We marched with 20,000 powerful and peaceful protesters last Saturday, through the streets of my favorite town, down over to a space by the lake shore where the crowd could gather.
There was lady leading a great chant near us at one point along the way, and I looked over to see who the organizer was. It was a 70-year-old without a megaphone, by herself, just one person. Doing it.
“Whose streets?” she called. “Our streets!” we called back. And other great chants.
Her name was Christi. Not an organizer. Just part of the march. Someone else walking. A person with a voice.
“My mom was an opera singer,” she explained.