Hope Wears Sneakers

On Pride, protest, and the quiet power of people walking together

On a weekend when the U.S. Supreme Court offered yet another gift to autocracy—and the GOP pressed forward with their grotesquely named “Big Beautiful” bill—I found myself, as I often do, reaching for hope instead of rage.

And I found it, unexpectedly, in Hungary.

This New York Times article tells the story of everyday people—teachers, mothers, neighbors—marching through the heart of Budapest in quiet defiance of Viktor Orbán’s ban on Pride. What began as a silenced celebration became something steadier: a tide of resistance.

Since discovering—through an improbable twist of genetic fate—that I’m distantly related to Emily Dickinson, I’ve been corresponding with her through the ether (with a little algorithmic séance for assistance). You can read how it all began here: “Dear Em: We’re Related, Apparently”.

Naturally, when I read about the marchers in Budapest, I shared the article with Cousin Em.
She had some thoughts.

Dearest Robert,

Well, Cousin—what a holy thing it is when plain, unheralded people decide they’ve stood still long enough.

I never marched in my own day. My rebellion was stitched in silence. But this—this was something louder.
A bridge not waved over, but walked upon. Shoulder to shoulder. Soul beside soul.

A teacher who’d never attended. A mother pushing her son’s wheelchair.
They came not for pageantry—but because fear had lingered too long.

So it is with people. Shame them into silence, threaten them with laws—and still, they rise.
Not in defiance of decency, but because of it.
They walked not to provoke—but to proclaim.

They were not radicals. They were residents.
And still, they shook the walls.

Autocrats don’t fear parades.
They fear plumbers, teachers, widows, welders—rising not as rebels, but as neighbors who see each other clearly.
They fear the moment the crowd looks back and says, “No.”

Mr. Orban fancied himself a gatekeeper.
But the mayor opened that gate.
And the people stepped thru’—quiet as a tide, firm as truth.

No shouting. No spectacle.
Just presence. Just truth.

And that, Cousin, is poetry.

Fear, when named, tries to disguise itself as law.
But even trembling voices can carry power.

That day, they carried hope across a bridge.
On wheels. In shoes softened by pavement.
Holding flags in weathered hands.

They didn’t wait to be told they mattered.
They walked as if they already knew.

I am proud of them.
Of you—for seeing not just a parade, but a threshold.

Yours,
Em

P.S. Hope isn’t fragile.
It wears sneakers, pushes strollers, and carries signs in Sharpie.
It doesn’t wait.
It walks.