On Saturday, January 21, in Vancouver, thousands of people participated in the Women’s March, a worldwide expression of solidarity.
This was not my first protest, having cut my teeth on the streets when I was a young teenager in the 1970s, with anti-Vietnam war protests, labour solidarity, the great human rights fights, LGBTQ equality and the defiant AIDS marches. Every one of those protest marches included a defining moment of drama and inspiration.
The moment on Saturday started faintly in front of Trump Tower on Georgia Street, indistinguishable from the other steel and glass towers in Vancouver, except for the name. At that time of day, the early afternoon, nothing much was going on and the crowd was beginning to thin; the hardcore steadfastly remained.
Then I heard that sound, that annoying sound that I have heard on the asphalt of every past protest. It was that tired, old go-to favourite of activists, “Hey, hey, ho, ho,” followed by someone or something having to go.
Hey hey, ho ho, that chant has to go.
That chant has become, over the years, boring. There is no other word for it. It is not a call to the ramparts or a cry for “freedom,” but it’s the only thing we have.
From the direction of the first “hey hey,” I discerned it was coming from the front of the building, where temporary fences had been placed to protect it from would-be anarchistic attacks.
The chant grew louder and louder until it seemed as though everyone was shouting as loud as they could. It was commitment to the cause. I hadn’t heard it in years. The protest had risen to the occasion. This was the moment.
As I looked over the crowd from my vantage point, I became aware that everyone was focused on the front of the building. Then I saw him. It was a kid, maybe 13 years old. These veteran activists were being led by an audacious boy: a kid with a Justin Bieber haircut under baseball cap and wearing a team jacket.
The boy looked every bit the part of a little-leaguer, not some kid with green hair and black eyeliner, and stood on his father’s shoulders.
That’s right, a father holding up his son in a moment of spontaneous humanity. He was rocking it. He was a believer. His voice rang true above the crowd. His “hey hey, ho ho, Donald Trump has to go” was loudest and most meaningful.
I’ve seen enough over the years as a reporter to know this wasn’t something the kid and his dad cooked up beforehand. What makes me so sure? The television cameras had left. It was not staged. It was awesome and honest.
Unlike more than a few pontificating protest veterans who dropped one too many hits of LSD over the years, he knew when to quit, when the crowd was on a high, and he left them wanting more.
Afterward, I milled about and heard people behind me saying things like, “Dude, that was rad.”
I turned around and there was the kid, with his dad, mom and sister. His father turned to those close enough to hear and, with his hands clasped in prayer, “Please forgive us Canada, for electing Donald Trump.”
He meant it; his family was American.
A protest sign I saw frequently on Saturday stated, “Women are the future.”
I disagree. That kid is the future, and boys and girls like him are just growing into knowledge and understanding of how the world can be better, and the power they have in shaping it.
That kid is being raised in a family that has the fabled dinner table conversations out of which people of shared beliefs and values in humanity make change happen.
David Brindle is the community reporter for Powell River Peak.
