the time we arrived, we had merged with other student groups. The crowd had grown large, but no one seemed to know what to do next. There were no leaders. Just people who’d gathered, feeling something, wanting to act.

Then we started hearing people talk about walking to the highway to block traffic.

I’d never done anything like that before. But I didn’t really pause to consider it. I just kept walking, following the flow of the crowd, trusting the collective instinct of the moment.

Eventually we climbed up and halted the stream of traffic in both directions.
We sat down on the pavement.

I ran into a few friends, but we didn’t talk much. There wasn’t space for words. It felt like we were part of something bigger than any one person could grasp.

It was getting dark. People were likely trying to get home from work. Some drivers cheered us on. Others were silent. I don’t remember how long we stayed, but it felt like the release of a long, emotionally charged day.

Some of the guys in the group began talking about the possibility of being drafted. Whether they’d be willing to go to war. The movies I’d seen about the Vietnam War -Apocalypse Now, Platoon, Full Metal Jacket - suddenly became uncomfortably relevant. What once felt like something I’d only read about in history books was now something we were part of. Could it happen again? Could my peers be drafted? Could I, if they decided to include women this time? Into a war that felt disingenuous? Fight for oil?

The future no longer felt like a given.

I remember sitting there on that highway with a swirl of emotions. Guilt, wondering if we were making life harder for the people stuck in traffic. Confusion about whether this was the “right” thing to do. But also something else I didn’t yet have words for. A strange kind of peace. A clarity. A sense that, even without knowing what was going to happen, I was exactly where I needed to be.

I didn’t protest again after that.
Not in the streets.

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Today, for the first time since that night, I went to a protest.

It wasn’t close to as daring as blocking a freeway. There weren’t any speeches. Some people were marching and chanting. Others were dancing. Many held signs. It felt more like a show of support. A way of saying: we’re still here. we still care.

“Hands Off” Protest - April 5, 2025

I hadn’t decided ahead of time whether I would join or just observe. A few friends came by my house to pick me up. My plan was to feel it out.

What I found was a sea of people standing together in solidarity. It was peaceful, calm. Almost celebratory. I read later that over a thousand protests were planned across the world today. This one felt small in comparison, but still meaningful.

These are strange times. The systems around us feel increasingly shaky. What we’ve known as democracy is no longer guaranteed. In the face of rising authoritarianism, and with basic rights under threat, it can be hard to know how to respond, or where to direct our attention.

But being there today brought something back to me.
A memory not just of that long-ago night on the highway, but of the feeling that arises when people come together. When we step outside the individual story, even for a moment, and join in something larger than ourselves.

We weren’t moving in formation. We weren’t following a leader. We were showing up, each in our own way.

That, to me, is protest.
That is the kind of activist I am.

We may not have all the answers.
But we’re not alone in what we’re sensing now.

In Community,
April

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