walking alone in washington square park

Across the park, beneath the arch which is engraved, “Let us raise a standard to which the wise and the honest can repair….the event is in the hand of God,” hundreds of people are protesting for LOVE, and against Donald Trump. The moon, to the east, looks on the scene in the same stilted shock it looks upon everything. It can feel like we are all trying to climb out of a collective hell, and that it will never end. I remember reading The Berlin Stories by Christopher Isherwood when I was nineteen. The autumn air and crunchy leaves give me the same dooming sensation that book did. That book was a warning of sensation. “This is what it will feel like before it goes down.” It will be easy for them to find the ones they want to persecute. We give our privacy away every time we type a keyword. Keywords like “environment”, “wall street”, “sanders”, "solange", “pussy riot”. They don’t have to profile us anymore. We have profiled ourselves for them. The people on the train should be talking to one another, but instead, they sit with their headphones in their ears, a sad glazed look over their faces. The people in the park inspire me. They hold cardboard hearts in the air. One girl has a sign, “In a world where you can be anything, be kind.” When people showed up in 2008 to protest against Obama, they were all white, and they all wore bad jeans. Here, in New York, it’s the most beautiful diverse people with the most vigorous souls. Women are chanting, “It’s my body, it’s my choice,” to which the men echo, “It’s her body, it’s her choice.” They shout, “Love is Love.” I love my city. I love its people. While Donald Trump supporters attack our beautiful friends and vulnerable allies with punches, swastikas, and death threats, we hold hearts in the air and each other in our arms. We are saving lives by showing up for each other, we are well aware of that fact. Donald Trump alone will not fix a thing. We will fix ourselves as we always have done.