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Alexandra 11/4/24 Alexandra 11/4/24

Nadine Seiler hopes she’s wrong

Nadine Seiler and I have different recollections about the first time we became aware of the other. Mine takes place on January 11, 2020, at the Lincoln Memorial. I had been visiting D.C. for a climate crisis protest and had time to kill before my train back to New York. I spotted a group that had unfurled a large black-and-white “Remove Trump” banner on the steps just below Lincoln; when they started to walk toward the White House, I grabbed a corner and walked with them in silent solidarity. Nadine marched beside the banner, carrying her own handmade anti-Trump sign. I didn’t talk to her then, but I never forgot her.

Six months later, when I moved to D.C. in June 2020, I would come to associate Nadine with the fence that had been erected around Lafayette Park to protect Trump’s fragile ego and upside-down Bible from the Black Lives Matter protests. Although she quickly became a near-constant presence on the plaza until fence camed down at the end of January 2021—and is crucial to preserving its oral and visual history going forward—Nadine insists that she has marched into the roles of curator, historian, and prolific protestor the same way most of her life has unfolded: accidentally.

“I’m not that smart,” she tells me several times when we talk in depth on November 1, 2024. “Almost everything is an accident. I’m not a visionary, I’m not a leader-type person. I’m a people watcher. I observe.” As an observer myself, I regret not asking more about her life sooner. But whenever I’ve been lucky enough to spot Nadine over the past four-and-a-half years—whether she’s among a crowd of thousands or standing solo outside of the Supreme Court with one of her signature spray-painted sheet banners—there always seems to be something more pressing to discuss than backstory. When we finally sit down and I ask what motivated her to start protesting Trump in particular, she says it was the third season of The Apprentice.

“The overqualified Black guy won and Trump wanted him to share the prize with a white woman,” Nadine recalls. “That pissed me off immediately and I never watched after that.”

Trump indictment celebration tour, August 3, 2023

Living in Maryland since the early 2000s, she says she was aware of the emergence of the Tea Party and had attended rallies in favor of the Affordable Care Act and Black Lives Matter protests. But she never forgave Trump—and still doesn’t understand how anyone with critical thinking skills could support him. “When he came down that escalator I thought ‘America is going to laugh him off the stage,’” she says. “And then he actually got into office and I just couldn’t believe it.”

On January 21, 2017, Nadine says she ended up in the inaugural Women’s March by accident—and she’s been a fixture in activist spaces in D.C. and across the country ever since. “Whatever is going on I’m just there, I find myself in it,” she says. “I’m an all or nothing person, when I get into something I really get into.”

When I ask what inspires her to keep going, what gives her the energy to keep pulling her omnipresent cart (overflowing with signs and telescopic poles, and blasting protest anthems) through the streets, she offers her favorite African proverb as an explanation:

“I am because we are.”

She adds: “If someone says to me ‘Thank you for being out here, you give me energy to come out,’ that gives me energy. Nobody asked me. Nobody appointed me. Nobody elected me. But if I can get people to come out and help get us to the goal line, I’ll do it. That motivates me.”

Black Lives Matter

While she was at Lafayette Square at the end of May 2020 (shortly before it would be symbolically christened Black Lives Matter Plaza), Nadine noticed that signs that had appeared organically on the fence during the protests had begun to fall down and litter the sidewalk. Her work as a home organizer had dried up during the pandemic, but when she overheard people complaining that the area was dirty, she put her organizational skills to work.

“Initially I just pushed it aside, then I started intentionally tending to it,” she says. Soon she was joined by (a good) Karen—who Nadine describes as the fence’s “stage manager”—and a handful of other volunteers who protected and maintained the public space from tourist crowds by day and would-be vandals at night. Using tape, zip ties, and a knitting needle, Nadine’s primary goal was to make the signs harder to destroy.

Black Lives Matter Plaza, November 5, 2020

After a lot of the ephemeral artwork was vandalized by a MAGA group in late 2020, volunteer art builds helped to recreate or replace what had been lost. This is how Nadine remembers first meeting me—I was helping to reattach signs to the fence and she begins our interview with an apology, saying she thinks she may have been short with me. I don’t recall her ever being anything but friendly, but the way she treats people matters to her—and things stick with her. Although by any metric she is one of the most compassionate people I’ve ever met, she insists her giving mindset is largely self-serving.

“I’m an immigrant,” Nadine says. “I’m a Black female and I’m also an atheist. In all those groups we are all marginalized in some way, so I help people because I want people to show up for me if I’m in trouble. If nobody steps up because they think someone else is going to do it, then nobody is going to do it. It has to start somewhere.”

‘Nobody owes me anything’

It wasn’t long before Nadine was not only rehanging, but rearranging the artwork, and organizing fence sections into themes. When a friend from Texas sent her a photo of the fence taken from the plaza, Nadine finally understood the power of the platform for which she had accidentally become a steward.

“First I would spend five minutes cleaning up, and then it was ten minutes and then it was days and then months.” She’d arrive around 10 pm each night and leave at 4 am—although there were plenty of days where I saw her at the fence both day and night—and she rarely took a full day off (in her estimate, she was only absent two days “for rest”).

Nobody asked her, but plenty of people were thankful for her service. When the fence finally came down, a decision was made—shepherded by Aliza Leventhal, a Library of Congress employee who documented the fence on her personal time, and with help from a few others and a grant from the Washington Conservation Guild—to rent a storage unit and preserve what they could. There have since been exhibitions in Tulsa, Oklahoma, at the Enoch Pratt Free Library and Amazing Grace Lutheran Church in Baltimore, and at D.C.’s Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Library. Nadine hopes her story will get the attention of an institution interested in preserving the now-historic artifacts that most people were content to throw away.

She has taken on the majority of the storage costs herself while she works on forming a foundation and securing funding to properly maintain the increasingly-fragile artwork. “I take on stuff that nobody asks me to do,” she says. “That’s why I always say nobody owes me anything because anything I do, I decide to do it on my own. But if I die tomorrow, no one else knows how it all came together and how it’s all connected.”

Black Lives Matter Plaza, November 7, 2020

A colonized mind

Nadine was born at 10:30 p.m. on May 11, 1965, in Port of Spain General Hospital in Trinidad. She says she grew up in an “uber-dysfunctional family,” and would find out later in life that her older brother’s conception was the result of a date rape. Her father—a Black man with blue eyes—forced himself on her then-17-year-old mother, a Black woman whose Black mother was prone to making racially-disparaging remarks to her daughter and grandchildren.

Nadine now sees her difficult childhood as a result of two overlapping issues: the “colonized mind,” which she says is still common in countries like Trinidad (they gained their independence from Britain in 1962, but the consequences still ripple across generations), and her mother’s lack of options and bodily autonomy.

“It wasn’t easy,” Nadine says, choking back tears. “It wasn’t easy with people around you constantly telling you you’re not good enough—we were too dark, or had the wrong hair, or a too-broad nose—as a kid you’re taking it all in and you don’t know it, but then you encounter it again out in society. I felt like a burden.”

Although her father was “horribly abusive” to everyone, Nadine’s mother (whom she refers to as her “incubator”) had nowhere to run to so she stayed in the relationship—and ended up having two more children, which only made the situation worse for everybody.

“She was resentful, so I don’t fault her for wanting to get out,” Nadine says. “It wasn’t malicious, but she largely left us to fend for ourselves.”

Nadine cites this neglect as her personal connection to the pro-choice movement. At 59 years old, she says she may be too old to have children of her own, but she’ll never stop being angry with the dismal circumstances that led to her birth—even if it means entertaining the thought that she might never have been born at all.

“If my incubator had a choice, my life would have been different. Maybe I wouldn’t be here, but who cares? If she had access to abortion, she wouldn’t have wrecked the psyche of three other people. The repercussions [of her lack of choice] are still being felt today.”

‘America or bust’

Nadine describes her maternal grandmother as “a religious zealot who believed in a lot of nonsense,” including that the end of the world was imminent. As a result or this conditioning, Nadine grew up apathetic and aimless, thinking ‘Ok, if the world is coming to an end, what’s the point of doing anything?’”

She left her father’s house shortly after turning 18; months later, when he tried to bring her home by force—violently confronting her on a public street—she was rescued by a group of men whose unwanted advances she had rebuffed moments before. By the time she was in her early 20s, Nadine realized that “while the world may be coming to an end at some point, it’s not ending right now,” and she scrambled to find a purpose.

Nadine dressed as an illegal immigrant for Halloween, November 1, 2024

She got a coveted office job for the Trinidad government, but quickly realized it was a dead end. “The people who worked there had been there 20 years and they would boast about being there 20 years,” Nadine says. “But they were doing the same damn thing and I’m thinking to myself ‘Ain’t no goddamn way I will be here after 20 years.’”

Because her father worked for an airline, Nadine traveled to the U.S. frequently as a kid, flying free until she turned 18—but even if it hadn’t felt familiar, Nadine says there was never any question that she would end up in the U.S., a common aspiration among Trinidadians. “When I set my sights on getting an education, it was America or bust.”

She saved money, gave away everything she owned (keeping only some personal letters and a few dresses), secured a visa, arranged to stay with a cousin in New Jersey, and entered the U.S. on October 31, 1987. She was 22 years old. “I had no back up plan if they didn’t let me through,” Nadine says, insisting that she wasn’t scared of the journey because she had no other options.

“Did I come prepared? No,” she says.

“They’re eating the pets,” November 1, 2024

2nd class citizen

Although her life in the U.S. has been anything but easy, Nadine insists she’s been very lucky. “I don’t have financial luck—I have never been able to win money or anything like that—I have luck with circumstance.” But the obstacles she’s overcome suggest that more than luck is at play—and Nadine is clearly smarter than she admits.

She’s been consistently working since she was a teenager; her first job after she came to the U.S. was pulling plastic off of jackets ahead of the steamer at a Members Only factory. When she was transferred to the mending department, an older coworker would pass the workday by telling Nadine all of her personal problems and occasionally crying.

She was hired to be a home aide to an elderly woman and moved from majority-Black neighborhoods to white ones and back again with the help of newspaper ads in which she began to solicit opportunities instead of simply going whichever way the wind blew her. A job at a furniture store led to her first marriage (he was a customer).

Over the course of their contentious, years-long coupling, his carelessness got her suddenly evicted from an apartment and he cheated on her constantly. Their marriage may have been unstable but it was Nadine’s final hurdle to clear in her path to citizenship.

When I ask how long they were together, she says: “He started being a dog from day one—but I liked him and the sex was good. My relationship was genuine, but his needs superseded mine.” She got her green card, applied to be a citizen, and became one as soon as she was able. “I’m all good now,” she says. “Until Trump gets back in office and declares that I’m illegal, which could happen.”

And her first husband? “He was a dog and I couldn't put up with it any longer so I moved on.”

Decolonizing the mind

Although she insists she used to be really, really shy (and still detests banal small talk), it’s almost impossible not to notice Nadine wherever she sets her sights on attracting attention.

She doesn't approach or preach to people and prefers to let the curious come to her. She’s always willing to have a constructive conversation based in reality, but it’s not always been easy for her to recognize at first when she’s being purposely trolled. She cites a recent incident outside of the White House, when someone approached her and seemed to inquire earnestly about Project 2025. They asked her how they could find out more information and balked when she suggested Google.

“He says to me ‘... And I'm supposed to believe Google?’ I ended the conversation. We’re being coddled in this world where everybody’s opinion is supposedly on par—and it’s not. I won’t be a part of it. I will not hesitate to tell you if you ask a stupid question.”

She may be quick to tell it like it is, but that applies to praise as well as criticism. Nadine credits her third—and current—husband for breaking her out of the generational trauma bubble where she had been taught explicitly and implicitly by family members and society alike that “white is right.”

Before she was cognizant of her own bias, she admits to looking for—and elevating white men—above all others. “Fortunately for me, I found an asshole,” she says, showcasing her seemingly inexhaustible ability to make lemonade out of the lemons life keeps throwing at her.

She says she’s thankful that she met her “idiotic” husband and not a different white man who put her on a pedestal and treated her well enough to validate the damaging racial hierarchies she worked so hard to free herself from.

“Now everybody is just somebody who happens to be white, happens to be Black, happens to be East Indian, Asian, be whatever, and I'm dealing with you on that level—how you treat me is how I treat you,” Nadine says.

Going home

Lately, Nadine says that it’s begun to feel like her big American Dream might end up being a bust afterall: The world hasn’t ended (yet) but she’s found herself thinking about leaving the U.S.—even if she’s not quite sure where she would go next. She still has family in Trinidad, but she doesn’t think her decolonized mind would survive long there; she’s looked into Canada and Australia, but there are too many hoops to jump through.

Conversely, the stubborn part of her (she is a Taurus, after all) says “If I leave, they win. Right? Because it’s me that they want to go—a Black atheist immigrant—and if I leave, I'm giving them the win. So the stubborn part of me doesn’t want to go.”

Right now, she’s more concerned with where she’s going to spend election night. Earlier in the month, she told me she was trying to arrange a reunion of sorts at the new fence that encircles Lafayette Park in anticipation of election turmoil. But while we’re having our conversation on the grounds of the Capitol, a man walks by and recognizes her. He says he has a Howard University connection—does she want to spend Election Night at the Harris campaign party? She makes no commitments (“I prefer to be outside because I already made my banner,” she tells me), but gives him her phone number and seems pleased with the serendipity of it all. “See?” she says as she saves his contact. “I have situational luck.”

During the 2020 election, Nadine was holding court at the fence like she had done for so much of the six months preceding; only this time, she was surrounded by a crowd that grew larger and more energetic as they anxiously waited for several days to ensure every vote was counted.

In a photo I took on November 7—shortly after the Biden/Harris victory was reported—Nadine sits on a step ladder and leans against the artwork-covered fence. A large black-and-white sign looms above her. It says “You’re fired” (an Apprentice reference), but in my closely-cropped photo I read it as “tired,” because that’s how her blue-lined eyes look to me. She’s wearing a t-shirt that she designed in her signature cartoonish style; on the back it says “Flush the turd on November 3rd.” Each day that passed without results, she crossed out the date and wrote in a new one.

This time around, she’s not sure what she’ll do or where she’ll go if Trump secures a second term, but she is sure what she won’t be doing: protesting.

“If he wins, I’m not protesting again,” she says with conviction. “That’s my hard line. You had the whole of 2017, ‘18, ‘19, ‘20, ‘21, ‘22, ‘23, and now until November 5th, 2024, and you let him get back in there? No. I’m done. It would be hard. It would be very hard. But I’m done.”

When I agree that she has more than earned a break after the countless hours she has spent reminding passersby why immigrants like her have always made America so great, she is quick to clarify that she’s not looking for accolades—and admits that her not-quite-infinite well of patience may finally be drying up.

“I have done so much to get people’s attention,” she says. “We are the majority of this country. America has had enough time. America is willing to let people die again and again and still claim to be ‘pro-life?’ No. No. I want her to win, I want to be wrong. I so want to be wrong.”

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Alexandra 11/1/22 Alexandra 11/1/22

A Trailblazer is Riding Free

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I don’t remember when I first met Kathalene Kilpatrick, or how I got to wherever in Washington, D.C., our introduction took place. The most likely location is outside of a tall, “unscalable” fence that encircled Lafayette Park and the White House in the last six months of 2020 and beginning of 2021. A few weeks after George Floyd’s late-May murder, Mayor Muriel Bowser directed city officials to paint “BLACK LIVES MATTER” in large, yellow block letters stretching from I to H streets just outside of the park. The temporarily-car-free plaza, bisected by 16th Street NW, became a gathering space for activists, trauma tourists, and anyone else who felt they had something to say or see.

The Black Lives Matter Memorial fence was an unofficial, living makeshift monument to (mostly) American lives and dreams lost too soon; it both seemed as if it would last forever and was constantly in danger of disappearing overnight. Personal experience can be painful, but it’s a surreal privilege to witness history being made in real time as old, ordinary pieces from the past are cobbled together and reimagined into something new and extraordinary. Anyone moved in any way by the messages beamed out—at a time when most people suddenly had little to do but pay attention—may not realize there is a relatively small band of very real guardian angels to thank, at least in part, for their transformation.

Members of the scrappy, unofficial chosen fence family, which almost always included Kilpatrick and other equally-impressive women, remained at the plaza through rain, snow, wind, oppressive humidity, petty political photo ops, and Stop the Steal rallies. The collective was one of the only constants in a chaotic period which included clouds of tear gas in the summer, tears of tenuous joy and champagne spritz on election day, and covid droplets spewing from MAGA mouths planning a January insurrection.

More than a year after the fence finally came down and the park reopened, it seems now that the show of force was mostly a farce; a death rattle by the flailing Trump administration meant to intimidate. Instead, the main thing it proved was that chain link could became a canvas for protest posters, artwork, and other mementos of the movement—as long as it was lovingly maintained and protected by a small, but resourceful group of passionate people with a singular purpose: to fiercely defend the promise of a country that had almost always let them down more times than it had lifted them up.

A BAD START

On August 29, 1942, Kathalene Hughes Kilpatrick was born premature and severely underweight at a 666 street address in Tallahassee, Florida. That the roots of her family tree are tangled, gnarled, and hardy shouldn’t be a surprise; in a nation stocked by waves of immigrants and built on the labor of those they enslaved (officially or otherwise), things get hard real fast. She admits that some details of her long life have blended together over the decades in a game of generational telephone. “At the age of 80, it takes a little thinking to go back that many years,” Kilpatrick says recently, and apologetically.

But other things only become more clear in the rearview: She knows for sure that at least some of her ancestors had no choice whether or not they wanted to come to America in the first place—and few good options once they arrived. Her relatives are mostly Black, but also Cherokee and Seminole, a lot of whom appear to, at least anecdotally, have possessed especially robust genes. Several lived full, healthy lives well into their 100s, and if they were anything like their still-living legacy, they no doubt made the most of their limited opportunities and chose gratitude when they had a choice. Kilpatrick mentions several times that, even into her eighth decade, she still has “a sound mind and good vision.” But even if she didn’t—and if it was possible to get one—I don’t think Kilpatrick would accept a cosmic do-over.

Some people might be hardened after a life like hers, one in a which a lot of time appears to have been spent doing the right things for the wrong people; but there is no trace of bitterness in her voice when she says, “Because I love all people, people seem to love me,” or “I am very happy because as the Bible states, my latter days are better than the beginning days.” I know the first statement is accurate because I’ve seen its truth with my own eyes—but I can only hope the second is as well. Kilpatrick never asks for anything more than her fair share of equality—and even that appreciation of self seems to have arrived only after a lifetime of karmic debt operating in the red from the very beginning.

“My life just started out in a bad way,” she says.

Kilpatrick’s first days—and many that followed—were by any metrics, indeed quite bad. But she is careful not to be too critical of others, including her parents, siblings, ex husbands, friends, coworkers, extended family, and even passersby. Like a lot of women, she lavishly compliments others and directs her harshest thoughts back at herself: when presented with photos of herself, she scrutinizes her appearance despite the indisputable fact that she always looks impeccable. She constantly apologizes for things that I would have never thought to consider as intrusions in the first place.

While she was growing up in the post-war Florida panhandle, Kilpatrick’s parents must have ached under the weight of juggling several kids with multiple jobs including nursing, phonograph repair, at a furniture store, and in a beauty salon. She says it was a stable, if also stressful and largely loveless, environment. But after she became a young single parent herself, Kilpatrick mostly thinks her less-than-ideal childhood was a fair price to pay for her family to achieve the American Dream: “They worked hard,” she says. “But they always had homes.”

When Kilpatrick was 16 in the late ‘50s, she was raped by a religious leader and family friend, and forced to give birth to a child she didn’t choose but loves unconditionally, nonetheless. “I had no choice because it was 1959,” she says in late September 2022, just a few months after the Supreme Court strikes down Roe v Wade. “I don’t think a man should have a say—period. It’s not about a man. It’s not about the faith. It’s a power thing. It’s about doing the right thing.”

For most of her life, Kilpatrick has followed in her family’s multitasking, hardworking footsteps, usually with at least one of her feet on the gas pedal or brake of a public transit vehicle or tour bus. Briefly, she drove a taxi cab while she was enrolled in night school and raising two children on her own. She’s been married twice, divorced and widowed; one husband was haunted by demons from his military service in Vietnam, and another inspired Kilpatrick to move from Florida to D.C. in the late ‘60s “to put as much space between us as we could,” she says.

In the early ‘90s, her son-in-law violated a restraining order, marched into a Fort Lauderdale grocery store, and shot himself and Kilpatrick’s only daughter in the head while she worked. He died at the scene, but her daughter lived in a hospital for more than 30 days, eventually dying in Kilpatrick’s arms and leaving behind a teenage son. Kilpatrick cared for her grandson too, until he enlisted in the Navy (and died young in a motorcycle accident). She credits God for guiding her through the darkest days, and says, despite it all, she tries to focus on the light and considers herself lucky.

“God has just been really good to me,” she insists.

STATE OF INJUSTICE

If I had boarded a D.C. Metro bus back the ‘70s, the driver most likely been male, and probably also white. Or the bus driver might have been Kilpatrick, who was the first female to operate buses in Tallahassee before also driving for Metro and other public and private transit fleets.

During the summer of 2020, I mostly walked everywhere. But even if I had taken one of the buses that stops frequently outside my apartment—and Kilpatrick was on it—she wouldn’t have been behind the wheel. Although I didn’t know it when we met, at an age when others with lesser credentials are reaping the earned rewards of retirement, Kilpatrick spent nearly her entire seventh decade living down on the same streets that she had once so nimbly navigated from above.

It’s hard to go far in the world without being confronted with marble monuments erected to, and by men who decided it was they alone who made America great. Outside of Union Station, the District’s main transit hub, stands a gleaming white statue of Christopher Columbus, erected in 1912 and looming nearly 50 feet tall over a grass-and-concrete ellipse. Today, the fountain’s basin is empty, covered in white-washed wooden boards; it’s unclear whether work on the monument has just begun, paused, or if it was a temporary fix that turned permanent by neglect.

Early in the pandemic, as planes, trains, and buses coming in and out of the city slowed to a trickle (and still haven’t reached pre-2020 levels), more tents and temporary structures sprung up in—and were inhumanely cleared from— triangle parks, underpasses, and a lot of the land surveyed by Columbus: The man who “discovered” America, sentenced in stone for all of eternity to watch what it had become. The plywood continues to be splintered by the feet of too many tourists, protestors, birdwatchers, pigeons, and people who, for one reason or many, by choice or circumstance, are dangerously close to falling through the cracks themselves. People whose backstories overlap more often than not with Kilpatrick’s: they’re Black, or Native, or a murky mix of marginalized identities, homeless on land that has been stolen from someone at least once.

Through it all, they emerge with improbable empathy and energy, but low on favorable options. Every day, in a country famous for its bottomless buffets and glut of Airbnbs, too many good people are still looking for a sturdy and safe place to spend the night. While Kilpatrick lived for a time outside of Union Station, most nights in early 2020 she spent curled up less than a mile north of the White House, on the storied steps of St. John’s Episcopal Church. Referred to as “the President’s church,” even in the times before Trump’s now-infamous upside-down Bible photo op, the yellow Greek revival house of worship was consecrated in 1816.

A more compassionate and uncontrived portrait was taken not too long before Trump’s: Made by Kristine Jones, the black-and-white shot shows Kilpatrick sitting alone on a city bench in downtown D.C. She’s looking outside of the frame, considering what, or who, we can’t know. Or maybe she’s thinking about nothing much at all, figuring she’s earned the moment of rest in a life spent on the move. Maybe she’s filled with a mix of awe and annoyance that life is somehow too full and yet falls short on both pure tragedies and comedies; maybe she’s thinking about how nothing—and no one—is ever objectively all good or all bad. Or maybe that’s just how looking directly at Kilpatrick’s indirect gaze in the photo makes me feel. Ambiguity makes it all interesting, but uncertainty is nerve-racking to navigate alone. It’s easy to lose your way or get turned around when you’re too tired to know exactly what it is, or who you are supposed to be looking for—or at.

Kilpatrick, of course, looks good as always, despite her weariness and the weather, wrapped in a nest of pristine jackets and fuzzy scarves, with a shiny, chic purse dangling from her shoulder. She holds a stark sign that succinctly sums up the state of her outside circumstances only; her inner thoughts may always largely remain a mystery. We might not be able to determine the state of her mind with vision alone, but luckily for the rest of us, when she sees something wrong, she usually says something.

A SMOOTH TRANSITION

Kilpatrick’s been dipping her toes into activist waters, at least unofficially, since the early ‘60s when a group decided it was time to integrate a Tallahassee movie theater. She says she remembers segregation, cross burnings, and student protests, but decades later, she describes her collective memory of tumultuous time periods with umbrella terms that both seem innocent (“very calm”) and slightly more insidious (“Southern hospitality”).

She was driving a public school bus, one of, if not the very first Black women in the area to do so, when Florida began to integrate. If the students had a problem with it, they never said as much to Kilpatrick—she was in the driver's seat every day and they weren’t there yet. “They found a vacant seat and that’s where they sat,” she says. “It was a smooth transition.”

I’m positive that she’s incapable of abusing whatever power she earned over the years, but I also get the sense she never felt quite right apologizing much for it either. And still, even after all that she’s experienced before and since the official end of segregation, she still thinks the solution to division in America is simple. “We should have equality,” she says. “It shouldn’t be a problem to live together and get along.”

Today, the idyllic Florida of Kilpatrick’s early years may feel as foreign as a time when women were rarely allowed—let alone trusted—to drive their own destinies (or vehicles) and make their own choices (or maybe not). But it was a place that allowed Kilpatrick to hit a lot of the milestones newly available to women of her generation: She was a Brownie, a Girl Scout, and Miss Freshman at Lincoln High School. As a teen she played softball, volleyball, and basketball. “I was a guard and we were a little hard to beat,” she says, flashing a mischievous smile in the way she handles disclosing most of her accomplishments, no matter how impressive they may be: humbly and humorously with more than her fair share of humility.

Kilpatrick has been the subject of several features over the course of her illustrious life—for both her ups, as well as her downs—but it’s not long into a conversation for this profile that she apologizes for focusing so much on herself. “If it’s too much, get the best part and leave the rest,” she says. “You surely don’t have to include everything,” she offers, as if that’s even possible with someone as prolific, selfless, beloved, and thoughtful as she is.

Maybe her wisdom comes from having been a Christian since the ‘50s, one who despite a lifetime of navigating a world built purposely to oppress her, still maintains an unshakeable faith in the goodness of humanity. Or maybe it was just learned the hard way, by a breadth of extraordinary experience that includes photos with presidents and chauffeuring a bus full of nuns who were also nurses.

DO YOUR OWN THING

Kilpatrick has been working and volunteering (officially or not) in some capacity and almost constantly since she was a teenager. Her resume lists so many inspiring entries for anyone, let alone a Black woman from the South, that it begins to feel like a frustrating question without a good answer, or a crude, unfunny joke with no payoff: What do you get when you deliver a bus full of nuns, politicians, and “the most famous band in Panama” safely to their respective destinations? Depends on who you ask and their metrics for success, but the best drivers usually aren’t afraid of the unexpected detours. And if they’re really special, like Kilpatrick, they’re able to turn their personal pain into inscrutable but inspiring photo ops, spinning their own garbage into gold for others to reap benefits historically denied to them. They bring souvenirs back for the rest of us who may not be able to get there just yet—or ever, on our own—but are willing, at the very least, to pay attention and expect nothing but gratitude in return.

Kilpatrick has volunteered in hospitals, libraries, and at the DNC headquarters; she’s been a public school tutor, an election worker, and a foster grandparent, receiving recognition from at least two sitting presidents (Clinton and Obama) for her myriad efforts. Photos fade and certificates can be damaged in a leaky storage unit—but there’s a better reason Kilpatrick doesn’t put much stock in material possessions. Despite the well-deserved accolades, she’s always known what really matters in the end: “The only real true thing is love,” she says. “You can’t live on Mother Theresa’s legacy. You’ve got to do your own thing.”

Today, Kilpatrick tries to sprinkle pleasures in between the protests, but mostly she can be found doing a combination of both. She lists her hobbies as “reading, writing, drawing, and helping (assistance).” She says she very much enjoyed driving tour groups across the country to California, and loved the Hoover Dam, the Grand Canyon, and “seeing all those lights in Las Vegas.” But no matter how much she sees or how far she goes, Kilpatrick always comes back to the state where she feels most at home: her unconditional love for others. “Driving buses was very interesting,” she says. “But ultimately it just helped me take care of my kids.”

Kilpatrick has always been busy, working hard to keep herself (and others) afloat. Even as she fights the strong currents always seemingly working against her, she still tries to make the most of her limited time down on earth. She advocates for the homeless (work she did while unhoused herself), mentors foster kids, and offers a seemingly infinite amount of smiles or encouragement to a number of people who still call her “Miss K,” or simply, “mom.” When Kilpatrick thinks she has texted me too early, she offers an explanation wrapped in another unnecessary apology: “I am so sorry,” she says. “I text a lot of homeless people early in the morning to wake them up and sent yours by mistake.”

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Whether she has a history with them or not, she has a kind word to offer most people we pass inside of Union Station. Outside, in a new shadow cast by old Chris, she tells a tourist not to sit down on a step because it’s covered in bird droppings. She greets strangers as if they’re friends, and some quickly turn from the former into the latter after receiving a well-timed compliment conjured out of thin air or common interest. She talks about a North Carolina basketball team with a person sitting next to her because of their t-shirt and instantly recognizes and hugs an old friend who is making their rounds cleaning the station’s bathrooms.

Although Kilpatrick admits that, the older she gets, she may need to sit for longer than she used to—or accept help when it’s genuinely offered—eventually she always stands up tall for herself and at every turn, tries to protect others from the bad luck dump truck that has followed her too closely for much of her life. She is self-conscious about sometimes needing to rely on anything solid for support, but mostly just uses her walking stick to push cigarette butts and a pencil out of the way so no one accidentally slips on the slick stone floors.

She frequently says, “Let me tell you something,” often followed by a Bible verse: “Inasmuch as you have done it to one of the least of these my brothers, you have done it to me.” It’s clear that not only does she practice what she preaches, Kilpatrick has perfected it. She is such a local celebrity around certain D.C. landmarks that I find myself wondering if there’s any historic moment or famous person she hasn't encountered in some capacity while doing her own thing over the years.

My suspicion is confirmed when our unofficial interview officially ends. We’re eating burgers at Shake Shack when Kilpatrick queues up a video on YouTube and slides her phone across the table. It takes me a few moments after she hits play—on a music video for the early-2000 hit earworm, “Thong Song,” by R&B singer and Baltimore native, Sisqó—to get my bearings and understand not only what I’m looking at, but why.

She’s transported me back to my teenage years, but not in an attempt to make a Christian comment on the morality of a song composed of poetic phrases such as “She had dumps like a truck, truck, truck,” and “Thighs like what, what, what.” One of the ever-present bangles jangling on her wrist might feature a charm that says “Earth Angel,” but Kilpatrick is no pearl-clutching saint. She’s also not exactly a star either, at least not in a video as memorable for what it doesn’t contain (many clothes) as for its catchy chorus. She doesn’t have a recognizable cameo, per se, but as one of only a handful of people—man, woman or otherwise—with skills to drive the standard shift Baltimore bus in the shoot’s Miami beach location, Kilpatrick was integral to the final product.

Kilpatrick says she was fired from The Pharmacy Corporation of America (where she was the only Black woman among more than 50 employees) for speaking out about the need for equal pay. She stopped driving for Metro because she felt that the bus wasn't safe to drive and the agency pushed her (and other drivers) to continue past her comfort zone. She says she was following the safety guidelines outlined in official manuals and always tried to do the right thing: “I always got my proper rest and had safe equipment,” she insists.

Since she left, she’s received nothing but the runaround from governmental agencies regarding records and benefits. As a result, she’s also been engaged in an ongoing, unofficial protest of her own (Kilpatrick v Metro) that she explains to me while we’re sitting on the steps of the Supreme Court under the inscription “EQUAL JUSTICE UNDER LAW.” She carries a neatly-hand-lettered sign in her bag that formally introduces herself to city bus operators—some of whom she still knows—and explains why an otherwise respectful woman fully intends to stiff them, intentionally breaking the law every time she boards without paying the fare.

“Hello! I’m a Trailblazer for D.C. transit and Metro (Local 689),” the sign speaks on her behalf, naming union credentials and highlighting yet another type of passenger bus she’s qualified to operate. A copy of her CDL is attached to the paper, along with a picture of Obama in case anyone looking at Kilpatrick needs yet another example of a real, live trailblazer. She’s attached a valid senior Metrocard too, just to prove that yes, she understands the rules—she has always been, and still is, a woman of sound mind and vision, afterall—but sometimes, she disagrees.

She also sees that guidelines are rarely one-size-fits-all, morality isn’t always able to be rendered sharply in black and white, and systems don’t always benefit those they are purportedly designed to help. Look no further than all of the very real guardian angels, caught in cracks everywhere on earth, for proof that it’s often easier to advocate for others than it is to stand up for ourselves. Kilpatrick’s sign ends with a reasonable, but revolutionary statement made by someone who has more than earned the right to ask for whatever she wants—even if it is to do nothing. But in doing nothing, she’s saying everything, including refusing to pay yet again for the same privileges that others receive automatically, without even a fraction of the work she’s already put in.

“I am riding FREE,” her sign simply states. And like its creator, her message may not always officially work, but it always makes a difference.

SALVATION ARMY

Kilpatrick became homeless in the summer of 2012, like most people do: due to a series of unfortunate events mostly beyond her control. She was evicted from a senior housing complex in D.C. after bogus claims that she couldn’t pay her $49-a-month rent. She says that she was bitten with bed bugs almost immediately after she moved in; when she spoke up, filing complaints and keeping her unpaid rent in an escrow account as she was advised to do, she was still evicted in what she thinks was just another cruel attempt to silence her.

She says she chose to sleep outside on the streets instead of inside of shelters because she doesn’t like to feel controlled, unsafe, or confined. Despite incidents of theft, sexual assault, and other indignities disproportionately doled out to people who share her demographic details, she insists she never really that nervous or too scared sleeping outside. She repeatedly expresses gratitude for those who have helped her out, anonymously or otherwise, including a white man who used to seek her out specifically just to give her money several times a week. She never knew his name and they lost track of each other, but she’s certain he was an angel with whom she shared a philosophy and a few moments of kindness every week, if not much else.

Kilpatrick never complains about, or romanticizes, the struggles of herself and others. “It seems as if this life is not for me—it is for me to do for others,” she says. “This is fine, but I need a little break once in a while. I pray that I will get the service that I need if it comes to that point of time in my life.” Her faith may be invisible and unstoppable, but it’s not improbable. She believes miracles happen to her all the time, and with the right perspective, it appears that they do.

While she was taking one of her rare breaks in 2020 and sitting on a bench outside of a congressional office building on Capitol Hill, Kilpatrick recognized a sister-and-law she hadn’t seen in 13 years. Thanks to the coincidence—and ongoing financial support from particularly generous members of her chosen family—Kilpatrick now lives with her sister-in-law in Maryland. “I am very grateful to all of my friends who didn't want to see me on the streets nor leave me on the streets of D.C.,” Kilpatrick says, speaking both specifically to her own experience and universally. “For a senior citizen of the U.S. to live on the streets for nearly 10 years is a disgrace.”

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Though she is off the streets, Kilpatrick still admits to feeling confined, forced by circumstance to share a home with someone she had lost touch with long ago. “I am inside now, although I am still in a homeless state,” she says. Space is tight, Social Security payments are small, and she’s currently working at the Salvation Army six days a week. She has Sundays off—and clearly has earned more than just one day of rest—but she’s learned how to lean on her patience, her people, and above all else, her faith.

“I trust God with all my heart and he has brought me through many trials and tribulations,” Kilpatrick says. “Footprints are real in my life because God carried me through all the obstacles, valleys, danger, toils, and snares. He is my healer, my provider, and my evening. That is the end of my story.”

A CLASSY LADY

Like all good stories about guardian angels, Kilpatrick’s time down on earth will eventually come to an end—but that inevitability seems too far in the future to worry much about right now. I’m counting on the power of a combination of prayer, positivity, and those God-given good genes. Yes, many things start off badly, but if you put in the work and change your point of view, there can be no limit to the fulfilling middles or happy endings.

By the time we meet again outside of Union Station, a few weeks after her 80th birthday, Kathalene and I have seen each other countless times. We’ve sat together, marched, danced, and protested alongside each other for more than two years. There are a lot of chances to exercise the right to protest in our nation’s capital and a lot of really unjust reasons to take every chance and choice we’re given.

I offer to carry her purse out of generational duty, genuine kindness, and because she deserves a break, not realizing it contains another heavy bag full of Queen Elizabeth commemorative coins. Her Majesty has only been dead a day or two, but after we finish our burgers, Kilpatrick plans to catch a bus to a coin shop to see how much they’re worth. She knows their value, so she won’t let them go for less, but she’s also never been one to squander a good opportunity when she sees it. I ask her if she was a fan of the Queen, and Kilpatrick says: “Oh, yes. I liked her purses and her outfits. She was a classy lady and always looked so put together.”

“Let me tell you something,” she says. “I just love people. You never know who you can touch. They might be going through something and fellowship will give them a different feeling. When you’re nice to people and change your attitude, other people change too.”

What unfortunately can’t be seen in any photo or read in any profile, is how changed I, and others, feel after just a few minutes spent in Kilpatrick’s presence. She exudes a sense of inner peace and genuine kindness that I suspect no outside force—no matter how corrosive—can penetrate. She clearly knows where she is, a woman of sound mind and vision in every sense of both words. Yes, she got dealt a bad start, but she’s always had a good sense of direction. She knows it was sometimes very bad where we came from, but recognizes that there is always some good mixed in there too. She always acted as if she knew where we were going, even if it took more than a few, twisting detours to get there. She knows that it’s worth the extra effort to learn how to drive a standard shift; even if she could have never predicted that she would end up on a pristine beach with Sisqó, surrounded by the finer things in life.

But no matter what kind of history or personal tragedy unfolds around her, Kilpatrick seems to have always possessed a superhuman ability to focus on the task at hand and fulfill her mission (chosen or otherwise) to the highest standards possible. Whether she was driving radio legend Cathy Hughes, “Washington’s premier Go-Go band” Rare Essence, authors, students on a field trip from Florida’s Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, groups from the CIA (allegedly), honor guards on their way to Arlington Cemetery’s Tomb of the Unknown, sports teams, members of the military to secure locations, or those nuns who were also nurses, Kilpatrick has remained steadfast in her love of all people—not despite their circumstances, but because she knows how much there is that we can never know about another person. She just starts with the good, and sees how far it can take her.

She comes from a hardy stock, so in some ways unavailable to others, she can afford to fight fiercely and patiently await positive results. No matter where she’s going or how far, she knows that we all deserve better, that progress is possible, and the finer things are always more fun if you share them. She has always deserved the right to ride free—not because of all the years she gave to a system that only takes, or the selfless acts of service she still willingly doles out, but because she’s a real human woman who deserves to be safe and feel clean.

Luckily for us, she’s determined to take as many people with her, and along for the ride, as she can. But if she needs to take a Metro bus to get there, one thing is certain: Kilpatrick won’t be paying the fare, and I think that’s more than fair. She’s paid enough already. The only shame is that she is no longer the one driving the bus—because there’s no one, not even Jesus himself, that I trust more to take the wheel than Kathalene Hughes Kilpatrick, D.C. trailblazer.

Kathalene was born into a country that has done nothing to make her feel good about herself and everything to ensure she feels as bad as possible—which she has stubbornly refused to do, anytime she had any real choice in the matter. But after all she’s done in her long life, Kathalene expresses so much gratitude for her good fortunes that she is still too modest to take credit for much of anything, or ask for help directly.

So that's why we started a fundraiser on her behalf.

So if you feel moved by her story—and whether you’ve met her in person, just through this profile or Kristine’s photos, or feel connected in spirit, mission, philosophy, style, or otherwise—I hope you’ll consider donating what you can to help lighten her load and balance the scales of injustice, if only for a moment: 100% of the funds collected will go directly to Kathalene to use where needed, specifically in this instance, but dedicated to all of those committed to doing the same, or so much more, to drive all of us forward.

❤︎ Thank you ❤︎

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Alexandra 5/2/21 Alexandra 5/2/21

Sterling Constantine Cherise embraces constant change

On May 28, 2020, Sterling Constantine Cherise turned 21 years old. Almost no one who celebrated a birthday after mid-March did so without complications. But instead of a Zoom party or virtual Quarantinis with friends and family, Cherise, a Black trans man, received a tense text message from his parents: “You have no idea how this affects our lives,” they wrote, referring to his decision to begin transitioning earlier in the year. “You’ve been lying to us your whole life.”

One day earlier—and just two days after George Floyd’s murder—38-year-old Tony McDade was fatally shot by an officer with the Tallahassee Police Department. There are likely several reasons that McDade’s death isn’t as well-known as Floyd’s. Maybe the collective consciousness had reached a saturation point after the deaths of Breonna Taylor and Ahmaud Arbery and repeated viewings of the Floyd video. Or maybe it was because McDade, initially misgendered by police and news outlets, was a Black trans man.

Cherise was shaken by McDade’s death, but wasn’t surprised that it hadn’t inspired the same level of outrage as Floyd’s. “A trans man died close to the day that I was born—and no one was talking about it,” he says. “That could have been me. If I would have killed myself back in March, I would’ve been buried as a girl. It would have been horrible and no one would have known.”

Today, Cherise refers to his mother, who is “Portuguese and white passing,” and father, who is Black, as his “biological parents.” He says that while he was growing up, it was never acknowledged that he was Black—and his mother raised him “to be like a little white girl.” Things went from bad to worse when he was outed as a lesbian and later, when he came out to them as trans. But like a reluctant Rumpelstiltskin, Cherise must’ve learned at an early age how to spin the straw he’d been given into gold.

So, instead of spending his 21st birthday getting blackout drunk and celebrating his own life, Cherise chose to honor McDade’s—by joining the protests that had sprung up in the streets of D.C. It was not only Cherise’s first time protesting, but he says he had never even been in a crowd of people that large. He made preparations to quarantine before returning to his job at George Washington University—that is, if he managed to make it home at all.

Cherise says that he is increasingly aware of the dangers that follow Black men (and even more so, Black trans men and women) in America. Every time he went out, he made sure people knew where he was, shared passwords with friends, and saved instructions on his phone (the Gen-Z version of a last will and testament).

“If I’m going to get killed out here, at least I will die as the person I am,” he says. “I’m not afraid to die for what I believe in. I will march until I can’t walk—and I did. I will do whatever it takes to make my voice heard for everyone who wants to be out here and can’t be.”

‘THE NEXT SERENA WILLIAMS’

Like many people who identify as LGBTQ+, Cherise has always had a complicated relationship with his biological parents. Growing up in south Florida, Cherise says they made sure he was too busy with school work and extracurricular activities to have any semblance of a social life. He was classically trained in violin and piano; he was a varsity athlete, competing in swimming, diving, track and field, volleyball, and gymnastics. His father had aspirations to make him “the next Serena Williams,” but Cherise never even liked tennis.

His mother never wanted children and his father “wanted a baseball team.” No child should ever be made to feel as if they’re a compromise, but that’s exactly what Cherise says he was repeatedly told. They sent him to private school, in part because Cherise says they didn’t want him to be just “another dumb Black girl.” “I was a trophy child,” he says. “It was my job to make it out and represent all the work my parents put in, their sacrifice. I was taught to give 100% in everything all the time—and even if it was close to that it still wasn’t good enough.”

It wasn’t until he came to Washington, D.C. to begin classes at GW, that Cherise realized just how much his strict, isolated upbringing had negatively affected his mental health and self-image. It was traumatic enough to be forcibly outed by his peers in middle school (he uses the word “hellscape” to describe much of his life pre-transition). But by the time he realized he was trans, Cherise says he was “probably 24- to 48-hours away” from throwing himself off a bridge.

Cherise called his mother to inform her that he had already made a doctor’s appointment and was going to start taking testosterone. “I don’t have any other options,” he recalls saying. “It is this bad. I’m going to do this because there is nothing else I can do. I’ve lost everything and I need to make this life or death decision.”

His mother suggested he return to Florida, enroll in community college, and wait at least a year. Instead, Cherise chose to stay at GW and begin hormone therapy without his biological parents’ support. He hasn’t seen them in more than 2 years; in what little communication they do have, they frequently use Cherise’s legal (or “dead”) name and intentionally misgender him. “I’m realizing that the people who were supposed to care about me, don’t—at all,” he says. “They don’t care because I’m no longer doing what they think I should.”

BLACK ENOUGH

Personal identities are as layered and nuanced as the groups of people they attempt to describe; when he came out as trans, Cherise had only just begun to unravel the biases surrounding his own racial identity. “My parents had me being afraid of being Black and afraid of other Black people,” he says. Because he is mixed, or simply “not Black enough,” he says didn’t get courted by historically Black universities.

But he is Black enough to be followed by security guards for having the audacity to shop for groceries; because he knows how it feels, he says he’s careful not to follow women too closely, especially at night. “I don’t want to scare them because I have knowledge about how that feels,” Cherise says. “But also I’m uncomfortable being a Black man on the street—always thinking, ‘Is someone going to call the cops?’”

Currently, Cherise’s official ID still bears his dead name; Daunte Wright was shot and killed for having expired tags and too many air fresheners. “I feel like I occupy a very specific space where I’m terrified for my life for different reasons all of the time,” Cherise says. “I’m actively terrified not knowing if I’m going to make it home every day.”

When Cherise graduates in a few weeks with a BA in criminal justice and a minor in English, his dead name will be on his diploma. Changing your legal name is an expensive and arduous process—and not all problems can be solved with a trip to the DMV. Even if he had the time to navigate the name change, he can’t afford a replacement diploma. Contrary to the myth of the American Dream, those who work the hardest often have the least. “I have moved from being a Black woman in the U.S. to wherever on the hierarchy being a Black trans man is,” Cherise says.

MASERATIS AND MACBOOKS

Despite saying he grew up “on the wrong side of the tracks” in Broward County, Cherise attended a private school; less than 30 of the students were people of color. “We all knew each other by name and people would ask if we were related,” he says. While other 16-year-olds were driving Maseratis and using Macbooks as umbrellas, Cherise was training to be an Olympic athlete and endlessly studying to fulfill his parents’ wishes that he become a doctor. He entered GW as a pre-med major but switched to criminal justice after deciding that he didn’t really want to go to medical school, after all.

He had also been sick for years, not realizing that he was having an allergic reaction to the estrogen in his birth control; he’s since discovered that his body had naturally high testosterone levels long before he began his transition. Still, he maintained a full class load while also working in a lab several days a week. He had no choice: “I pay my own loans because my parents said ‘If you’re going to transition, we want no part in it.”

Although he discovered that the class dynamics at GW weren’t that much different than his highschool (“kids are partying in the dorms and driving McLarens and I can’t afford to eat this week”) after graduation, Cherise says he intends to get his master’s degree and then his PhD. He has aspirations to teach forensics, become a medical examiner, or work in Quantico, Virginia. But with only a few weeks of school—and at least 60 pages of writing—to go, even a gold-star student like Cherise is tired.

“I’m exhausted,” he says. “And I have to keep working or I can’t pay for groceries. And I have to keep working or I can't pay my tuition. It never stops. I have to adjust and I don't really have the wiggle room to say ‘I'm going to take a day to not do anything.’”

A WHITE FANTASY

Cherise acknowledges his excess of privilege far more than he bemoans his lack of it. But he’s also aware that in general, white people are more likely to have access to necessary—and in many cases, life-saving—resources such as health care, secure housing, and familial support. Cherise says the fantasy of “I’m going to come out to my parents and they’re going to accept me and throw me a gender reveal party and I can continue to live my life as if nothing has changed” is just not often available to trans people of color.

He points out that gender confirmation surgery—like most procedures in the for-profit U.S. healthcare system—is expensive; since he can’t afford it, he says, “the only thing in my head that’s keeping me trans is testosterone.” But if you can’t afford the psychological therapy required before starting hormones (or the prescription drugs themselves) you’re going to turn to less regulated, and often unsafe, sources. If the dirty needles don’t get you, the body dysphoria will; too often in America, it’s dead if you do, and dead if you don’t.

Although the number is rising, only about 20% of people say they personally know an out trans person (and awareness isn’t always immediately followed with dignity and respect). As Oprah’s recent Elliot Page interview and the Netflix documentary Disclosure shows, trans representation in the media has come a long way from laughing at Bugs Bunny in a dress—but increased visibility often comes with heightened vitriol and violence. Less than half of the way through 2021, attacks on the trans community—and particularly trans youth—are only ramping up.

GRAVEL AND GRAVESTONES

Despite what certain Republican lawmakers and clergy members would like you to believe, trans people are (unsurprisingly) like everyone else: they’re just people trying to make sense out of, and live their lives in relative peace. For the first 20 minutes of our Zoom interview, Cherise and I talk about things as scandalous as hair dye and whether or not we are morning people (he is, I most definitely am not).

Struggling with your gender identity doesn’t make you a monster—but taking control of the process doesn’t make you a magician either. “Your mental health is not going to be fixed just because you’re starting testosterone,” Cherise says. “I still have an eating disorder and suicidal tendencies. I still have to go to therapy every week, I still have to address all of these things—sometimes it gets worse as it gets better.”

While everyone is different, adding testosterone (or estrogen) to the equation does change things—hopefully, but not always, for the better. Since beginning hormones last year, Cherise says, “I have to reevaluate my life every day. I don’t look the same every day, I have to readjust.” He notes the usual suspects: his empathy took a nosedive along with his impulse control and the tenor of his voice; he’s physically hotter and emotionally colder than he used to be. He takes his jacket off during a late-December photo shoot at Black Lives Matter Plaza and says without irony: “Everything is buried under a very thick layer of ice. And as hard as I want to crack through that ice—and as much as I can see and acknowledge what’s underneath it—I can’t reach it.”

The downs of transitioning may get more column inches (and movie scenes), but for every valley there’s usually a corresponding peak: “On the other side of it I think, ‘This used to send me into hysterics and I no longer care,’” Cherise says, laughing.

We speak for a second time on May 18; when the Derek Chauvin trial comes up, Cherise says the media should be focussing on how many victims of police violence never even receive a chance at justice. He says he’s not particularly interested in the outcome, while acknowledging that this willful avoidance of the televised trial is another one of his privileges.

Two days later, Chauvin is found guilty on three counts; it’s a start, but Cherise thinks there’s so much more to come before we can even begin to abolish the police. “I don’t think that this system of mass incarceration or capitalism is constructive in any sense,” he says. “But you’re asking people to build a castle out of gravel and gravestones and it just doesn’t work.”

He partly thinks it’s generational but theorizes that many people may simply be immune to change. His face mask is printed with the phrase, “Just trying not to die. Assholes live forever;” he knows that waiting for Boomers to die off may not be a practical political strategy. “If there are enough people willing to uphold a system, there will never be enough people to take it down,” he says.

FINDING THE WORDS

Cherise also knows what it’s like to feel as if your castle built of gravel has been compromised. When he was 16, he managed to sneak a girlfriend into his house exactly once before his parents found out and grounded him; he went off the grid for so long friends thought he had died. A friend suspected he might be trans when they were just 12 years old, but Cherise didn’t find out until almost a decade later. “I think people see it—whether you’re trans, gay or nonbinary—and you show and tell people before you (or they) have the words for it.”

When he finally found the words—and the courage to say them—he not only lost contact with most of his immediate family, but also several friends. “People are often unwilling to accept trans people because they’re under the assumption that they’ve known you best, or at least more than others,” Cherise says. “Not everyone understands the burden and is willing to share it with you. And take responsibility for their own transphobic or homophobic beliefs—or any other biases they may have.”

Cherise is so thoughtful and compassionate while describing the horrors he has faced—from forces both external and internal—that I wonder if he’s overstated the testosterone’s effect on his capacity for empathy. Then, as he often does during our more than 3-hour conversation, he explains a complicated issue succinctly and leaves me temporarily speechless: “The people who are repressed the most, end up feeling the most empathy towards the people who are oppressed the least.”

80% SPITE

When discussing the street protests that began at the end of May and continued well into the summer (and, in many places are still ongoing), the word privilege once again comes up. Cherise says it was a rude awakening for him to witness firsthand the raw, collective Black rage and police violence that his biological parents tried so hard to shield him from. Within a 5-minute’s walk from GW’s campus, Cherise found himself in a cloud of tear gas and rubber bullets. His friends urged him to keep his neon green braids so they could locate him on the national news and confirm he was ok.

“I made it home that night and thought, there is no chance I’m not doing this again,” he says.

On January 6, Cherise walked outside of his apartment and came face to face with “a group of Nazis waving Trump flags.” GW campus police escorted him safely to work, but he says he still suffers from PTSD. His phone remains broken from a flash bang and a rubber bullet casing hangs on his wall—grim reminders that “no matter how good you are, the system is going to view you as every other Black man that has ever walked the face of the planet—and nothing will be good enough to save your life,” Cherise says.

Although he’s learning how to be more in control of how he channels his perfectionism, Cherise is clearly still very much the trophy child his parents dreamed of—even if they may never realize it. He’s more thoughtful, gracious, and comfortable in his skin than I am with almost a decade-and-a-half head start (not to mention additional privileges). So I’m relieved when—in an attempt to mitigate an outright gush—I ask where his strength comes from and he calculates that “80% of it is out of actual spite.”

“Yes, so much of it is wanting better for the world and wanting better for yourself,” Cherise explains. “But so much more of it is that so many people told me I couldn’t do this—that I’m not enough. It’s not willpower—it’s because you want to prove that you are not a statistic.”

‘I DESERVE TO EXIST’

Cherise may have always known that his chances of scoring Olympic gold were statistically small—and that it was basically impossible to be the “good little white girl” he says his mom wanted. He also probably never imagined himself as a trans role model, but now recognizes both the power and the danger in speaking about something so personal. No two trans people, for better or worse, have the same experience because, once again, they’re just people.

“But if someone like me would’ve met my 13-year-old self when I needed someone the most, it would have changed my life,” Cherise says. “Maybe it wouldn’t have changed everything, but it would’ve given me enough insight to know that I wasn’t alone.

Like Page, and other highly visible, out trans people, Cherise thinks that all representation matters, no matter how insignificant it may seem. “There is always a chance that someone will pass you on the street and think ‘There’s someone else who is either my skin color or who has my hair texture or has some crazy hair color,” he says. “And then think, ‘If one other person has it or feels that way, maybe it’s ok that I do, too.”

Even if someone isn’t trans or questioning their own gender or sexual identity (two distinct, but often overlapping issues), Cherise encourages them to have conversations with people who are. “If they understand a raindrop in the ocean of my perspective on something, maybe it’s enough,” he says.

I begin to think that maybe Cherise didn’t spin his share of straw into gold, so much as learn how to weave it into a life raft for himself when his parents and society set him adrift. He may not be on solid ground quite yet (he does still have to write those 60 pages before graduation), but he’s getting there. He says that all the suffering will have been worth it if just one kid is spared the same pain he felt—even if he had to find out the hard way that you have to save yourself before you’re strong enough to help search for survivors.

“I believe that I deserve to exist,” Cherise says. “And if I have to shout it from the rooftops, I’ll do it. Once you start, you never stop protesting. You’re protesting whether you’re with five thousand people or you’re walking home alone at the end of the day—but I might as well die speaking as a Black man than say nothing as a Black girl. I would rather be wiser for the better than ignorant and happy.”

This is a crucial moment in history; we have a real opportunity to rebuild and restructure our society to be more equal, more just, and more habitable for all. In an attempt to better understand what motivates and inspires fellow activists, I’m profiling people and how they’re trying (in ways both big and small) to make the world a better place. If you know someone I should profile, let me know (maybe it’s you!?). You can see all of the profiles here.

Alexandra 1/28/21 Alexandra 1/28/21

Justin Dawes gets into necessary trouble

Justin Dawes and his longboard. | Photo: Kristine Jones

Justin Dawes, an activist and second-year student at New England Law | Boston (NELB), has been arrested once in the eight months since he co-founded D.C. Protests last summer. On August 14, 2020, he was taken into custody in the Adams Morgan neighborhood—but his arrest (along with most of the 40 others that night) was “no papered” the next day, meaning that the charges were dropped.

On January 8, a Boston news station erroneously reported that Dawes had also been arrested in the Capitol riots and charged with “assault on a police officer, crossing a police line, and resisting arrest.” He says he was nowhere near the Capitol on January 6; WHDH 7News issued a correction, but a few days after the siege, Dawes received a call from his school’s registrar. During a call that lasted just 53 seconds, Dawes was dismissed from his law program.

Although failing to disclose his August arrest was not the only reason cited for his dismissal, Dawes says that he was still waiting on two final grades when he was told he didn’t meet his program’s GPA requirement (which he says had been in flux due to the pandemic). Thanks to the support of a few of his teachers, Dawes is appealing the school’s decision, but as a result, he is unable to enroll in classes this spring and is looking at finishing his law degree elsewhere.

Getting arrested in the U.S. has never been a one-size-fits-all experience. It should be obvious by now to anyone paying attention that those who are white, or simply just white enough, often have drastically different encounters with law enforcement than those who are neither. The list of Black people who, by some combination of luck and skill, managed to not only survive, but to thrive after one or more arrests is painfully short.

A notable exception may be Congressman John Lewis, who was arrested at least 45 times during a long life devoted to activism. He served in the House of Representatives for decades and in the end, was admired for his rap sheet. But honors seldom make up for the horrors that precede them. Over a lifetime committed to what he called “good trouble,” Lewis was no stranger to the sting of tear gas. He nearly died when he was just 25; his skull was fractured by state troopers during what was supposed to be a peaceful march across the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama. He had the photos—and lifelong scars—to prove it.

In an Instagram post, Dawes writes: “It’s become the unfortunate reality that while fighting for Black futures, my own has been jeopardized by a lack of understanding and support from my law school.”

D.C. PROTESTS

A cloud of tear gas was still lingering just north of the White House on June 1, 2020, when Dawes and a few others co-founded D.C. Protests. He says he and his friends had been sitting in Lafayette Park when U.S. Park Police and National Guard troops began violently clearing the plaza in front of St. John’s Church ahead of Trump’s now-infamous Bible photo-op.

Dawes, who lived in Virginia at the time, had been surveying the protests while skating with friends around the Capitol. When chaos broke out around them in Lafayette Park, Dawes says it was his first time joining, and somewhat accidentally, leading a protest: “I didn’t know what to do so we just started marching.”

When someone asked the nascent group, “Who are you?” they made an Instagram page that same night—and a grassroots organization dedicated to “confronting the injustices that disproportionately affect Black and Brown communities” was born. The group grew quickly; they continue to march and organize mutual aid efforts with regularity—often co-led by Dawes threading through the crowd on his ever-present longboard.

D.C. Protests may have started with a flashbang, but their marches quickly became a Saturday staple. Meeting in Malcolm X Park (also known as Meridian Hill) in northwest D.C., the group marches for miles; the route varies, but their message does not: “You can’t reform the police,” Dawes says. “We just have too many cops.”

Angela Davis has said, “Prisons do not disappear social problems, they disappear human beings.” And while calling to “defund the police” has become a political hot potato, abolition is a well-researched and nuanced movement with real potential to create a more mutually beneficial society. Dawes says his group has tried to humanize the insidious evils of systematic racism while also stressing the importance of grassroots politics.

“Your mayor or city council person can do a lot more than you might think they can,” he says. “If we invest back into the community—into schools and education, where it counts—we won’t need the police.” Abolition may be a hard concept to grasp, but in theory, it would happen naturally if we properly allocated resources to the point where people can truly rely on one another—instead of on police departments that often have no real connection to the communities they serve.

Similar protests have played out in streets all across the country since last summer (and on and off for most of our country’s history). Dawes and others criss-cross through disparate communities—shutting down bridges, tunnels, and highways in the process—engaging with anyone who will listen (and perhaps, especially those who do not). Dawes says the group intentionally plans their itineraries to take them into high traffic areas. Georgetown, an affluent neighborhood popular for brunch and other weekend activities is a favorite. “We just try to get people to pay attention,” he says. “We’ve received mixed reactions—people either join the march or try to fight us.”

TACTICAL VESTS AND ARRESTS

The trench coat and backpack worn by Lewis on Bloody Sunday may have become iconic—but they didn’t offer much in the way of protection when he found himself on the receiving end of a nightstick. After just a few weeks of protesting, during which the police response became increasingly erratic and violent, Dawes began wearing a camouflage tactical vest.

Like most people I encounter during the countless Black Lives Matter and other protests I attend during the pandemic, Dawes’s nose and mouth is almost always covered with a grey, red, and white bandana emblazoned with jagged teeth—reminiscent of the painted nose of a WWII fighter plane. For a few weeks in the summer he wore an eye patch. And the longboard? “I’ve just always loved longboarding,” Dawes says. “Plus it’s an efficient mode of transportation.”

If it seems as if Dawes is dressed for war, it’s because he is: Almost immediately after forming D.C. Protests, “There were threats to our lives,” Dawes says. And Metropolitan Police Department (MPD) officers—whose slogan is “We are here to help”—seemed all too ready to deploy rubber bullets and tear gas on the non-violent protesters.

Far from helping, Dawes says, “The police have always made me feel unsafe.”

After George Floyd was killed by a police officer at the end of May—and D.C. Mayor Muriel Bowser designated the space between Lafayette Park and St. John’s Church as Black Lives Matter Plaza— “people were just always out,” Dawes says. But as interest in the protests grew, so did pushback from the city’s dozens of police departments. As time went on, the “police ramped up and got a lot more violent,” Dawes says. “You’d get shoved in the back of a protest if you weren’t moving fast enough—every month it would intensify.”

On the night of August 13 (and early into the morning of the 14th), Dawes says that tensions were particularly high. Police and protestors found themselves in a “huge cat-and-mouse game” that resulted in 41 arrests. D.C. Protests had begun to preface their weekly marches with a warning: “We told people to write the National Lawyer Guild’s number on their arm, explained how aggressive the police could be, and tried to tell people what to do and what not to do,” Dawes says.

Five months later, Dawes struggles to remember the exact details of the events leading to his arrest—only that it was chaos. He does remember the police, who regularly followed protesters through the streets, rushing forward into the crowd for seemingly no reason. They pushed surprised protesters out of the way, kettled others, and began making arrests. Eventually, Dawes says, someone told the crowd they were free to disperse; as he was running away, he was tackled and handcuffed. When he asked why he was being detained, the officer said he had crossed a police line—the same one that Dawes had just been told no longer existed.

‘SUCK IT UP’

On the Saturday immediately following the arrests, I am one of a large group of protestors departing the hilly park for a late afternoon march. Cleared of all charges and clutching a portable speaker, Dawes nimbly navigates a sea of moving bodies like a cat weaving through a crowded shelf: with confidence, precision, and only the occasional minor misstep. We’ve barely started down a steep hill when the group grinds to a halt. Dawes’s longboard has gone rogue; it rolls beneath several cars before nearly disappearing into a storm drain.

Several comrades spring into collective action and Dawes’s beloved board is spared the sewer. It’s the first time I see him smile. Seeing a smile in the summer of 2020 is rare; having a reason to smile might be even more so—especially, I suspect, for someone like Dawes: politically engaged, and not white.

Dawes says that when he got into some not-so-good trouble as a kid, his lawyer simply told him to “suck it up.” Looking around the courtroom packed with white people in positions of power, Dawes vowed to one day be the one giving—instead of receiving—legal guidance. “White people were making decisions for me and about my life,” he says. “I just really wanted to see someone in the legal field that looked like me.”

Like many others, Dawes was horrified by the graphic video of Floyd’s grisly murder. This was one instance where he would have preferred to see less representation; it wasn’t a big leap for Dawes to imagine himself in Floyd’s position. “Seeing someone like me die in the street was really scary to see,” he says. “We needed to be out there. I don’t want the next person to be me or be someone I know.”

When his classes at NELB went virtual due to the pandemic, Dawes says he was forced to reconsider how he was using his downtime. “When I got sent home from law school, I thought “I could be doing better things with my life.’”

MUTUAL AID

Although they were initially motivated by tragedies that captured national attention in 2020—including the murders of Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, and countless others—Dawes says they started D.C. Protests primarily as a way to keep the local community safe. As the summer progressed, they began to highlight local victims of police brutality or gun violence, creating memorials and incorporating candlelight vigils into their regular marches.

Emulating similar collectives such as They/Them, D.C. Protests began to support and expand upon existing mutual aid efforts around the city. In the beginning, Dawes says that the group would collect monetary donations, stop the march at a Whole Foods, and distribute whatever they could buy to communities in need. “We wanted to show people how easy mutual aid is,” he says.

Every Saturday, groups working under the umbrella of FTP Mutual Aid build and winterize tents for unhoused communities, cook, transport, and serve hot meals, and distribute donated supplies such as clothes, diapers, and other necessities. Dawes says that the mutual aid efforts have become especially important during the winter amid an ongoing pandemic; members of “communities that are overlooked and restricted by governmental red tape” have come to rely on the weekly pop-ups in Dupont Circle.

Mutual aid efforts in Dupont Circle. | Photos: Kristine Jones

In an open letter to NELB, Dawes writes that he himself “began facing housing insecurity at the onset of the fall semester. This not only altered my sense of stability, but also affected my access to stable internet connection in order to complete assignments and attend class. Despite this hardship, I remained determined and maintained a nearly perfect attendance record.”

When he reached out to the school for support, he says they “scoffed” at his problems.

“In such challenging and discouraging times, the administration’s solution should not be to turn its back on its students,” he writes. “I am of the opinion that compassion and an extension of trust and good faith would result in a prodigious class of noteworthy lawyers.”

Wherever he completes his degree, Dawes is still committed to fulfilling his childhood dream of becoming a noteworthy lawyer. Drawing upon his own experiences, Dawes says that he simply “wants to help people,” and intends to do so by practicing criminal defense law. Instead of being in conflict with each other, Dawes foresees his legal career informing his organizing work, and vice versa.

“You don’t have to know all of the ins and outs [of the system] to dismantle it, but it helps to be realistic,” he says.

Police block alt-right groups from Black Lives Matter Plaza in December 2020. | Photo: Kristine Jones

NECESSARY TROUBLE

For activists and other targets of alt-right fascist groups like the Proud Boys, the reality on the streets of D.C. had been grim long before the rest of the country was shocked into paying attention on January 6. When thousands of people descended on the District in mid-November, encouraged by Trump’s insistence that they “stop the steal,” anti-fascist groups were quickly outnumbered. The police—decked out in riot gear—mostly kept the opposing sides separate, but it was clear they had much more tolerance (and at times outright camaraderie) for one side over the other.

Before they threatened Congress, white supremacists had been targeting local activists for months; Dawes was not interested in a repeat of the night of November 14, when he says he was stabbed by a member of the Proud Boys.

Dawes says his only goal that day was “to keep everybody safe.” But after overhearing a group of Proud Boys say they intended to “go out hunting and clean up the streets,” he knew he was in for a long and potentially dangerous night. When a cop pointed to Dawes’s tactical vest and all but challenged him to go head to head with the domestic terrorists—some of whom were not-so-covertly armed with clubs, bear mace, and other weapons—Dawes once again found himself in the middle of chaos. He narrowly avoided being seriously injured when a knife was thrust into his vest by one of the alt-right agitators—several others weren’t as lucky.

A ‘Stop the Steal’ rally outside of the Capitol in November 2020. | Photo: Kristine Jones

Dawes says he was not at the Capitol on January 6; he was helping to coordinate transportation for others concerned they wouldn’t be able to get home safely that night. But he wasn’t surprised by the lack of police presence around the mostly-white mob. “They were older white men who used their privilege to storm the Capitol,” he says. “God forbid if any of us went anywhere near the Capitol steps—we’d be shot with live ammunition. Meanwhile men with weapons and zip ties used their power to do what they wanted and [most will likely] get away with it.”

Dawes cites precedent: in 2013, Miriam Carey, a Black woman, was shot to death by the Secret Service and U. S. Capitol Police after she made a U-turn at a White House checkpoint. A car chase took Carey to the Capitol and a nearby Senate office building where officers discharged 26 bullets, killing the 34-year-old while her 13-month-old daughter was in the car. Eight years later, the list of Black lives lost too soon—or ruined long before they even got a chance to begin—is painfully long.

While he sifts through the fallout from months of what Lewis might not call “good,” but certainly “necessary trouble,” there’s one thing Dawes isn’t going to do: stop fighting for Black futures, including his own. “We want to show people the circumstances of how these people died and how horrific it was,” he says. “If it happened to them and it happened to someone who looks like me, or my sister, or my brother, it can happen to anyone.”

This is a crucial moment in history; we have a real opportunity to rebuild and restructure our society to be more equal, more just, and more habitable for all. In an attempt to better understand what motivates and inspires fellow activists, I’m profiling people and how they’re trying (in ways both big and small) to make the world a better place. If you know someone I should profile, let me know (maybe it’s you!?). You can see all of the profiles here.

Alexandra 10/30/20 Alexandra 10/30/20

Nicky Sundt Jumps into fires

On July 9, 1978, Nicky Sundt joined a friend—and more than a hundred thousand self-identified feminists including Gloria Steinem, Betty Friedan, and Bella Abzug—at a march in Washington, D.C., calling for an extension of the deadline for ratification of the Equal Rights Amendment (ERA).

At the rally organized by the National Organization for Women, Steinem told the crowd that “the lawful and peaceful stage of our revolution may be over. It's up to the legislators. We can become radical, if they interfere with the ratification of the ERA, they will find every form of civil disobedience possible in every state of the country. We are the women our parents warned us about, and we're proud.”

In a photo from the march—the first of many to capture Sundt protesting in the streets—she stands tall, surrounded by dozens of people clad in suffragette white. Her fist is raised and she appears to be the only one in the crowd who is aware of the camera—if not the dress code. “I didn't get the memo that I was supposed to wear white,” Sundt says, laughing. “I showed up in a striped shirt that made me look like Waldo. Can you find me?”

Sundt at the 1978 ERA march in Washington, D.C. | Photo courtesy of Nicky Sundt

Nearly four decades later, Sundt still stands out—but she’s much more savvy about how and why. On January 21, 2017, she once again joined thousands of women on the streets of D.C. for the first Women’s March, the largest single-day protest in U.S. history. People from all around the world descended upon the District—and this time Sundt, who is transgender, joined them presenting publically as female for the first time.

Although she says that transitioning in her early 60s is scary, Sundt—a former smoke jumper who fought forest fires in the western U.S. for a decade—is not one to shrink under the weight of a stressful situation. “I thought I’m going to do it now,” she says. “I'm going to be there as a trans woman at that march because it just felt like this was the time to do it. I thought I should present as who I am, as opposed to what I'm supposed to be. It was hard. I wasn’t entirely ready yet, but I’m a late bloomer.”

PERENNIAL PROTESTER

The more I find out about Sundt, the more I would argue that the appropriate plant comparison might be a perennial: one that flowers over many different seasons during its lifetime. She was born in San Francisco; when Sundt was seven years old, her family moved to the Centre-Val de Loire region of France. After their parents divorced, she and her four siblings split their time between Europe and the U.S.

Her dad worked abroad as a computer systems analyst for the U.S. government. He was a big supporter of Pete Seeger, who was blacklisted—along with his group, The Weavers—during the McCarthy era. “As soon as I was old enough to reach the record player, I was listening to The Weavers,” Sundt says.

In the ‘60s, Seeger struck out on his own to become a fixture in the folk music scene, writing and recording songs in support of civil rights, environmental issues, and disarmament. “I think I probably got some of the temperament for protest from my dad—to my knowledge, he himself never protested but that’s where his heart was.”

Sundt says the roots of her environmental activism in particular can be traced to the time she spent as a teenager in suburban Georgia. “There was garbage everywhere—people would just throw their bottles out the window,” she says.”It was such a contrast for me to see how careless people could be.” In 1972, two years after the first-ever Earth Day, Sundt organized a large protest at her high school in Germany.

When she enrolled at the University of California, Berkeley, Sundt was able to combine her interests in the environment and international policy. She wrote her senior thesis on ozone depletion, and completed her graduate degree in a new energy and resources program started by then-27-year-old professor John Holdren.

Holdren eventually served as the senior advisor to President Obama on science and technology issues, and Sundt’s career trajectory has been no less impressive. In the late ‘80s and early ‘90s, she worked as an analyst for the U.S. Congressional Office of Technology Assessment, co-authoring several of the first official reports on climate change including Changing by Degrees: Steps To Reduce Greenhouse Gases.

Sundt says people were generally receptive to the science sounding the alarm on climate change—at least in the beginning. “There were people who took me seriously,” Sundt says. “On all of these big problems there’s always someone sounding the alarm—it’s the people in powerful positions who don’t listen.”

FIRE DRILL FRIDAYS

Hoping to attract the attention of at least some of those powerful people, Jane Fonda temporarily moved to D.C. at the end of 2019 and teamed up with Greenpeace to form Fire Drill Fridays. The weekly protests took place on Capitol Hill; frontline activists spoke about environmental justice, called for an end to all new fossil fuels, and pressed for the advancement of the Green New Deal.

Sundt, who lives near Lincoln Park, joined several of the Fire Drill Friday rallies and was arrested for civil disobedience three times. She spent time in police detention with Fonda, Ted Danson, Joaquin Phoenix, Martin Sheen, Catherine Keener, Rosanna Arquette, and hundreds of others, including myself. On December 20, Sundt found herself protesting alongside Steinem once again—albeit under different circumstances than the 1978 ERA march.

“I was next to Gloria Steinem as they read her Miranda rights,” Sundt says. “I asked her if she had been arrested before and she said ‘Oh yes, but it’s been a long time.’ I asked her how she ended up here, and she said ‘Oh well, Jane [Fonda] was at my house and she made me come.’”

Fonda, a notoriously persuasive and prolific activist with a history of championing LGBTQ issues, made a positive impression on Sundt—a feeling that appears to be mutual. At a post-protest dinner with fellow climate experts, Sundt says that Fonda immediately enveloped her in a big hug and they later shared a piece of carrot cake for dessert.

Not only was Sundt surrounded (and accepted) by the revolutionary women Steinem had been warned about—but now Sundt was officially one of them too. “The women were all amazing,” she says. “It was scary, I had never been arrested before—and now I have a police record. But I’m proud of it.”

WHERE THERE’S SMOKE

Sundt’s police record may be relatively short, but her resume is not. In the late ‘70s, Sundt started firefighting for the U.S. Forest Service; she is certified as a parachute rigger, squad boss, and tree faller. “It looked like a blast,” Sundt says of smoke jumping. “But it was absolutely terrifying. The first time I jumped, I forgot to do the roll and landed on my feet. My boss said ‘You should have broken both legs.’”

After a decade—and a few more injuries—Sundt decided it was time to hang up her parachute. She stayed in the District, wrote and edited several newsletters and magazines devoted to climate change, and worked as a communications director for the U.S. Global Change Research Program Coordination Office.

The first national climate assessment came out just as the Clinton/Gore administration was departing, which Sundt calls “really bad timing.” She says there were forces within, and outside of, the Bush/Cheney administration that wanted the climate assessment buried—but that she “found all sorts of creative ways to make it really hard for them to do that.” These so-called “gatekeepers” were censoring reports, altering scientific documents, and watering down the language to make climate change seem like a minor threat.

“Suddenly the powerful people recognized that this was no longer an academic issue or a science issue—that this couldn’t be confined to perpetual research any more and it was starting to pose a threat to their bottom line,” Sundt says.

Sundt, whose ex-wife works with infectious diseases, might joke that they raised their daughter in a “disaster household,” but her bottom line is pragmatic. “My approach is rooted in my own personal experience which is, if you’re focused on preventing stuff from happening, then you’re going to feel like you’re losing,” Sundt says. “Things are not getting better—climate change is permanent, the planet is going to continue warming, we’re going to see continued disruption, and the magnitude of these disruptions is going to grow.”

Sundt understands—both in her own life and in regards to the climate crisis—that you can’t turn back time. “The question is not ‘Can we get back to where we were?’ but ‘What are the alternative futures we can have?’” she says. “And the alternative futures are very different depending on what we do now.”

But one thing is certain: “You cannot have an unfettered energy industry and an effective climate policy,” Sundt says. “It requires massive government intervention in the energy market and there’s no way around it. The people who have the power to change things aren’t suffering the consequences of their actions and they don’t have to listen. They’re not even hearing you because you’re not in their orbit—but also they are choosing not to hear you, particularly given the implications.”

It’s been almost a decade since Sundt wrote an article published in the Huffington Post calling on politicians to “Wake up, smell the smoke, and act on climate change.” With each passing year—increasingly full of super storms, devastating wildfires, and rising temperatures—the implications of government inaction become more and more clear.

“Alas, many of our elected representatives in Washington are napping on the fireline,” Sundt wrote in 2012. “They need to wake up and smell the smoke. They need to take climate change seriously. They need to help Americans cope with the impacts we’re feeling now, and prepare for the impacts that will grow more disruptive in coming decades. And they need to reduce the risk of catastrophic consequences from climate change in the longer-term through policies that help us reduce our dependence on fossil fuels.”

NAPPING ON THE FIRELINE

In 2016, Sundt was napping on her own fireline: while working as the Director of Climate Science and Policy Integration for the World Wildlife Fund (WWF), she woke up and smelled smoke. Thanks in part to therapy, the internet, and the popularity of trans celebrites like Laverne Cox, Sundt finally realized that she was transgender.

When she was a kid, Sundt says she begged her mom to let her wear dresses. When her mom eventually acquiesced, Sundt recalls being ridiculed by her peers: “I realized this was not an experience I wanted to go through again.” In the early ‘90s, Sundt got married and started a family; she stopped fighting physical fires and started fighting mental ones.

“So many of us are forced to spend some portion of our life trying to be something that we’re not,” she says. “It’s so hard. We just did what we thought we were supposed to do and it creates all this stress. You think, ‘What’s wrong with me? Is this normal? Why am I feeling this way?’ You just kind of keep it to yourself.”

Sundt says she didn’t even know the word “transgender” existed until fairly recently. But once she did, “it was such a relief—realizing what you are—understanding yourself and then getting other people to accept you for what you are and being able to live that life,” she says. “I just thought ‘I can’t live my life as something else.’ I mean what a pity. What a wasted life if you can never actually be who you are. I thought, ‘I can’t live this way anymore. I can’t deprive myself of my identity.’”

Before she had even decided what her own alternative future would look like, Sundt helped change the WWF’s discriminatory insurance policy to cover transition-related expenses. “I just knew that I wasn’t going to hide it and that I was going to be an advocate for trans people, including myself,” she says. “It’s hard if you don’t fit—you’re left to make your own road map, which makes us stronger and more resilient. But, of course, I would have preferred not to have had to go through some of it.”

Because she started her transition later in life, Sundt realizes that she “just can’t pass for a lot of people, but that’s OK,” she says. “I’m trans, and that’s what I am. I’m not trying to be anything else. I’m just a trans person. I want to present the way I feel, but I don't want to change for other people.”

THE ‘WORST POSSIBLE THING’

Sundt left the WWF in the midst of her transition, hoping that her first job presenting as female would be within the Hillary Clinton administration. Then of course on November 9, 2016, “the worst possible thing happened.” During the campaign season, trans people had become a hot button issue for Republicans. “They were using us to stir up their base,” Sundt says. “We became like flag burning or prayer in the schools or abortion—it was now ‘trans people are in your bathrooms!’”

Sundt tried to channel her energy positively while working with trans groups and candidates—and into the streets. She estimates that since Trump took office she’s been to more protests in the last four years than in her previous 60. “I think that for all the negative stuff that Trump has done, he has done a lot to galvanize groups to act,” Sundt says.

Although Sundt says she was taught by her parents to care about people, she admits that “it’s so much easier to tear things apart than to build things.” As she watched the Trump administration ignoring or actively dismantling so much of the climate policy she had helped create over the years, Sundt felt largely powerless. Living in D.C. without proper representation in Congress limited her options further. “It just seemed like street protests were one of the few things we could do,” she says.

She says that doing so as a woman has been eye-opening in a lot of ways she didn’t expect. “You start seeing patterns of behavior that were invisible to you before,” Sundt says. “I’ve become more sensitive to the different perspectives that people have depending on their race, their religion, their ethnicity—all of those things can make people see the world very differently.”

But Sundt knows instinctively that no matter how stark our differences, meaningful change can only be achieved by focusing on what connects—not divides—us. “We have to sew these different movements together into a coalition that deals with a whole range of concerns,” she says. “If we’re all pushing and pulling in different directions, we’re too easy to defeat. We need to unite, we need to focus and accept that maybe our issue is not going to the top one this time.”

In her own life, Sundt tries to practice what she preaches. She says she tries to be a “good ambassador” for the trans community and prefers not to scold people who may misgender her. She encourages people to ask her questions, and tries to be cognizant of the times when she should speak out, or step back and let others have the spotlight.

“I believe strongly in the power of example and trying to find a positive way forward, not letting fear dominate what you do, and in being generous,” she says. “When I go to a protest I try not to be angry, I try to make people laugh. You can have a good time and also change the world while you’re doing it—we can all be happy warriors.”

HAPPY WARRIORS

The idea of a “happy warrior” may seem contradictory, but Sundt sees no reason why social justice can’t be served with a smile. Her statement earrings and colorful leggings make her easy to spot on daily bike rides or while she’s walking her dog, Blue, around Capitol Hill. During the past few months she passed out coupons to friends, each redeemable for a free hug once the pandemic is over. When she went to the police station to post bail after her third arrest with Fire Drill Fridays, Sundt brought along a ‘Get out of jail, free” card from Monopoly. She asked the officers “Is this good here?” (they said no). At the most recent Women’s March, Sundt wore a feathered face mask and carried a sign adorned with tombstones that read “Scare ‘em on Halloween. Bury ‘em on election day.”

Whether or not she has always embraced it, Sundt knows that she wasn’t made to blend in. Drawing on her strengths as a communicator, Sundt crafts simple and evocative protest signs; she knows how to position herself in front of a camera (or climb a light pole) and knows how to provide journalists with the perfect protest visual. When Sundt got arrested with Danson and Fonda, her dad called her from France; he had seen her photo in a local paper.

“To me, there’s no point in making a sign if the only people who see it are the people at the protest,” she says. “You want to entertain people and make them laugh but ultimately what you really want is for your message to be broadcast everywhere.”

She may smile—or even sparkle—while she says it, but Sundt has always been serious about the climate crisis: “We no longer have the luxury of time,” she warns. “We need to disempower these people who are standing in the way so the rest of us can get things done. That means voting, knowing what your representatives are doing, putting pressure on them to do what they need to do, and keeping white nationalists, climate deniers, out of our politics so we can get shit done because we’re out of time. We are fucking out of time.”

As such, she sees this election as a “framing event,” something so monumental that it shakes people to their core. “These opportunities don’t come that often and you have to be ready for them,” she says. “But if you’re ready for them—and you take advantage of them—you can get lasting change.” After taking four years off from focusing on her career, Sundt is ready to go back to work—hopefully in the Biden/Harris administration, she says.

But no matter what happens on November 3 and beyond, Sundt says she’s not yet ready to retire; there are simply too many ideological fires that need to be fought. And she knows better than anyone that whether you’re dealing with climate change—or questioning your identity—sooner or later the time comes when you have to stop napping, wake up, and jump into the fire.

“It’s never too late to start,” Sundt says. “You can make a difference. Every movement has started with a small group of people and sometimes they take off and sometimes they don’t. But you don’t want to look back on this period and say—if you’re talking to your grandkids or just to yourself—‘I didn’t do anything. I didn’t do what I could have done.’ So do what you can, when you can, and how you can. There’s always something that people can do.”

This is a crucial moment in history; we have a real opportunity to rebuild and restructure our society to be more equal, more just, and more habitable for all. In an attempt to better understand what motivates and inspires fellow activists, I’m profiling people and how they’re trying (in ways both big and small) to make the world a better place. If you know someone I should profile, let me know (maybe it’s you!?). You can see all of the profiles here.

Alexandra 9/4/20 Alexandra 9/4/20

Aaron Covington plays to win

Covington at the MLK Memorial. | Photo: Kristine Jones

Aaron Covington is in it to win it. ‘It’ could refer to almost anything upon which the St. Louis native trains his technical mind, including building robots and computers, running the 400-meter dash in 45.5 seconds, or leading thousands into the streets as the co-founder of His Mission Organization. If protesting was a sport, Covington would no doubt qualify for the Olympics— something he was poised to do in track and field until he injured his leg. Covington’s injury may have ended his chances at going for the gold, but luckily it didn’t crush all of his Olympic-sized dreams.

Today, he may not be able to run as much, or as fast, as he used to, but you wouldn’t know it if you happen to catch a glimpse of him—with his fist raised and shirt off—in the streets or on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Covington has a runner’s physique and still looks fast, even if recently, it’s not his legs, but his mind and mouth that are running a mile a minute.

In 2015, Covington was attending Morgan State University in Baltimore on a track scholarship when Freddie Gray died of injuries sustained while in police custody. Covington says he and a friend “just wanted to find out what was going on,” and ended up joining their first-ever protest. Five years later, he took a similar approach when the streets of Washington, D.C. sprung to life in the days following George Floyd’s brutal death. On the night of May 30, Covington and four of his friends were looking for an established group to join, but found that as they marched, others began to fall in line behind them.

Covington speaking to a crowd. | Photo: Kristine Jones

“Our intentions were just to come out and be part of the crowd,” Covington says. “The five of us weren’t trying to do anything but join a march and we became a march.”

Covington admits that he was living a “party lifestyle” earlier this year, but Floyd’s death and the resulting demonstrations across the country jolted him back into fighting shape. “Everything is different now,” he says. “In the past two months my life has changed completely.”

But as any athlete knows, the road to victory is littered with both physical and spiritual hurdles—and the path to justice is much longer than the 400-meter dash. “The first time I went out and marched, I threw up 36 times,” Covington says. “I was purging my system of all the impurities. All the negativity inside me was literally coming out. But now every time I march, I can yell a little louder, I can go a little farther.”

MAKING IT WORK

Covington grew up in Missouri and North Carolina, but he just recently moved back to the D.C. area for a job, or rather he says, for three. He works in IT for an independent federal agency, is a lead commentator for all-black owned Combat Championship Wrestling (C3W), and leads protests. The last of which, despite what some may claim, is an unpaid passion project—but one that Covington takes as seriously as his full- and part-time jobs.

He recognizes that his unique CV might raise some eyebrows or appear to create a conflict of interest(s). “People say ‘You work for the government and you’re protesting?’” Covington says. “But I can do both. I’m going to fix your computer and become friends with you and then hopefully we can have a conversation.”

Covington has a way with words that goes against everything you might expect from a self-described “tech guy,” but his brain—both the creative right, and analytical left side—seems to have always fired on all cylinders. Growing up, he sang in the choir and played drums at his grandfather’s church. It was hard to hold his attention in school and he got kicked out of band after quickly mastering—and growing bored of—the three keys on his trumpet. He says he got into trouble until a prescient teacher encouraged him to learn about computers. “He said ‘If you can build a computer, I’ll let you take it home,’” Covington says. “I was sold from there. He changed my life.”

Covington wears knee pads so he can take a knee during marches. | Photo: Kristine Jones

Luckily, his hands are just as agile as his feet and Covington says he enjoys “troubleshooting and fixing things that other people don’t like to touch,” such as fragile LED screens or complicated battery swaps. “It makes me valuable,” he says. “And not many people that look like me get jobs in IT.”

Despite the contradictions, Covington slips effortlessly between his roles as both a professional and a protestor. He seems equally at ease in a collared shirt and oxfords as he does in a Black Lives Matter t-shirt and sneakers. One of his t-shirts features the phrase “Make America great” which has been altered to read “Make us equal.”

Covington may have a competitive streak, but he thinks the fight for equality is a team sport—more about the race than anyone’s particular race. “We’re all on the same team, we’re all fighting together,” he says. “I’m going to pass the baton because we have to beat these jokers to get to where we want to go. Do you want to build toward a common cause or do you want to be stuck in a rut? If you’re just thinking about yourself, you’re stuck. That’s the small picture. I tell people to look at the big picture.”

Although he acknowledges the importance of insisting that Black lives matter, Covington says it’s important that a lot of the people that march alongside and behind him are not Black. “We all want the same things,” Covington says. “If you ask someone who is racist ‘Why don’t you like Black people?’ They can’t even give you an answer anymore. They say, ‘We don’t even know why—it’s what we were told, it’s how we grew up.’”

Covington credits his own diverse family with showing him how equality is possible on a larger, global scale. His grandfather was Black and his grandmother is white. “If we can make it happen, everybody else can make it work,” Covington says. “We love each other equally so I know it can happen.”

THE HEART OF THE COUNTRY

Like many Americans, Covington first came to D.C. on an eighth grade field trip. “It was the biggest deal ever,” he says. “I was the only person in my family who got a chance to go. I said ‘I’m moving to D.C. one day,’ but didn’t think I’d ever actually get a chance.”

Now that his chance has arrived, he doesn’t intend to waste it. Since the end of May, Covington, Antonio Mingo, and the other members of His Mission have led several marches through the District, drawing thousands of people—including Covington’s parents. He says his dad and stepmom had a rocky relationship but reconnected after participating in a recent protest.

“Anything can happen,” Covington says. “It’s hard to explain the feeling that you get in D.C. specifically. D.C. is the heart of our country. As soon as we stepped on the streets it was electric. With every step I took, I believed even more that we could really get change. If we change the heart, the rest of the country will follow.”

Covington bowing his head in prayer before a march.

Covington may be good at seeing the big picture, but he also recognizes the value in fostering small, individual connections. At every march, Covington and Mingo stop periodically to take a knee—both frequently wear knee pads—and Covington encourages people to exchange their name with the person to their left, and tell the person to their right that they love them. It’s a simple gesture—likely inspired by both men’s spiritual upbringings—but one that’s surprisingly effective.

“It’s one thing to hear ‘I love you’ come from a family member,” Covington says. “But if a stranger tells me and it’s genuine, that hits different. I say at the end of marches ‘Now, we’re family.’ That’s how we become brothers and sisters and protect each other.”

But after three non-stop months, Covington is looking to turn the momentum generated by marches into real, structural change. “We’re going to get away from marching,” he says. “There’s something that you’re going to get in marching that you’re not going to get in any other aspect of protesting. But we also need to be having conversations with people who are in positions of power. It might feel like you can’t access these people because of their title, but you can access these people because of their title. They’re working for you.”

President Covington. | Photo: Kristine Jones

WANTING CHANGE

If you sit anywhere near the National Mall for long enough, the conversation will inevitably turn to politics. It’s about two hours after he steps out of the reflecting pool before I ask Covington if he has aspirations to run for office in the future. His answer comes in less than two seconds: “Oh I'm going to run for president,” he says. “I don’t want to, but I’m going to run. I would seriously fight for change and want equality for everybody. I would handle things differently than any other president has. I want everybody to succeed. I would set the country up for success.”

Covington says his father never got a chance to say “I’m proud to be an American” until Barack Obama was elected in 2008—but he hopes by following his father’s advice to “keep a good name and lead by example,” that he’ll have the chance to similarly inspire other people.

“There is an American Dream that exists, it’s just not the same dream for everybody,” Covington says. “I’m not saying I’m going to be your MLK. I’m not saying I’m going to be your Malcolm X. I’m not going to say I’m an activist or a demonstrator—I’m just a person out here who wants change and I’m sick of talking about the same thing over and over again.”

Covington says he’s not trying to be the next MLK. | Photo: Kristine Jones

He may have struggled to find his footing in high school, but Covington has become a diligent student who repeatedly stresses the importance of “doing your own research.” Since assuming a leadership role, he has studied similar movements and leaders throughout history, intent to not repeat their mistakes.

While he strikes a pose under the granite gaze of MLK Jr.—whose extramarital affairs still cast a long shadow on his reputation—Covington says he’s “100% single,” and immediately produces photos of a Shiba Inu named Castiel, who he alternately calls “my handsome young man,” and “my son.”

On August 28, five days after he celebrated his 27th birthday, Covington got a chance to talk with MLK’s granddaughter Yolanda, his son, Martin Luther King III, and Reverend Al Sharpton at the Commitment March on Washington. Sharpton told Covington and his friends, “I’ve been watching you guys, keep up the good work.”

Covington and Mingo at the March on Washington. | Photo: Kristine Jones

FIST UP

I’ve joined several marches led by Covington and I can confirm that he is indeed doing good work—and it’s working. Everyone wants to join the winning team and Covington’s commitment is contagious. Although he’s used to pushing past them, Covington recognizes that there are limits to his influence.

“You can’t force someone to agree with you,” he says. “I’m going to tell you what I believe is right but I’ll never tell you what’s wrong. I want you to draw your own conclusions. I tell people ’I’m not trying to change you, I’m trying to change the way you think.’” Covington frequently shakes hands with receptive police officers and encourages them to join him in taking a knee. He understands the motivations behind so-called “riots” and “looting,” but tries to keep his protests civil. He likens aggressive, headline-grabbing moments to “bugs on a TV screen,” and once again says how important it is to focus on the big picture and remain open to new ideas.

“If you’re not teachable, you can’t teach anybody else,” Covington says. “You have to be able to sit down and learn from somebody else before you can give to anybody else. And don’t start chanting something if you can’t bring me a solution afterwards.”

Covington in the reflecting pool. | Photo: Kristine Jones

Although it was a physical setback that forced Covington to reevaluate his life goals, “It’s all about this up here,” he says, pointing to his head. “It’s a mental game. If you get this right, your legs will take you the rest of the way.” He’s talking about running track, of course, but I suspect he feels the same about protesting. When I ask him what he would say to those looking to get involved, it’s no surprise that his advice could apply to those looking for a physical transformation as well as a spiritual one.

“Just take that first step,” Covington says. “I walked outside, stuck my fist up, and started walking. And people fell in line. I didn’t come back the same way I left—I came back with power. I came back with people. I went down the street as an individual, but I came back with unity.”

This is a crucial moment in history; we have a real opportunity to rebuild and restructure our society to be more equal, more just, and more habitable for all. In an attempt to better understand what motivates and inspires fellow activists, I’m profiling people and how they’re trying (in ways both big and small) to make the world a better place. If you know someone I should profile, let me know (maybe it’s you!?). You can see all of the profiles here.

Alexandra 7/31/20 Alexandra 7/31/20

Antonio Mingo is moved by spirit

Antonio Mingo outside of the Lincoln Memorial. | Photo: Kristine Jones

In 2018, Makiyah Wilson went to buy ice cream when multiple shots were fired in the Washington, D.C. neighborhood where she lived. Wilson was struck and killed; she was just ten years old. Shortly after her tragic death, Wilson’s uncle marched more than 100 miles on foot from D.C. to Philadelphia, and in 2019 he did it again. The second time, he was joined by others who felt moved to make the pilgrimage in honor of Wilson’s too-short life, including D.C. native and co-founder of His Mission Organization, Antonio Mingo.

Mingo has two children of his own—including a daughter the same age as Wilson—but he has always felt a deep need to call out injustice no matter who it touches. When he tells me that he’s a passionate person, I believe him—not only because he repeatedly insists “I cannot tell a lie,” but because over the past two months, I have witnessed his passion, and its lasting impact, firsthand.

Mingo in front of a crowd at the Lincoln Memorial.

My first encounter with Mingo is as a spectator. Moved by the protests spreading across the country demanding justice for George Floyd, I somewhat impulsively decided to drive to D.C. for a weekend in early June. It’s blazingly hot and bright when I first catch sight of Mingo, who is speaking into a megaphone to a large crowd assembled on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and beyond. Maybe it’s a trick of the midday sun or maybe it’s the sense of “spirit” that Mingo repeatedly claims to be compelled by—whatever it is, I swear he is almost glowing.

Mingo is wearing a black t-shirt printed with the now-ubiquitous words “Black Lives Matter.” The white letters are formed from an ever-growing list of names, each representing a Black life lost too soon. A homemade purple face mask hangs around his chin and a tattoo on his right forearm brands him as a “Miracle Child.” His speech—in which he recounts marching for Wilson until he was rushed to the hospital outside of Baltimore because of a leg injury—moves me to tears (nothing short of a small miracle in itself).

Later, when I ask him about the inspiration behind his most prominent tattoo, Mingo explains: “It’s because I’m still here—as in living life and breathing despite a lot of life obstacles—and I’m a child of God. It just let’s me know that I'm not done yet.”

MOVED TO MARCH

Not only is he not done, but I’m surprised to learn that Mingo is just getting started. Although, despite his claim that he “doesn’t have much experience” with activism, that’s not entirely true. In addition to the Wilson march, he has always been active in community outreach programs; he works with people who are homeless, and has planned backpack drives for children. But it wasn’t until the George Floyd video sparked a wave of protests that Mingo took to the streets in the more traditional sense.

“I turned the news on and I’m seeing people with signs and it was just an impulse,” Mingo says. “I’m very obedient with God and I felt like he just told me to move.” Running on adrenaline and feeling a pull from deep within, he jumped on the Metro and headed straight to the heart of a spontaneous protest that had sprung up on U Street. “I just planned on being an observer,” Mingo says. “And then, not only am I a part of the march, but I get pushed to the front. It was shocking to me because I had never before in my life done anything like this.”

Nearly two months later, Mingo has led dozens of marches and has been out in the streets almost every day and night since. Hundreds of people, myself included, have followed him over highways, bridges, and rivers; past monuments, buildings, and neighborhoods erected (or devastated) by a system he is hoping he can help change. He has organized candlelight vigils for Davon McNeal, another D.C. child who was shot and killed recently, collected money to buy a basketball hoop for Black Lives Matter Plaza, and continued his outreach efforts with the District’s growing homeless population. The protests may be receiving less and less media attention, but Mingo is not going anywhere.

“The main thing is consistency,” he says. “With this protesting stuff, you’ve gotta be consistent. Yeah, we’ve got some hot days—but they’re still making some messed up laws. Yeah it’s hot, but the police are still killing—they don’t care about the temperature and neither should we. We should be protesting every single day if need be.”

Not everyone may be blessed with Mingo’s seemingly bottomless energy, but he repeatedly insists that there is “strength in numbers,” and he’s quick to downplay his individual contributions to the movement. “I don’t want people to get so strung up on me,” Mingo says. “I know I may motivate people but other people have it too. I’m not perfect—I have flaws, I make mistakes all the time.”

Mingo, luckily, has more than a little help from his friends. He formed His Mission Organization with St. Louis native Aaron Covington and others, all of whom he met recently while out protesting. They’ve been planning marches via conference calls, but Mingo isn’t a big fan of turning protests into ticketed or “must-do” events, preferring the type of spur-of-the-moment gatherings that first inspired him to take action. Mingo says he’s also had to be more careful about the routes or actions he suggests—because he’s still surprised to find that (to paraphrase Carole King) where he leads, others will follow. “I joked about shutting down the highway the first night,” Mingo says. “People said ‘So we’re going to do the highway? We’re following you.’”

Despite the well-deserved attention, Mingo says he’s careful not to appear as if he’s “clout chasing,” his term for the type of performative activism that results in an Instagram photo and not much else. “All those people that were here when this first started—where are they now?” he asks. “They only want to come out when there’s an event planned on a Saturday. But we’re still battling every single day.”

While he acknowledges that not everyone can devote themselves wholly to a cause, he views protesting as more of a relay race than a solo sprint. “If I can’t do a march today, then whoever else is a leader—or claims to be—you should be doing a march that day. Then I can pick back up—it should be a rotation. I don’t expect any organizer to do a march every single day but it should be passed on.”

But Mingo knows that it’s not easy to maintain momentum; he even likens the constant stress of protesting to “going to war.” He’s been shot at with rubber bullets, tear gassed, and watched as fellow activists struggled with the debilitating side effects of PTSD. Urged to rest by friends and family members who care deeply about him, Mingo says he’s been more mindful lately of taking time for himself. “But we’re used to working hard,” he says, referring both to his family and his Black ancestors in general. “We’re no stranger to labor. I could go home right now and turn on the news and something else has happened. I’d feel guilty, thinking I should have been out there, I probably could have stopped it. It’s like trying to be a superhero in a way.”

A SENSE OF HOPE

Although he spends most of his time around the two-block-long section of 16th Street NW recently renamed Black Lives Matter (BLM) Plaza, Mingo is skeptical about D.C. Mayor Muriel Bowser’s commitment to real, structural change. Just a few weeks after creating a de facto hub for the growing movement, confrontations on the plaza between largely peaceful demonstrators and the police have grown increasingly violent—and occur seemingly at random.

Medical supplies, tents, and food stations have been raided and trashed, t-shirt vendors were banished (and threatened with hefty fines), and depending on the time of day—or officers on duty—something as simple as jaywalking could suddenly be deemed an arrestable offense. “BLM brought people back a sense of hope—which is a good thing,” Mingo says. “But a lot of these people are homeless themselves and they’re still finding ways to give. Having their stuff thrown away? That’s just pure evilness. That’s not how I was raised.”

It may seem like destiny to those that believe in such a thing, but no one is as surprised at how quickly and easily he’s slipped on the proverbial superhero cape than Mingo himself. “Back in high school, I didn’t like bullies or anything that dealt with injustice,” he says. “I just like to stand for what’s right. It’s second nature to me—an impulse.” Although he says he never thought of himself as a leader, now that he’s seen that way by others, he says he’s up to the challenge. “It’s a badge of responsibility if people are putting their faith into marching with me,” Mingo says. “It’s my job to protect them as much as I can.”

Mingo at Black Lives Matter Plaza. | Photo: Kristine Jones

I don’t believe in the idea of ‘God,’ at least not in the traditional sense, but I’ve put my faith fully in Mingo during several marches since I first stood in awe of him at the Lincoln Memorial—and it’s hard to deny that the ‘miracle child’ seems to have been destined to motivate and inspire others.

Mingo’s great-grandfather was a 33rd degree Mason and his dad is a marine veteran. “I have a structured background,” Mingo says. “But I don’t agree with any of it. I’m not a fan of the government because I know that they’re not for us—from the city officials on up. You’ll catch them out here at a march trying to get a photo-op to further their campaign but they’re not really here for the people.”

The women in his family may have assumed less traditional leadership positions—his grandmother works for the Census Bureau and his mother raised Mingo and his siblings as a single mother—but they were no less influential in Mingo’s life. He says supporting women is crucial in maintaining the soul (and shear numbers) of any movement. “Women are already strong by themselves,” Mingo says. “But we have to keep building them up.”

Although he “didn’t worry much as a kid,” Mingo says that when he entered his teens, he came to expect police harassment as a simple fact of life. “We were terrified then but it wasn’t ‘Will we get shot or killed?’ it was more like ‘Ok, we might get beat with a nightstick or something.’ That doesn’t make it any better, but today it’s really out of hand.”

On July 4th weekend, 11-year-old Devon McNeal went to fetch a phone charger from his apartment complex in Southeast D.C. when he was shot and killed by a stray bullet. A few days later, Mingo worked with McNeal’s family to organize a march from BLM to the Anacostia neighborhood where the boy lived and died. I joined that march, which stretched over several hours and continued well into the night. The group started small but grew along the way—people are drawn to Mingo like a protest Pied Piper, who is not only a compelling speaker, but a magnetic frontman. It’s nearly impossible to not feel something when you’re in his presence; at one point, our small group stopped traffic on a highway and I found myself linking arms with people I had met less than an hour before, in a tense standoff with a line of cars. Mingo, first raised high above his head, paced back and forth, weaving in and out of traffic like a lion in a cage.

When we stopped for a candlelight vigil in front of the Frederick Douglass National Historic Site, a larger group joined us and we marched through the neighborhood, shouting “Black kids lives matter,” and calling for information on McNeal’s killers. “It broke my heart,” Mingo says. “At the vigil, a mother was out there with her son. She said ‘My son was terrified because he saw the police lights’ and he told her “Mommy, I don’t want to get shot.’”

A few weeks earlier, Mingo brought his 10-year-old daughter, Jaidyn, to a march he planned for Father’s Day. The more than six-mile, midday march was grueling, but Jaidyn is clearly her father’s daughter. It was her first protest, and she’s already asking to do more—but Mingo is fiercely protective and reluctant to put her in a situation that might turn dangerous. “I felt the atmosphere out on that one but I’m still cautious because in a split second something can happen,” he says. Both of his children currently live in Maryland with their mother, but Mingo says they’re in near-constant contact—and the worry goes both ways. “Jaidyn watches the news—she knows what’s going on—and she’s constantly checking up on me,” he says.

Last year, Mingo himself was arrested in Maryland and spent five days in 24-hour lockdown—for something he didn’t do. Months later, he is still paying down his debt to a bail bondsman for a crime that everyone—including the judge and attorneys—agreed he never committed. Still, Mingo says, “It could be worse.” His own mom agrees. When I ask how his family views his recent foray into activism, Mingo says, “They’re proud and happy.” But his mother has mixed emotions. “She’s happy, she’s proud—but also terrified,” he says. “She always says, ‘I don’t want you to be another hashtag.’”

Leading a Father’s Day march through the tunnel.

PEACEFUL PROTESTS

Maybe it’s God or maybe it’s just luck, but thankfully Mingo has so far managed to avoid the grim fate of so many people like him, whose only “crime” is to be Black in America. Despite the constant awareness that comes from living within a system that is actively working against you, Mingo has shown remarkable restraint in his interactions with police officers. “I don’t have a beef with the police, personally,” he says. “In general I don’t like them, but if the officer is showing me respect, I'm going to treat him with respect back. But if that officer pulls out their gun or tear gas then yeah, we’re gonna have a problem because now you’re trying to instill fear in me. I’m unarmed. There’s no reason for you to do any of that.”

While some may argue that the act of protesting can never truly be peaceful, Mingo’s philosophy on non-violence is backed by a long history punctuated by leaders to which he has inevitably drawn comparisons. But even Mingo admits that a commitment to non-violence has its limits. “If you have a bully that keeps bothering you, keeps poking at you, you’re soon not going to be peaceful anymore,” he says. “That’s what we’re dealing with right now.”

Mingo leading the Father’s Day march with his daughter Jaidyn.

The star-spangled elephant in the room—or the “bully” to which Mingo repeatedly refers—is, of course, Donald Trump. Mingo sees an obvious link between the Mayor Bowser and Trump standoff, and the so-called riots and looting that occurred early in June: “When the head is out of order, so does the body follow,” Mingo says. “People in high positions—law makers, specifically—if they’re not respecting each other or the laws that they are making, how do they expect the people to respect them? This is why you’re getting riots and looting. People are not doing it for no reason. We’re fed up.”

Mingo recently attempted to keep the peace at Lincoln Park when a rally concerning the fate of the park’s polarizing Emancipation Memorial quickly devolved into a shouting match. Although he usually finds himself behind the megaphone, Mingo tries to encourage conversations over confrontations, whenever possible: “As the saying goes, ‘God gave us two ears and one mouth so we would listen more and speak less.’” Incidentally, Mingo is on the side of those calling for the statue’s removal, but he’s wary of anyone who wants to do it in a destructive way—especially after Trump issued an Executive Order calling for the extreme punishment of anyone caught doing so. “Yes, it needs to come down,” Mingo says. “But the right way.”

UNCONDITIONAL FAITH

A few weeks after I first hear Mingo speak, we’re once again at the Lincoln Memorial. The day is just as hot and sunny, but this time we’re sitting in the comfortable shadows of the monument’s massive marble columns—and in the figurative shadows of everyone who has stood on the historic steps nearby to give similarly stirring speeches. Martin Luther King Jr. delivered his famous “I Have a Dream” speech just a few hundred feet from where we’re sitting. But it’s another speaker from the 1963 March on Washington who is on my mind while I chat with Mingo. John Lewis, who visited BLM Plaza just a few weeks before he died on July 17, once said, “Our struggle is a struggle to redeem the soul of America. It’s not a struggle that lasts for a few days, a few weeks, a few months, or a few years. It is the struggle of a lifetime, more than one lifetime.”

Mingo—who cites Lewis, along with Malcolm X, Black Panther co-founder Huey P. Newton, and the rapper T. I. as important influences—also understands that the fight for justice has no beginning or end. “A lot of people are trying to put time limits or days on it saying ‘We’re going to end it when …’ but I say, ‘No, what we’re doing it for has not been accomplished yet. I’m 30 now and I could look up and be 50 and still be out here marching.”

If the ‘miracle child’ tattoo doesn’t make it obvious, Mingo is undeniably a man of faith. He attended a Bible college in Lancaster, Pennsylvania and studied youth pastoral ministry. He says he does a lot of writing and thinking before his speeches, but in the end, he simply let’s the spirit flow through him. “I ask God to ‘put the words in my mouth that I may not have or may not know’ and then I just face the day,” Mingo says. “He hasn’t failed me yet. I’m just a vessel that God chose to use. I don’t want him to have to take his hands off my life and say ‘You’re out here for the wrong reasons so I’m going to let the enemy have his way.’ That’s probably my only fear in life. I don’t want to face God with that.”

I can attest that listening to Mingo speak is nothing short of a spiritual experience, but unlike the mega-church from which he recently severed ties, all are welcome to worship beneath the powerful, perpetually-raised fist of Mingo. “I’m for any and all people who are on the right side,” Mingo says. “I don’t care about your sexuality, your race, your religious beliefs. When God looks at everybody, he looks at the intentions of the heart. That’s it. I’ve never known a heart to be black or white. A heart’s a heart.”

It can be difficult to maintain one’s faith in normal times, and no one would fault Mingo for buckling under the overlapping sorrows of 2020. But faith is more important now than ever, he says, and should never be conditional. “Faith is probably when you’re scared the most. Walk by faith, not by sight. We’re more scared of things we don’t know. We don’t know how long this will last. Evil never wins—it might feel like it is winning right now. But it never wins because God always has the last say so. God made life simple for us. Man made life complicated.”

Mingo, who usually wears a t-shirt, jeans, immaculate sneakers, and a rotating selection of statement face masks, is in many ways, a perfect representation of our current reality. He lost his job due to the pandemic, and is about to start working nights at an Amazon warehouse. Once again, Mingo has every reason to be angry and despondent; he thinks it’s no accident that people have reached a breaking point now—and he says that unfortunately, sometimes it takes a personal tragedy to light a fire under people who wouldn’t have otherwise cared. “God is exposing the truth on a lot of things that have been kicked under the rug,” Mingo says. “It’s like the rug has been lifted up now and a lot of things are coming out now. People are losing jobs, they’re out of work. The pandemic has everyone’s attention. It really exposed people’s insecurities in their own lives.”

He knows that the issues he’s fighting for are not new, but says that people do seem to be more receptive to having more meaningful conversations about them. “These are the same problems we’ve been having—police killing did not just start—but it hit differently with the pandemic,” Mingo says. “People can’t claim anymore that they’re so busy that they’re not paying attention. You’re not busy, it’s in your face, so what are you going to do? You could be next.”

BLACK LIVES MATTER

For Mingo, simply acknowledging that Black lives matter is the starting gun—not the finish line. “It’s not even about race anymore,” he says. “It’s about what’s right and what’s wrong. I’ve seen some white people, Spanish-speaking people, LGBTQ people going hard for us—because we’re all dealing with the same thing. I feel like all people should have a voice.”

While being a Black man in the U.S. comes with its own unique set of challenges, Mingo recognizes that he has privileges as well—but, as MLK Jr. said, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”

“I don’t know how it feels to be transgender,” Mingo says. “But I think I know how it feels in general because they feel mistreated. Immigrants came over here trying to create a better life for their family and now they’re trying to send them back over the border. I don’t know how that feels but I may have an idea because they feel mistreated. Black people are being killed by the police. I don’t know how that feels because I’m not dead—thank God—but that’s the common thread. Feeling mistreated.”

Mingo stops short of using the now-incendiary phrase “All Lives Matter,” but he does insist, “I’m here for everybody. Yes Black lives do matter. But at the same time everybody matters.”

While I agree with Mingo, I also can’t help but think that not everybody can—or should—follow exactly in his sneaker-clad footsteps. But that’s the good thing about mass movements, there’s a place for everyone—and clearly Mingo belongs at the front of the crowd.

Mingo, who also has a budding music career, may always be in constant conflict with his impulse to lead and his fear that his ego may unintentionally eclipse his higher purpose. But he’s actively working to make sure he remains focused and in service of others, and, of course, God. “I don’t think I’m bigger than anybody—I don’t think I’m doing a better job than anybody,” he says. “I like coming together with others. Maybe you can give me a different outlook on something that I didn’t think about. But you gotta understand, you’re dealing with the streets and the streets are going to call your bluff. If you’re doing it for the wrong reasons, the mask eventually falls off. It may not fall off in a week or two weeks—it may take a month—but eventually people are going to see.”

What I see in the time I’ve spent marching and talking with Mingo is nothing short of complete sincerity—and I try to assure him that his fears of being seen as a “clout chaser” are more than unfounded. But he admits that his inability to properly finish the Makiyah Wilson march might still be motivating him to go extra hard for other families mourning similar losses of their own.

“Maybe it’s a self pride issue,” Mingo says. “I didn’t get to finish [the Wilson march] out the way I wanted to. So I’m looking to finish this out—however long it takes. I don’t half ass anything. If I’m going to do it, I’m going to do it all the way. I know what I signed up for. I know I can’t save the world but I’m going to try.”

This is a crucial moment in history; we have a real opportunity to rebuild and restructure our society to be more equal, more just, and more habitable for all. In an attempt to better understand what motivates and inspires fellow activists, I’m profiling people and how they’re trying (in ways both big and small) to make the world a better place. If you know someone I should profile, let me know (maybe it’s you!?). You can see all of the profiles here.

Alexandra 5/22/20 Alexandra 5/22/20

Kristine Jones Fights Protest Fatigue

Kristine Jones is more comfortable behind the camera than in front of it.

If you’ve been to a protest march or rally in Washington, D.C. in the last few years, chances are good that you’ve seen Kristine Jones. Even more likely is that Jones has seen you, probably through the viewfinder of her camera. It’s human nature to put people into tidy categories, and it’s not wrong to call Jones a photographer. But she’s also an activist, a mother, an artisan product development and marketing consultant, a wife, a real estate agent, and a generous friend. I’m exhausted just typing that list, so I’m not surprised when Jones tells me recently that she’s tired.

“I feel like I’ve been protesting something for a very long time,” Jones says. “The burnout is crazy. I’m feeling a little burnt out. I swear to god if it goes badly in November, it’ll be very bad. How can people sustain that anger and frustration?”

Jones has more than earned the right to be burnt out. She was just a senior in high school when she attended her first protest rally on June 12, 1982. Jones and her sister took a bus from West Hartford, Connecticut to New York City, joining one million people in Central Park in what would turn out to be the largest anti-nuclear protest and one of the largest political demonstrations in U.S. history.

“Listening to the speakers I thought, ‘These are my people,’” Jones says. “I felt as if I was a part of a club. I felt the rage and the injustice.”

From 1991 until 2002, Jones and her husband lived abroad while working for non-profits in Azerbaijan, Vietnam, Bosnia, and Jerusalem. They worked with internally displaced peoples (IDPs) and immigrants; on long drives through Azerbaijan in the mid-’90s, Jones and her husband noticed that once-plentiful trees seemed to be disappearing. They weren’t wrong: the IDPs were living in abandoned buildings and burning the trees for heat and to cook their food.

Growing up, Jones had spent a lot of time hiking through national parks, but she didn’t immediately see the connection between her anti-war work and the climate crisis. “I thought if we couldn't stop wars and conflict, there was no way we would be able to stop deforestation,” Jones says. “But it also seemed like [deforestation] was a superficial problem considering what else the refugees and IDPs were facing.”

Even when they returned to the states in 2002, Jones continued to focus her activism within the anti-war, women’s rights, and immigration movements. “Basically I thought the climate crisis didn’t need me,” Jones says.

The climate crisis doesn’t just affect coral reefs and obscure tropical frogs; this devastating loss of biodiversity is important, for sure, but focusing entirely on stereotypical crunchy-granola environmental issues may allow the naysayers—especially those that feel disconnected from, or somehow above, nature—to have a false sense of security. But for at least three decades, the Brookings Institution has known that “the greatest single impact of climate change may be on human migration,” and it has estimated that “by 2050, 150 million people could be displaced by desertification, water scarcity, floods, storms, and other climate change-related disasters.”

It wasn’t until recently that Jones began to connect the dots between the issues she had been championing for decades and the climate crisis. “The concept of melting glaciers was a concern, but these ideas forming in my head were not based in science or logic, I was just acknowledging that it was bad,” Jones says.

When she had a child of her own, Jones says her connection to—and the urgency she felt to help protect—Mother Earth increased. But it took another young person, the teenage Swedish climate activist Greta Thunberg, to really light a metaphorical fire under Jones. “Having a young girl look at you—without trying to make you feel better—and say ‘What the hell are you people doing?’ is pretty shocking,” Jones says. “It was a wake up call. I thought, ‘What the fuck are we doing?’ She made me feel like we should all be doing more.”

No one can accuse Jones of not doing enough over the years, but instead of slowing down, she sees a direct correlation between her increasing age and fervent activism. And she’s not alone: she says it’s not uncommon for her to find herself surrounded by “mostly old ladies,” at protests. “I think it's mostly women because we care, but also because for the last 100 years we have been fighting for so much that it must be in our DNA,” Jones says. “At 55, you’re invisible anyway so it doesn’t matter so much what people think. We just can’t take this shit any more. We’re tired.”

Despite frequently insisting that she’s exhausted, Jones’ seemingly bottomless energy suggests otherwise. During our nearly four-hour phone conversation, Jones recounts how she broke her ankle on the fourth day of a six-day backpacking trip through Alaska’s Wrangell St Elias National Park and Preserve. Her foot was in a boot for months and she relied on crutches—but that didn’t stop her from going to the Capitol on the morning of October 11, 2019, to photograph a “die-in.” Jones’ friend was battling cancer and participating in the action to persuade Congress to allocate more money for late-stage cancer research. Afterwards, Jones walked (slowly) up the hill and joined the first of Jane Fonda’s Fire Drill Fridays rallies.

Jones, who says she owned several of Fonda’s workout outfits in the ‘80s (“I think I liked the outfits more than the actual workouts”), was moved by Fonda’s passion and her ability to articulate the complexities of the climate crisis. But in the end, Jones says it’s kindness that keeps people engaged, no matter the issue(s) at hand.

“I don’t judge anyone because I’m never really in it—I’m usually on the periphery,” Jones says. “Unfortunately, there are people in the movement who are a deterrent. When you’re not kind, and when you’re not encouraging, and when you look at people like you’ve never seen them before, it makes it hard for people to stay. All it takes is for someone to be kind like Jane Fonda.”

Jones subsequently attended about half of the fourteen D.C. Fire Drills, missing several only because she eventually had to have surgery on her ankle. In November and December, she was arrested for civil disobedience twice—partly because she had one prior arrest on her record (in conjunction with the Poor People’s Campaign), and partly because she says she was “torn between photographing the event versus being a participant. Which was more important?”

Sometimes, Jones says she thinks that taking photographs is more useful in the grand scheme of things. Despite a recent hard drive crash and Jones’ claims that she “does nothing” with her photographs, that’s not exactly true. She posts them to her personal Instagram account, sends them to the people who appear in the photographs, and allows organizations to use them for fundraising purposes. She’s the perfect friend with which to attend a march—documenting everything so you don’t have to; like an Instagram husband, but much more attentive and festively attired.

I understand the photographers’ dilemma—always hidden behind the camera and never in front of it—so I’m forever indebted to Jones. Just a few hours after we first met, she beautifully captured several Fire Drill Friday moments that were particularly meaningful for me. Yes, I’ll always have the memories, but it’s extra nice to have the photos as well. Despite all evidence to the contrary, Jones still calls herself an “amateur photographer.” Having witnessed her in action, I’d say she’s being much too modest; she manages to capture the complex emotions and fiery passions of her subjects—no small feat in the crushing crowds and chaotic atmosphere of a large march or protest rally.

It’s not surprising that Jones says she honed her quick-reaction skills in conflict zones abroad. “The injustices—that’s what I gravitate towards,” she says. “At first, I would just take pictures of things that interested me. The subject matter was always some sort of conflict.” When Jones and her husband returned to the states, she began photographing anti-war rallies. Balancing her dual roles as both participant and observer can be tricky, but sometimes—like during her second arrest with Fire Drill Fridays—she manages to do both.

“I’m always seeing [an event] as I would be as a photographer,” Jones says. “I want to be a part of it, but I also feel like the value of having the photograph is useful—it’s something you can share, it’s a record.”

Mostly, Jones is looking to capture—and then convey to others—the same passion that continually drives her to the frontlines. “I'm looking for the thing that says ‘I’m here because this is so fucking important to me,’” Jones says. “When people look at the picture they must think, ‘This person is so worried about this situation,’ and I’m trying to say ‘Are you not as upset as they are?’ I want to share other peoples’ sense of urgency and have people feel the same way.”

In between the marches, rallies, and protests, Jones also somehow finds time to devote to myriad political causes. Jones lives just a few blocks from the Capitol, but for her birthday in 2018 she took a trip to Texas to work on Beto O’Rourke’s senate campaign; in 2017, she traveled to Alabama to help Doug Jones defeat former Alabama Supreme Court judge (and alleged sexual assaulter) Roy Moore. She canvasses and helps with voter protection outreach for the DNC, advocates for immigrants, and runs another Instagram account called I Vote Democratic, after she discovered that “a lot of people really felt like they didn’t see themselves in our party anymore,” she says.

Even though Jones admits that she can see the appeal of the concept that “ignorance is bliss,” she still sees the value in trying to work within the current system to affect change. “You look at these things, and how much work it takes, and the setbacks, and the dealing with the government, and the B.S. and the deals. It’s depressing,” Jones says. “Sometimes my head wants to pop off. But then I can’t let it go. I see it and think ‘Ok that’s just not right, I need to do something about that.’”

Jones and her son worked hard on Hillary Clinton’s 2016 presidential campaign, and they were understandably morose on the morning of November 9, 2016. Her son tried to console his mother by scribbling a message of hope on her bathroom mirror. “We just need to work a lot harder to make change,” he wrote. “Always forward.”

Four years later, Jones is still angry. But she’s trying to channel that rage into something productive. Not doing something has never felt like a viable option for her, but despite the inevitable burnout, Jones says now is not the time to be complacent. “People didn’t think this was such a big deal in 2016,” she says. “I felt like I was the boy who cried wolf, but I was right actually. I’m afraid that if I don’t get out there, it’ll be worse.”

Although she cherishes the time she spent traveling, Jones says that she “would never want to live anywhere else in the world.” One of the best things about living in the U.S. is that “no one is American—because everybody can be American,” Jones says. “You don’t look at someone and say ‘That person is American’ because we could be anybody. I have friends with German passports that say ‘I’m from Africa, I’ll never be German. But in America, people could think I’m American.’”

The years she lived abroad provided Jones with a fresh perspective; while she is the first to acknowledge that the U.S. has its flaws, her love for her home country runs deep. She says she cried when George W. Bush got reelected, but she has the opposite of a “love it or leave it,” mentality when it comes to how she views her role as a citizen. “We’ve got to fix [the U.S.] because this isn’t really who we are,” Jones says. “Plus, I feel like it’s everybody’s responsibility to do a little bit. We all live here. It’s like maintaining our home in a way.”

It may not always be easy, but Jones is trying to pass this sense of obligation on to her son, who graduated high school this year with significantly less fanfare than previous generations thanks to COVID-19. He has attended every Women’s March and is forging his own path as a somewhat-reluctant activist-in-training. Jones is cautiously optimistic about her influence. “I don’t ask,” Jones says. “We just have things that we do and that’s one of the things. But he would be good at it. Who knows, I might have created a Republican—but I hope not.”

The climate crisis is not a partisan issue or a singular, cataclysmic event—and Jones thinks that may be part of the problem. Americans, and humans in general, seem to be better at reacting to catastrophes than they are at preventing them. But even in these times of seemingly never-ending and overlapping crises, Jones sees an opportunity to motivate those who might, for various reasons, not think they can make a difference.

“It’s crazy how many people have found their creative outlet just because this moron is president,” Jones says. She says that her work trying to secure protections for immigrants (which are often motivated by looming legal deadlines) has shown what might work—or not work—as we try to address the climate crisis.

“With climate change, nobody sees the end, it’s not a big action, it’s not something that happened all at once,” Jones says. “It’s amazing what people can do when they’re forced to, at the last minute. But there almost needs to be a deadline associated at the end of it. I feel like, with the climate, there’s not that end date that’s scaring people.”

One of the main missions of Fire Drill Fridays is to try to counteract this very real problem of inertia—and light those metaphoric fires underneath people who may have never considered themselves activists in the traditional sense. It worked for me; I was arrested three times for civil disobedience and was lucky to have Jones as a fellow detainee for two of them.

It may be easy to dismiss a group of mostly white, middle class women (and especially celebrities) in zip-tie handcuffs as a meaningless publicity stunt, but Fonda says the arrests shine a light on her inherent privileges—and that’s part of the point. Jones has a similar view on the effectiveness—and often complicated optics—of civil disobedience. “It’s easy for us to get arrested,” Jones says. “I think it’s a big thing and I get nervous, but I know it’s not like other people’s experiences. I feel bad about our privilege but I understand the need of the theatrical aspect of what we do. It's important for us to stand up.”

Jones, a visual person by nature, also recognizes the lasting impact that a photograph can have on the historical record—for better or worse. “The visual of people getting arrested for the climate is a similar visual to that of Kent State [on May 4, 1970], or the visual that haunts Jane Fonda—of her sitting on that tank [in Hanoi]—these are all visuals that we keep in our head, so it’s useful.”

COVID-19 has changed life dramatically for almost everyone, and all of Jones’ pursuits have been affected in different ways. She says it’s weird being a real estate agent without in-person showings or an artisan product consultant with the future of trade shows uncertain. But the biggest change she has noticed is in her own neighborhood: after three solid years of not going a full week without some sort of protest, Capitol Hill is eerily quiet. There have been a few nurses advocating for better protections and car caravans along Pennsylvania Avenue, but for the most part, “everything has changed,” Jones says.

She’s still able to shoot portraits—wearing a face mask and using a zoom lens from a safe distance—and she acknowledges that it could always be worse. “I like to see how people make it through conflict—how they survive,” Jones says. “People lived in quarantine-like situations like this during the Bosnian war, and they still did art. They didn’t even have Netflix; we have Netflix. Most of us are not really suffering.”

In the current pandemic (and post-pandemic) world, the usual methods employed by activists may have to change, but not everything is obsolete. “The most important part [of activism] is—and what Jane Fonda did so amazing—is to make everybody think that they are important and crucial,” Jones says. “Jane was the best hostess ever, thanking everyone for coming and making sure everybody knew they were important.”

We may not be able to gather in the streets for the foreseeable future, but humans are remarkably resilient; the tools available today are just as varied as the activists themselves. Jones says she sometimes feels intimidated by new technologies, but she’s particularly excited about new opportunities to reach large groups of people without ever leaving home (Open Progress likens its texting tool to “knocking on digital front doors”).

“There really is something for everybody,” Jones says. “There is something that matches your skillset. Everybody has different levels of caring, different levels of putting themselves out there.” The level of participation may vary, but Jones thinks the very human need to feel as if we’re making a difference, no matter how small, is universal. “If people feel like they’re needed, it makes a big difference,” Jones says.

Whether she feels it or not, every movement needs people as dedicated and tireless as Jones. But even she admits that she sometimes needs a break. “Sometimes I just need to watch Real Housewives,” Jones says, laughing. “I want to watch stupid YouTube videos. I want to laugh. I want to not feel overwhelmed by all the crazy crap that’s going on. Who wants that dour shit all the time? Nobody does.”

We may not want it, but we all have our fair share of “dour shit” to deal with in life—ankles break, hard drives crash, graduations are cancelled, and candidates lose elections. But no matter how bad things get, Jones refuses to lose hope or even think seriously about slowing down. “When things seem bad, if I can go out and do something, that makes me feel better,” Jones says. “If you’re feeling helpless, help someone else.”

A RECIPE FOR CREATING AN ACTIVIST FOR TRUTH AND JUSTICE, BY KRISTINE JONES

Start with the following fiction books:
To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee
The Color Purple, by Alice Walker

Then add these three blockbuster movies:
Norma Rea (1979)
Silkwood (1983)
Dark Waters (2019)

Add non-fiction books that feel like fiction:
Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption, by Bryan Stevenson
Bury Me Standing: The Gypsies and Their Journey, by Isabel Fonseca
The Warmth of Other Suns: The Epic Story of America’s Great Migration, by Isabel Wilkerson
The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down: A Hmong Child, Her American Doctors, and the Collision of Two Cultures, by Anne Fadiman

Then throw some documentaries into the mix:
Roger & Me (1989)
Dolores (2017)
An Inconvenient Truth (2006)
Crip Camp (2020)

Bonus! For activists with kids or kids who want to be activists:
March: Book One, by John Lewis, Andrew Aydin, and Nate Powell

We may not be able to take to the streets right now, but that doesn’t mean the climate crisis is any less important. This is a crucial moment in history; we have a real opportunity to rebuild and restructure our society to be more equal, more just, and more habitable for all. In an attempt to better understand what motivates and inspires fellow activists, I’m profiling people and how they’re trying (in ways both big and small) to make the world a better place. If you know someone I should profile, let me know (maybe it’s you!?). You can see all of the profiles here.

Alexandra 5/1/20 Alexandra 5/1/20

Lee Ann Hopkins Does Good

Do Good Soaps and Suds is a gateway to a reduced-waste, sustainable life.

Every morning, as I step into the shower and lather up with my Bonaparte soap bar, I silently thank Washington, D.C.’s Capitol Police. I don’t remember the specific officer who directed me to sit next to Lee Ann Hopkins for the five hours we spent in police custody, but that seemingly random seat assignment continues to pay off in myriad lovely and unexpected ways.

Last November, I went to D.C. on a whim to attend a rally with Fire Drill Fridays, the Jane Fonda-led climate justice movement (now affiliated with Greenpeace). I hadn’t intended to get arrested, but I was so moved by the speakers and energy of the crowd that I found myself in handcuffs for the first time in my life. Capitol Police confiscated my sign urging people to “Destroy the Patriarchy Not the Planet,” but they unintentionally gave me something much more valuable in return: an introduction to the community of activists I had been seeking.

We—30+ women, including Fonda, and a handful of men—sat in police custody without phones or other distractions, and while I don’t recall the specifics, I can be sure that Hopkins introduced herself to me first. Hopkins, who was seated to my left, was born in Kansas and is Midwestern hospitality personified. By the time we were released, I walked out with a freshly-minted police record, a thumb covered in black ink, and a new life-long friend.

After I returned to New York, Hopkins and I reconnected via Instagram, where I discovered that she was the founder of Do Good Soap and Suds, a company committed to providing plastic-free shampoo bars, lotions, soaps, lip balms, and other personal care products. Inspired by her mission to “Use less sh*t. Do more good,” I gifted her soap to everyone I knew for the holidays. When the (repurposed) box arrived, it smelled so good that I was tempted to keep it all for myself.

Recently, Hopkins sent me my very own Bonaparte bar and I was hooked. In addition to looking super cool, the black soap—made with a blend of clove, eucalyptus, lemon, and activated charcoal—smells incredible. According to Hopkins, the Bonaparte “includes the essential oils used by both Napoleon's merchants in the 1800's and those impacted by the plague of the 1400's. The unique combination of essential oils was a lifesaver for those who interacted with the many, many people that died during these times, especially the gravediggers and the grave robbers.” At a time when hand washing is not only a courteous choice but one crucial to our very survival, Hopkins’ eco-conscious soap company feels more relevant than ever.

Hopkins says her path to climate activism was neither immediate nor linear, but rather “a slow and steady process.” She was born in suburban Kansas; when her family moved to a farm, her father taught her the importance of water and soil in cultivating crops and sustaining animals. “Dad instilled in me this sense of land and being proud of the land and working the land, and taking good care of the land,” Hopkins says. “The land was really, really important to me.”

Growing up in the Midwest in the early 1960s, Hopkins says that plastic was nowhere near as prevalent—or, in some circles, as reviled—as it is today. When The Graduate was released in 1967, the popular film featured this eerily prescient exchange between Walter Brooke and Dustin Hoffman:

Mr. McGuire: I want to say one word to you. Just one word.
Benjamin: Yes, sir.
Mr. McGuire: Are you listening?
Benjamin: Yes, I am.
Mr. McGuire: Plastics.
Benjamin: Exactly how do you mean?
Mr. McGuire: There's a great future in plastics. Think about it. Will you think about it?

Unfortunately, people did more than think about it: since 1950, plastic production has grown by 8.6% per year, with more than 9 billion metric tons of plastics spread around the world. It’s estimated that only about “9% of that has been recycled, 12% has been incinerated (polluting the air with toxic gases), and the remaining 79%, remains in the environment.”

Mr. McGuire was right; our future was, and is, in plastics—but not always for the better. According to Greenpeace, “If current production and waste management trends continue, by 2050, there will be 12 billion tons of plastic in natural environments.” Hopkins, who uses a medical device made out of plastic, concedes that “plastic has been an incredible gift to some of us. I would really like it if there was something else beside plastic that could keep me alive—it’s been both a gift and a curse.”

Hopkins at the Capitol on December 27, 2019 with Lily Tomlin.

Since 1940, Kansas has given its electoral votes to a Democrat only once (to Lyndon B. Johnson in 1964), and growing up, Hopkins was the membership chair for the young Republicans. Now, she says, “I’m so far left I’m almost not a Democrat.” She credits storytellers for helping her make the transition to embracing progressive politics. “Just because you grew up with a certain story doesn’t mean you can’t change the story,” Hopkins says. “Change can happen. There is hope.”

In October of 2018, however, Hopkins was anything but hopeful. She was working in D.C. as an attorney near the Trump International Hotel. She would sit outside on her lunch break and look across Pennsylvania Avenue, dreaming of a creative outlet to buck her depression. “I started baking,” Hopkins says. “I started making art, then I made some soap. I’m a DIY person, but I also like to be practical and use whatever I make.”

As she enjoyed the fruits of her labor, she suspected others might too—and sensed an opportunity to also reduce her reliance on single-use plastics. “One day I was in the bathroom looking at my shampoo bottles and thought ‘Do I really need all this shit?’”

The first Do Good products were solid soap and shampoo bars, “because that’s really all we need,” Hopkins says. Her mission to “rid the world of plastic” started in the bathroom but has since taken over every level of the Alexandria, Virginia townhouse she shares with her wife, Andrea, their greyhound Enzo, and their cat, Neige. Hopkins experiments with new recipes in the couple’s kitchen; the products are moved to another level while they cure, and the basement is reserved for storage. Hopkins would love to banish plastic from her home altogether, but acknowledges that it’s not always possible, especially in the midst of a global pandemic.

“My vision for Do Good six months ago was very different than it is now,” Hopkins says. “So many doors have been slammed shut. It’s hard to think about the future when the basics of today are hard to get through, but I still dream of changing the ways people view plastic. I want to help people live a life that isn’t harming the planet, but the pandemic means more plastic in our lives—gloves and face masks—and no farmers markets, pop-ups, or retail spaces. It’s not just about selling my products, it’s about teaching people how they can be zero waste or reduced waste in their own lives.”

Me lurking behind Hopkins and hugging her as she was released from detention (while Fonda looks on).

Before she was an attorney “working for the Man,” Hopkins was enrolled in seminary. Her feminist approach to theology may have seemed radical, but she never strayed far from her roots. “I brought that Kansas girl who loved the Earth, the soil and the water to my theological training,” she says. She was paying attention to the changing climate, but it wasn’t until she saw Al Gore’s 2006 documentary, An Inconvenient Truth, that her beliefs began to gel.

“An Inconvenient Truth turned me upside down.” Hopkins says. “It was at that point that I really started thinking about how I live in the world.” She began to ride her bike more, but it would be several more years before she began to take action. Even then, she started small. “I did small things, I picked up litter, I do Earth Day every year—I’d recommit every year thinking, ‘Oh I’m going to do something big,’ but I didn't, not really.”

She had consistently donated money to environmental organizations, but eventually, the bad news—especially about plastic—became impossible to ignore. “If I had to see one more turtle wrapped around some sort of plastic that was left in the ocean or any other gross thing that was happening to ocean animals, I was going to lose my fucking mind,” Hopkins says.

It was around this time that Hopkins was also becoming disillusioned with her career as an attorney. “I was unhappy,” she says. “I didn’t want to be working for a large law firm but I wondered ‘What can I do?’”

Fonda’s four-month stint in Washington, D.C.—beginning in October of 2019—with Fire Drill Fridays came at the perfect time for Hopkins. She had just left her job at the law firm, a decision that opened the door for her to participate in civil disobedience. “Once I stopped working as an attorney, I knew I could get arrested and so that was the thing for me,” Hopkins says. “I have always done civil disobedience—before I was an attorney—so I was like yeah, let’s go! I wanted to do civil disobedience and who was doing it? Jane Fonda.”

Hopkins felt as transformed by her first arrest with Fire Drill Fridays as I did. She attended every subsequent rally—missing only two because of a birthday trip to Costa Rica—and was arrested a total of three times. “Fire Drill Fridays has a very special place in my heart,” Hopkins says. “It was the community I'd been looking for. Women and the youth are leading this next wave of activism—it was 90% women each time I was arrested—and it’s time for women to take the lead. They’re all my eco-warrior sisters.”

Hopkins acknowledges that the fight for climate justice is far from new, and cites the indigenous and frontline communities that have been advocating these same issues for decades or even longer. But she says that the uptick in activism, especially since 2016, is palpable. “It would be so white of me to think that this started in October of 2019,” Hopkins says. “It didn’t start then—it’s been ongoing for a long, long, long time. But I think in 2019—with Greta Thunberg and the young people and then Jane Fonda—things have ratcheted up quite a bit.”

Help clean up the planet one soap, one lotion, one balm, one bar at a time.

When asked about their motivations, activists often cite their concern for future generations. I made the decision to not have my own children long before I began learning about the dire climate projections, and every new grim report only serves to solidify my decision. But even if I don’t intend to procreate, I still worry about the world I will leave behind—and selfishly, the one I hope to enjoy for as long as possible while I’m still here. During my last arrest with Fire Drill Fridays in January, someone asked Martin Sheen about what motivated his impressive record of civil disobedience arrests. “You have to keep ego out of it,” Sheen said. “You do it for yourself, to know that you’ve done all you can.”

Hopkins, who doesn’t have children of her own, says that of course she’s concerned about the world she will leave for her nieces and nephews, but admits that her activism mostly comes from a “selfish” place.

“The experiences I had as a child in Kansas—the flora, the fauna, the bees—I have a memory of all that richness and what scares me is how much other generations haven’t seen,” she says. “We’re losing so much biodiversity and I am terrified by all this extreme weather. Honestly I'm doing it for me because ten years—that’s all we’ve got. It’s like trying to turn around the Titanic. I’m terrified for myself. I don’t know what life will be like. But that’s why we plant trees, not so much so we can enjoy them—we’re planting them for the future.”

The issues threatening our collective future may be far from new, but the roadblocks to progress are ever-evolving. In the wake of COVID-19, activists are scrambling to maintain momentum while the usual tricks—protests, mass gatherings, civil disobedience, etc.—are increasingly unsafe or prohibited altogether. While we’re (rightly) focused on keeping each other safe and healthy, we do ourselves a disservice if we don’t at least try to seize the opportunities of these overlapping crises—and acknowledge that this pandemic is, in no way, an isolated event. The people involved with the climate change movement have already turned a critical eye toward the future—and what they see is terrifying.

“Climate activists are not necessarily surprised by this,” Hopkins says. “They’re the canary in the coal mine, saying ‘Hey there’s trouble ahead and we gotta do x, y, and z.’”

Hopkins is cautiously optimistic that radical, system-wide change is possible, not in spite of, but perhaps because of this unique moment in history. “These kinds of moments don’t happen that often,” she says. “During WWII we came together to fight a common enemy, but we’re so divided now. There’s so much mistrust, democracy is crumbling all around us, and without that sort of cradle—that foundation—I’m terribly worried. This is the time for great change to happen, but I’m struggling as an activist—is what I’m doing enough?”

For the foreseeable future, Fire Drill Fridays has pivoted from in-person rallies to virtual ones, and Fonda has offered myriad ways for members to stay motivated and productive even while we stay in our homes. Hopkins continues to seek solace and transformation through storytellers and cites novels, nonfiction books, and movies as sources of constant inspiration.

“The first step for anything is always education,” she says. “Education is the springboard. I had to get it in my head first. Then I got in my heart. It’s the longest 12 inches in the world from your head to your heart, but I had to do it in my head first. Once I got it there, it was an easy sell to my heart.”

BOOKS:

Silent Spring, by Rachel Carson
The Uninhabitable Earth: Life After Warming , by David Wallace-Well
The End of Nature, by Bill McKibben
Falter: Has the Human Game Begun to Play Itself Out?, by Bill McKibben
This Changes Everything: Capitalism vs. the Climate, by Naomi Klein
On Fire: The Burning Case for a Green New Deal, by Naomi Klein
The Unsettling of America: Culture and Agriculture, by Wendell Berry

MOVIES:

An Inconvenient Truth
An Inconvenient Sequel: Truth to Power
The Lorax
The Story of Stuff

LINKS:
Do Good Soaps and Suds | Fire Drill Fridays | Greenpeace

We may not be able to take to the streets right now, but that doesn’t mean the climate crisis is any less important. This is a crucial moment in history; we have a real opportunity to rebuild and restructure our society to be more equal, more just, and more habitable for all. In an attempt to better understand what motivates and inspires fellow activists, I’m profiling people and how they’re trying (in ways both big and small) to make the world a better place. If you know someone I should profile, let me know (maybe it’s you!?). You can see all of the profiles here.