The Mighty Speaker
by Bonnie A Ross
Monday nights this corner hosts eighty neighbors.
I bring the music—my little cart, my mighty speaker
decorated with “This machine still kills fascists” and little daisies,
celebrating Pete Seeger and Woody Guthrie—
songs to fill the spaces between chants.
But the second No Kings Day brought nearly two thousand.
People dressed as dinosaurs.
Elderly in lawn chairs.
Kids with tambourines.
Republicans standing
beside Democrats
beside independents
beside people who’d never protested anything in their lives,
all holding signs about constitutional glory,
beside Trump supporters with signs about Jesus and Trump.
Neighbors peacefully packed together on a sunny, warm October afternoon,
shoulder to shoulder, sign to sign,
the density both amplifying voices and swallowing sound itself.
My speaker’s thumping anthems disappeared three rows deep—
my mighty Monday machine suddenly small. Useless, I thought.
Don’t try this again.
But I stood by it anyway,
with the handful of Monday regulars,
enjoying what we could hear
in our small pocket of sound.
A man moved closer as the crowd thickened—
no sign, no yellow,
just nodding to the beat.
We talked. Politics. Signs passing by.
We applauded the man walking through with I used to be a Republican, but I cannot have cruelty in my name.
We commented on the four counter-protesters covered in red.
Near the end, he thanked me for the music.
I smiled—figured he was just being kind about my pointless effort.
Then he got serious. No, really. This made being here possible.
Seeing by my face that I wasn’t feeling the depth of his words—
I have autism. I wouldn’t have been able to stay if I hadn’t found you. When it gets too much, I look at the speaker and focus on the beat.
Thank you. I wanted to be here.
I looked at my little cart,
at the speaker with its daisies and defiance,
and saw it differently—
now mighty in its smallness.
—for those with the courage to find their safe space
