no kings

Walking toward downtown Northampton for “No Kings Day,” I see an older man effortfully wielding a sign that reads, “So Bad Even the Introverts are Here.” I sometimes think that the quality of cleverness, the accumulated wit of all the protest signs at an event, define the power of a movement. But the crowds in their sheer size might be just as crucial, and Main Street overflows with people. Maybe 2,000, possibly 3,000—a collection of folks somewhere between “not enough,” and “maybe there is hope.”

A marching band turns east from Gothic Street and a drum ensemble has gathered on the island separating traffic on Route Five. The drummers beat furiously with hands or sticks on snares, congas, cowbells, plastic containers and bass-drums while others clap their hands. Music soars everywhere, tunes cross one another in the air with joyous, cacophonous insistence - a man in a wheelchair strums a twelve string guitar. An acapella ensemble sings tight harmonies through bullhorns, an oddly improvised way to combine the crudest form of sound magnification—associated with police commands to pull over—with the delicacy of human voices merged in practiced counterpoint.