Trump’s second term is still in its early days, and it’ll get far, far worse, but already it’s so awful it makes Trump’s first term feel like the good old days. Back then, he was mean but stupid, and surrounded himself with people not quite so mean and stupid, who to some extent reined him in. This time, Trump is under the more direct control of the Heritage Foundation, and they’ve surrounded him with people meaner, younger, stupider, and more ruthless than the pedophile president.
Today, though, Trump and the end of America is only incidental to what I’m writing about. Today’s topic is the resistance, and my tiny part in it.
It’s not a judgment against anyone who’s not a protest-attender, but for me, not standing up against the hugest evil in my lifetime is not an option. Silence is acquiescence, and I will not be silent, politically, so I’ve attended about two dozen protests in the past year.
By nature, though, I’m a quiet man. None of my very few friends are go-to-protest people, so I attend alone, and it’s difficult. I’m so introverted it might be classified as a mental illness, and a crowd is where I’m at my worst.
Small talk is kryptonite — even the briefest exposure leaves me weakened, and extended exposure can feel fatal, though it hasn’t killed me yet.
There’s no logic to my anti-sociability, and the crowd at a protest is bearable, when everyone’s standing and listening to a speaker, or marching or singing “We shall Overcome.” Being the quiet guy doesn’t make me feel too terribly awkward, until the speakers stop speaking or the march gets where we’re going and someone says to me, “Hi, I’m Chet.” I’m supposed to reply, “Hi, I’m Doug,” and talk with Chet for ten minutes, but Arrrrgh!
That’s the backstory of me and my raging discomfort in crowds. All the anti-Trump events I’ve attended have been outdoor rallies, but I know what to expect and it’s never been so awful I’ve needed to write about it. On Sunday, though, I went to my first indoor meeting, and Arrrrgh!
It was in a church, and lord help me, I’m an atheist, but the church wasn’t the problem. The entrance was up twenty steps from the sidewalk, and the meeting was up another flight of stairs, so I was short of breath upon reaching the top. Then I opened the door, and holy crap — I’d expected a few dozen people, but there were several hundred.
Briefly, I considered turning around and hurrying down the stairs, out of the building, back to the bus stop, but — damn it, no. I’d come because someone would be speaking about their road trip to Minneapolis, the city that’s suffered the worst occupation by government fascists (so far). I wanted to hear about it from someone who’d seen it, so I walked through the door, into the dreaded crowd.
Spent several minutes waiting to sign in at the first table, which was thankfully accomplished without conversation. Waited a few more minutes hoping for access to the second table, where political pins were available, but the people ahead of me were as old and slow as I am, so I gave up and went for a seat before all the seats might be taken.
Being a big fat man, I looked for a chair that was accidentally a bit farther from its neighbor chairs, so I wouldn’t belly-bump whatever unlucky soul sat next to me. And then I sat, waiting wordlessly and uncomfortably for the program to begin.
Overall, the meeting was spectacular, and if you don’t suffer my crippling introversion, or even if you do, I’d recommend being there. I would’ve gone even if I’d known there’d be hundreds of people crowded into a space too small.
When the lady who’d gone to Minneapolis spoke, of people’s resilience in the face of an invasion, of children and old folks standing through tear gas, of people bludgeoned and bloodied but still standing, I had to wipe back tears.
I wanted to take notes and write about it, but security was a recurring theme in the lady’s comments. In everything she’d been privy to in Minnesota, local activists needed to verify who she, and the people who’d traveled with her, were. After they’d been accepted behind the scenes, the locals were always wary of possible infiltration.
She told us about being inside a food distribution point, where necessities are taken to be delivered to people who fear leaving their homes. The drivers had been instructed to eat the list of delivery addresses, if they were pulled over by ICE. That isn’t paranoia, it’s practical — the people at the addresses on that list are in serious danger.
Somehow, whipping out my notepad and starting to scribble into it seemed the wrong thing to do at that moment, so this report is powered only by an old man’s memory, brief and light on details.
That woman’s powerful half-hour talk about Minneapolis was given, so far as I could tell, without any notes. It was fascinating, even heroic, and I’ve rarely been so impressed.
Several local activist groups were present, and each gave a brief pitch for more involvement. Without exception all of them seemed to be good people doing good works, and the best was the hyperlocal group that already has me on their mailing list.
Same as at protests, nearly everyone at the meeting was old like me, or almost as old. In a crowd of about 350, almost everyone had matching gray hair, and the median age must’ve been 55. There weren’t two dozen people under the age of 30.
Often I wonder, where are the young people? But the answer is, they’re young — someone who’s 25 would’ve been in high school during Trump’s first term, so they simply don’t know how scary crazy here and now is. To the young, the current cruelty and insanity must seem like politics as usual.
The worst moment of the meeting, for me, was early on. Someone had given a few introductory remarks, and said what’s expected — we’re in this together, the importance of community, and blah blah. And that’s true, but then the speaker said, “Let’s take a few minutes to get to know our neighbors. Please, introduce yourselves to the people sitting or standing near you.”
And Arrrrgh! Community is the beginning of everything in politics, yeah, but I’m the mega-mondo-shy guy, the hermit, the recluse. Oh, the agony, as I said hello and traded a sentence with a 50-something woman beside me, and a 40-something woman in front of me, and a 70-something man behind me. It was horrendous, it was hell, it was worse than that, and I was silently thankful I’d sat at the end of a row, so there was one less person to mumble hello to.
The meet-and-greet lasted about three minutes, but seemed like an hour. And again I must stress, the extreme inner panic is entirely my problem — everyone was kind and polite, and probably every last person in the room was a potential friend, but I can’t be at ease in a crowd like that. It’s a phobia, and has been, all my life.
When the meeting ended, everyone was invited to stay for further hobnobbing and a bake sale, but I needed to exit the premises ASAP, so I didn’t even linger long enough to support the cause by buying a dozen muffins. I beelined for the door, and on the way found myself face-to-face with the lady who’d given that wonderful talk about going to Minneapolis.
She said something to me — I don’t remember what, but it was a friendly conversation-starter, for normals, anyway. I wanted to say Thanks for the talk, and for going to Minnesota, but I only said, “Uh, hi,” and continued my direct trajectory toward the exit.
Once out of the room and away from the crowd, I stood alone at the top of the stairwell, and inhaled the sacred solitude. If I was a chanter I’d have said ‘Ohhm’ to start soothing my chakra or whatever. But then—
“Are you going down?” said a woman’s voice, and I turned and saw an old lady waiting at the elevator. Oh, an elevator! Waiting and riding down, she & I had a short chat about hating the stairs and hating the president, and it wasn’t a problem. I actually enjoyed it.
Out of the building, I walked to the bus stop, where an old gent stood, wearing a ‘Dump Trump’ pin. I complimented him on it, and he said something nice about the several subversive pins on my hat, and that was another nice conversation.
Despite my social disability, I do OK one-on-one, or even in a very small group, maybe three or five people — but not 350.
This morning, Wednesday, I had a short walk, something I try to do daily, but it was the first time I’d left the house since the meeting on Sunday afternoon. I’d needed Monday and Tuesday to decompress, and I’ll need a few more days to fully recover.
Seriously, what is my mental malfunction, that it’s such severe trauma saying “Hello, I’m Doug” to strangers, even strangers who’d come together to unanimously hate Trump & the Republicans, same as I do?
1/18/2026
itsdougholland.com
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