We, the Downtrodden

On showing up, on the power of community

On the steps in front of the state capitol in Harrisburg, Pa. Photo: Kim O’Donnel

For a long time, I thought the word “downtrodden” meant forlorn, despondent, inconsolable.

As in: I’m downtrodden because my dog died.

But here’s what it really means.

To be downtrodden

is

to be oppressed.

Now, among the many possible outcomes of having someone’s foot on your neck is despondence and forlornness. Not wanting to get out of bed. Verge of tears. Anxiety, even depression. There’s a lot of that going around.

And when you’re downtrodden, you may start to believe your oppressor. You may start to lose faith in your own ability to stand tall. You might feel lonely, so lonely that you might even question if anyone else feels like you do.

But the other possible outcome of being downtrodden is resistance.

The other possible outcome is what happened on Saturday.

Saturday came, and the downtrodden got out of bed, put on their boots. They made signs, they packed snacks. They dusted themselves off, they wiped away those tears. And they showed up.

We showed up.

We were young and old, we were red and blue, we were trans and cis, we were all the shades of all the skins, all the religions, all the languages.

We, The Downtrodden came out in droves.

Let’s take the train, I said.

Julie made a sign.

We knew it might rain. We knew there might be pepper spray. We knew that we didn’t really know if we’d have company. We live in Swirl Country, after all.

But we were not alone. Not for one minute.

Not on the platform while we waited, where our neighbors carried signs, some carefully wrapped in plastic, taking group selfies.

Not in the coffee shop in Harrisburg, a full house of signs and pink pussy hats and excellent t-shirts and decaf-sipping codgers saying “eff this shit.”

Not on the steps of the state capitol, its green-glazed terra cotta tile gleaming even in the drizzle, where We, The Downtrodden sang and chanted and fist-bumped and admired sign creativity and costumery.

Not in the street where cars honked in solidarity and the crowd went wild.

Not in the restaurant after the rally, where a self-described Republican, who lives In Scott Perry’s district, approached us, and asked about the turnout and told us had he not been attending a celebration of life gathering in the other room, he too would have been there, showing up. Because this wasn’t about red or blue. This was about right or wrong.

Not on the platform heading home, where we queued up with other sign holders and we chatted and agreed: This was heartening.

Not on the ride home, checking our feeds, seeing the photos posted from all the corners and the crevices, not just in the usual places, but the red places because again this wasn’t about red or blue.

We were not alone.

We are not alone.

We, The Downtrodden showed up.