I pushed my way to the front, exchanging casualties with people who had been there for hours, raising handmade signs made in a hurry of political excitement. The man who organized the march announced over his bullhorn that the march to Trump Towers would begin at 2 p.m., and until then we would rally and "make noise." The people did not agree.
Police barricades that separated the mob of people from the New York City traffic were jumped, pushed and stampeded. The people marched onto Fifth Avenue, weaving between frustrated taxi cabs and other fluster drivers.
It became clear at once that the marchers did not fall under a certain demographic. Their ages were varied, race diverse, and of all genders. The faces of the movement were colorful, all painted with a desperate passion
I don't even know how I got up there.
The emotion was infectious. It was an intense celebration of love and people, and impossible to not get sucked in. It was there from my elevated view, grabbing onto the ledge of a construction scaffolding for support, I could see how far back the people extended. The energy was contagious; those standing on the sidewalk gawking in amazement at the sheer number of people were drawn into the horde of people by an invisible magnetic force.
This is so much bigger than all of us.