It was 10:30 in the morning. I thought I was late, but the march wasn’t supposed to start for an hour.
“Do you need any help?” I asked.
“We’ve got it covered,” the girl behind the table told me. But just then someone walked up who did need help.
So I filled up helium balloons. Big, yellow balloons with yellow ribbons for any little kids who might happen by. Actually, I helped Aurora, a girl standing next to me, do the helium filling. I got to tie the knots and attach the ribbons. And a heavyset woman standing next to us put each balloon/ribbon pair around her wrist and started joking that she was just the person for the job, because she was not about to float away.
The gathering was on the plaza in front of City Hall, along César Chavez Street, looking out across the river to the south side of town. People were sitting in the grass. They were on benches. They were napping in the shade under the trees and under the solar-panel bedecked awning that covers the grandstand build into the side of City Hall.
There were people here with dreadlocks. There were people with no shirts and no shoes. There were people with plaid shirts and fancy shoes. There were young people. There were old people. There were people registering other people to vote. There was child care and a welcome table. There were big postcards to sign to send to Zuccotti Park. There were people talking on the stage.
There were people raising their “sparkly hands” in support of the speakers on stage. And when the PA went out, they would fall back to the “human microphone” that is not only useful (is not only useful) as a fallback (as a fallback) but has the amazing effect (but has the amazing effect) of making you understand the words better (of making you understand the words better), since they are literally passing (since they are literally passing) in your ears and out your own mouth (in your ears and out your own mouth).
You could pick up a pen and write your own sign on poster board and tape it to wooden sticks. Or there were signs leaning against the wall that you could use. There were people standing by the street waving arms and smiling at the cars passing by. And there were cars honking support. And trucks with hollering guys telling us to go get a job. (On Saturday, they yelled this, evidently forgetting what day most people work on.)
And at 11:30 sharp there was the march to Chase Bank for people to close their accounts and then on to the Texas Capitol. A march with more people than would fit the sidewalks. Enough people that the police blocked traffic for us and let us walk in the streets. Enough people that the chants rolled over each other as one cadence from the back caught up with another one moving to the back.
I came home hoarse that night.