Five Years a Writer

Last Saturday, I attended a political rally in support of reproductive justice for all. A couple hundred of us gathered in front of the steps of the Legislature to hear speeches, raise our voices in collective chants, and tell governments of every stripe in no uncertain terms to keep their moralistic laws off our bodies. I have been to many such demonstrations, but this was the first where I thought some serious trouble might be brewing.   I was standing up front. To my right stood a man who appeared slightly out of place — he wasn’t wearing a T-shirt with a supportive slogan, he wasn’t chanting along with us, and he seemed unsettled by one of the more outspoken speakers. He gestured towards them as he talked intently with a yellow-safety-vest-wearing young man who stood behind the concrete security bollard. Then he began to move.  He headed behind the security line, along the front of the main speaking area, and walked purposefully up the steps towards the speakers’ area. As he was mo