ס׳וועט אַ פּויק טאָן אונדזער טראָט
I didn't realize we shut down traffic. Good for us.
It was a crowd, a thousand by the Globe's estimate; we marched from the New England Holocaust Memorial to the Suffolk County House of Correction, chanting "Close the camps," "Abolish ICE," "No hate, no fear, immigrants are welcome here," "Never again means—" close the camps or abolish ICE or now, and often singing the refrain introduced by the organizers during the prefatory speeches: "We've got ancestors at our back / We've got generations forward / We've got land and spirit in our bones / Never again para nadie." Some of the speakers at the memorial were Jewish, some Latinx, some Jewish and Latinx. They spoke about generational trauma, about community and responsibility, about the mitzvah of remembering. There was a Jamaican minister and a rabbi in what I really hope was an ace flag tallis. They said Kaddish for the murdered children of the border camps; they recited Tefilat Haderech, the traveler's prayer. Someone else led the nign I'd heard the night of the vigil for the Pittsburgh synagogue shooting. The march itself was inaugurated with the blast of two shofars. The temperatures were in the high eighties; I had packed the largest bottle of water I could fit into my dragonfly backpack, but I am deeply grateful to the fellow ABV soprano who not only shared her sunscreen but lent me her white baseball cap which was labeled in small black capitals "FUCK THE SUN." I also appreciate the street medics who were handing out free bottles of water and packages of vitally salty snacks. No one I was marching with begrudged the activist brass band which played "Which Side Are You On?" and at one point jammed on the Ghostbusters theme to encourage the surrounding marchers to yell, "ICE Busters!" but we still agreed that what we really need for these occasions is activist klezmer. A clarinet in the right hands is not easily ignored. Never having been to the detention facility before, I had not realized that when we reached it we would see the hands and sometimes the faces of the detained behind the sunset-reflecting windows, flattening their palms against the thick glass, raising fists, writing their names or messages on manila folders or pieces of paper: "LOCK DOWN HELP." (Or the one person who filled their window with the letters "GO HOME.") We shouted to them; we waved; we raised fists in return; a chant started in the crowd of "We see you." It turned into "We love you." That's the only piece of sign language I know, so I signed it. I was not one of the eighteen protesters arrested on the steps of the jail.
I was one of di yugnt fun A Besere Velt captured on phone singing "Zog nit keyn mol." The best part is that some of our fellow marchers—who were not members of the chorus or the Workmen's Circle—sang with us. I hope I did not freak out the busker who goes by Home Despot by repeating my appreciation for their performance of the "Arbetsloser Marsh" and formally requesting "Daloy Politsey," but I didn't expect to run across them in the crowd (I don't know why, this march was extremely on brand for people who sing Mordechai Gebirtig on street corners) and I was standing next to![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
skygiants at the time and really, I need all the Yiddish socialist-anarchist street music I can get. I'm not sure what about my singing of a descant to the never again para nadie refrain caused another marcher to shout at me, "You should be in a metal band!" but it seemed intended as a compliment. I did have my fist raised at the time.
I am very tired and somewhat dehydrated even after dinner and my afternoon immediately preceding the march was deeply stressful; I am not at all sorry that I went. That famous line by Rabbi Heschel, praying with one's feet. I hope the action has its desired effect. If not, we'll repeat it, not like madness, but determination. It is unspeakable that we have to protest these things. It is unthinkable not to. So, we're here.
It was a crowd, a thousand by the Globe's estimate; we marched from the New England Holocaust Memorial to the Suffolk County House of Correction, chanting "Close the camps," "Abolish ICE," "No hate, no fear, immigrants are welcome here," "Never again means—" close the camps or abolish ICE or now, and often singing the refrain introduced by the organizers during the prefatory speeches: "We've got ancestors at our back / We've got generations forward / We've got land and spirit in our bones / Never again para nadie." Some of the speakers at the memorial were Jewish, some Latinx, some Jewish and Latinx. They spoke about generational trauma, about community and responsibility, about the mitzvah of remembering. There was a Jamaican minister and a rabbi in what I really hope was an ace flag tallis. They said Kaddish for the murdered children of the border camps; they recited Tefilat Haderech, the traveler's prayer. Someone else led the nign I'd heard the night of the vigil for the Pittsburgh synagogue shooting. The march itself was inaugurated with the blast of two shofars. The temperatures were in the high eighties; I had packed the largest bottle of water I could fit into my dragonfly backpack, but I am deeply grateful to the fellow ABV soprano who not only shared her sunscreen but lent me her white baseball cap which was labeled in small black capitals "FUCK THE SUN." I also appreciate the street medics who were handing out free bottles of water and packages of vitally salty snacks. No one I was marching with begrudged the activist brass band which played "Which Side Are You On?" and at one point jammed on the Ghostbusters theme to encourage the surrounding marchers to yell, "ICE Busters!" but we still agreed that what we really need for these occasions is activist klezmer. A clarinet in the right hands is not easily ignored. Never having been to the detention facility before, I had not realized that when we reached it we would see the hands and sometimes the faces of the detained behind the sunset-reflecting windows, flattening their palms against the thick glass, raising fists, writing their names or messages on manila folders or pieces of paper: "LOCK DOWN HELP." (Or the one person who filled their window with the letters "GO HOME.") We shouted to them; we waved; we raised fists in return; a chant started in the crowd of "We see you." It turned into "We love you." That's the only piece of sign language I know, so I signed it. I was not one of the eighteen protesters arrested on the steps of the jail.
I was one of di yugnt fun A Besere Velt captured on phone singing "Zog nit keyn mol." The best part is that some of our fellow marchers—who were not members of the chorus or the Workmen's Circle—sang with us. I hope I did not freak out the busker who goes by Home Despot by repeating my appreciation for their performance of the "Arbetsloser Marsh" and formally requesting "Daloy Politsey," but I didn't expect to run across them in the crowd (I don't know why, this march was extremely on brand for people who sing Mordechai Gebirtig on street corners) and I was standing next to
skygiants at the time and really, I need all the Yiddish socialist-anarchist street music I can get. I'm not sure what about my singing of a descant to the never again para nadie refrain caused another marcher to shout at me, "You should be in a metal band!" but it seemed intended as a compliment. I did have my fist raised at the time.I am very tired and somewhat dehydrated even after dinner and my afternoon immediately preceding the march was deeply stressful; I am not at all sorry that I went. That famous line by Rabbi Heschel, praying with one's feet. I hope the action has its desired effect. If not, we'll repeat it, not like madness, but determination. It is unspeakable that we have to protest these things. It is unthinkable not to. So, we're here.
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Of course, the offices are closed on the 4th, but more people will be able to show up. And it's the 4th, in Philly, three blocks from Independence Hall, which hopefully means many tourists and more cameras.
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Strength to your arm!