Not in Rage, but in Resonance

Filed under poetry, but rooted firmly in Defiance.

It started with a honk.
Then another.
Then a third.
Each one closer than the last,
until they began to build—
a rhythm,
a signal,
an opening note in a larger song.

I wasn’t ready yet,
but something in me
was already moving.

From my window,
I felt it rising.
Not just sound,
but momentum.

We picked our spot
where the cars had to stop—
where you could meet someone’s eyes
before they had time
to look away.

Most were loudly supportive—
honks, cheers,
thumbs-up through open windows.
Some stared ahead,
pretending not to see us.
One man drove past
slowly,
flipping us off
without ever turning his head.

Across the street—
a woman with a walker,
clutching her sign
like it mattered.
Because it did.

I crossed over.

I’d assumed she lived there—
outside the senior living facility,
walker in one hand,
sign in the other.

But no.
She’d come from miles away.
A friend had brought her
and gone to get the car.

“It was a challenge,” she said,
“but it was worth it.”

She told me about another woman—
a veteran
who’d stood behind her earlier,
first protest of her life.
Made her presence felt,
then went home.

Sometimes,
that’s enough.

Most signs that day
read like stages of grief.
Mine said:
This is what hope looks like.

Another woman noticed.
Her sign said something similar.
She smiled,
stood beside me for a moment.
“We might be the only ones,” she said.

Maybe we were.
Or maybe we’re just further along.
Not done feeling it—
but past the point
of waiting to act.

There were a lot of young people—
fifteen to twenty-five,
excited, vocal,
sensing they were part of something
bigger than themselves.

At the other end—
sixty, seventy,
even eighty year-olds.
Resolute.
Steady.
Still showing up.

Missing were the ones in the middle.
I noticed that.
And I felt it.

I don’t know why.
I’ve seen it before—
at a protest for Ukraine,
though that was on a weekday.
Maybe it was work then.
But this was Saturday.

Was it choice?
Exhaustion?
One more thing
to be tuned out?

I don’t know.
But I keep thinking about it.

I don’t need permission anymore.
Now I offer it.
Now I make space
for others to find their voice
in their own time.

Yesterday,
protest didn’t sound like shouting.
It sounded like a hum—
the quiet buzz of connection
between strangers
who couldn’t not speak.

Hear us roar.
Not in rage,
but in resonance.

🌀 This piece is part of a connected trio on hope, presence, and quiet resistance. You can read the full arc here:

This Is What Hope Looks Like / Not in Rage, But in Resonance / Before the Roar