No Kings: Only Birthdays and Picnics

A weekend of community power, a utopic picnic, and what could be...

The air shifted this weekend. Energy and culture, intensified. Lightning bolts ruminated in my belly, and spread outward to my fingertips, then shining brightly out of my eyes. My body had been waiting for this exact convergence of joy and purpose to remember what it means to be alive with others. In the flesh. In real time. Side by side, breathing that same moving air.

For me, it began with a birthday. No, not Trump’s Birthday, but Friday the 13th in June. My son turned three, and we threw him a backyard BBQ that felt like the kind of day you tuck into your backpocket for safekeeping. Family I hadn’t seen in years flew in from Florida, his classmates ran wild in the grass, eating popsicles, and climbing on things. My sister-in-law’s friends also came from out of state, drifting through with laughter still stuck to them, on their way to wedding festivities. The air smelled like bubble solution, onions, sunscreen, and sticky juice boxes.

My heart, still swollen, cracked open even wider the next day.

On Saturday, the world moved together. The No Kings protest rippled through major cities and towns like a pulse. Steady, collective, undeniable. While Trump gathered ~250,000 for his squeaky military parade, over 10 million Americans marched through the streets across the globe with vigor and solidarity. Not for one man. Not for one flag. But for one another. The largest protest in American history. Those numbers do not lie. They tell a story of who we are, and who we are becoming.

In each participating city and town, we remembered ourselves:
multi-racial, multi-faith, intergenerational

full of accents, stories, shapes, and rhythms

Bringing signs painted with cramped hands from the night before.

This enormous wave of people reminded me again: the opposition isn’t bigger.
They’re just louder in the headlines and better funded.
But we showed up on Saturday. And we showed how loud we can be.

How beautiful it felt to witness a neverending sea of marching people, offering signs, flags, and chants as gifts. People who helped each other stay safe and emboldened—whether digitally, physically, spiritually, or emotionally. Those who brought aid and helped the injured get to safety, or demand accountability from the military violence causing the harm. That was power that changed the air.

In my own small town in Northeast Ohio, our local storefronts pulsed with 1,400 people. We were pouring into the road because our little sidewalks couldn’t hold all of us. But that didn’t bother the cars. Even though they couldn’t join, they still drove through the crowds of people, like a parade of life, honking with pride and giving a thumbs up, as people held up their signs even higher and cheered. Moments of sincere eye contact. Shared giggles over the funny signs, and a pitted gut over the profound ones. The love in the participation was immeasurable. Everyone was showing up for something, or someone.

This felt especially powerful because of who Ohio has always been in terms of politics. I was grateful for our little portion of America’s shirt pocket that didn’t feel soiled in ketchup.

While we didn’t face the same danger in using our voices as those in the bigger cities (where people are fighting for their lives and families are being abducted) it was still a sight to behold and cherish. But we were also no stranger to the presence of the National Guard. They had come to this same little town many years ago during a massive campus protest against the war in Vietnam, killing 4 students, and wounding 9 of them. So for many of us, standing in solidarity again was a no-brainer. Some of those survivors are still standing in the streets today. I saw them at the Palestine protests, and again on Saturday.

And just as the wave of protest crested, there was the picnic. No, not Trump’s picnic.

I’m talking about our simple community park that co-hosted the day with the summer breeze in sweet partnership. Our Unitarian Universalist Church held their Sunday service there, choosing open sky over the beloved sanctuary walls. And it felt… divine. So divine that it inspired me to write this piece today. No pulpit or throne needed.

A space that was once again multi-racial, multi-faith, intergenerational, full of accents, stories, shapes, and rhythms.

There was no harmful agenda to push. Just shared breath under the sun and blankets spread across the grounds. A service of live music and bold readings opened the space. Then came the potluck. Table after table of offerings: deviled eggs, salads, rottissere chicken, fruit bowls, pasta salad, pizza, and alllll the chips and dips. A midwestern extravaganza!

Off in one corner, someone played guitar while others sang and danced. Then, two puppies that were up for adoption wandered from lap to lap with their sweet whimpers, puppy breath, and kisses, sparking at least a dozen inner and outer monologues of: Could I be a dog person? (Could I manage another?) Could I be this free?

There were seedlings tucked into little planters, labeled with Sharpie: basil, tomatoes, and more—handed out to the community. Everyone took turns watching the kids they didn’t even come with, just because they were close and safe and trusted. Parents could enjoy themselves with ease, because for once it wasn’t all on them. It was a shared responsibility. Some even helped the kids get a plate of food while the parents laughed way too hard during a game of Kubb.

We held the weight of the world with watermelon juice on our chins. Kids sat cross-legged in the grass, making pretend soup out of sticks, dirt, grass, and acorns. I was thinking about our interconnected struggles with Palestine, Sudan, the Congo, and now Tel Aviv. Those kids should be eating watermelon and making pretend soup too.

Everyone had their own little thing going on. Their own interests, internal maps, and senses of timing. Yet how beautifully we wove in and out of each other. We are remarkable companions in craft.

These are the people I want to hang out with. Go to movies with. Take a class with. Or keep having picnics just like this. :) I don’t care if they are the same age as my parents, or older, or even younger than me. I care about where they come from and what brought them here. I care about their story.

This picnic became a glimpse, a preview.
A flicker of the world we are building right now with each protest, each gathering.

Carrying everyone and everything with both hands.

Delighting in the fact that we are not only people gathering in this way.

Each holding the fight for and a dedication to our freedom.

Reflections

Through all of my observations and the beautiful, fleeting moments of the weekend, something settled into me like a deep knowing: community is collective wisdom. No one is more elevated or enlightened than the other. We each carry a piece of something important that the world needs, but one person is never the whole. Never dominant.

While the world needs what we have, we are not unique in the ways we think we are. Even butterflies (intricate, astonishing) are not the only marvels in the garden. We are not so evolved that others are beneath us, and overlooked as basic or undeveloped. And our thoughts are not singular stars blinking in isolation. Every powerful, tender, or profound idea we carry is also buzzing in someone else, waiting to be revealed like a blossom under the right light. And if it doesn’t bloom in us first, it will bloom in someone nearby. That is not a loss. That is the design. (a concept I lovingly hold from the book, A Creative Act by Rick Rubin)

We are meant to witness, affirm, and take part. Not hide away because we think others will never catch up to what we know. We are not here to shame others into our way. We need their way. We may later decide to not move forward with their way (obviously when it comes to nazis or zionists) but you get the point.

If you are a person who engages in online comment threads with the general public, and can tell that someone is actually against Trump and his fascist regime, but maybe they are approaching an issue in a way that you feel is harmful or not helpful, try to understand and invite them in with options you can explore together. Certain MAGA folks and those supporting the prison industrial complex are likely long gone from this fight, but we should hold opportunities to unite with those that are still reachable.

Responding with a passive, shaming comment that casts them as the villain and you as the only hero doesn’t open dialogue. It hardens it. It creates something hollow and pushes people deeper into their beliefs, just when we need each other most. If this is you, please remove your pulpit and get creative. That’s what got us into that mess. We can no longer be discardable. We need all of us to move in and get close to share knowledge and resources. No kings, remember? Our freedom is at stake. We need all hands on deck.

And we are not above each other, because wisdom is not a ladder. It’s a field. And we grow in it together.

Some people are just arriving to this fight, blinking in the new light of awareness. Others have been here for decades, carrying tired but relentless hearts. Some shout in the streets in defiance. Some write silently in their beds with a curious heart. Some nurture, some disrupt, some build from scratch. It is all crucial. Every way of showing up is shaped by the stories we've lived and the ones we are brave enough to imagine. And what we can be together. That’s the real power.

And we have to keep at it. This resistance? It’s going to get harder and painful to bare, but also stronger, louder, and brighter. Every offering is vital. Every voice counts. When someone polices how others should show up to protest, or how they express care, it echoes the very systems that taught us there was only one right way to fight. Those are the master’s tools. The same ones we were handed in silence and shame. But we were also handed a guide from our elders: a legacy of resistance rooted in creativity, connection, and care. We can’t afford to box each other in. Not now.

Times are hard, but we are timeless. They are strong, but we are stronger.

And we are building something sturdier now: for our bodies, our work, the land that holds us, and the ways we earn, spend, and share what we’ve got.

Resources:

Know Your Rights

We Will Not Cancel Us by adrienne maree brown

How to be a Good Neighbor

A Guide to Meeting your Neighbors

Hope and Neighboring are Acts of Resistance

If you like this piece, you may also like my others: This is What Happens When you Break the Law or Hate is Hungry.

If this moves something in you, or if you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee. <3 I will always keep my resources free, but a donation is warm nudge that I am onto something good here.

Love and solidarity