I had been feeling cagey since the end of last year—A sort of heavy, bottom-of-the-stomach feeling. Something like a blend of existential dread and civic helplessness mixed with a million pending personal and professional tasks. The kind of feeling you get when you wake up late and rush to get ready, only to find out you had the date wrong and you’re too early for something you don’t want to do. That, but for the last five months. I needed a project. One that required the skillset I already had, one that meant something. I can take a picture. I can talk to people. I can hitch a ride.

So, at 5:45 a.m. on the morning of March 14, I was piling into a Jeep with a few friends—a cohort made up of some seasoned demonstrators, social agitants and general do-good-niks, and wandering off into the darkness, making my way to the nation’s capital to cover the NowDC1 protest on the National Mall.

The ride itself was uneventful, traversing seemingly endless Pennsylvania farmland at sunrise. I found myself sighing frequently—an impromptu vocal stim born out of unease of the unknown and the prior night’s restless sleep. I’ve covered local demonstrations and I have been to D.C. before, but that was before G.W. started his career as a painter and jokes about Clinton’s promiscuity were still relevant. This was a different kettle full of entirely different fish for me.

As we approached the city limits, I was put in charge of navigation and that naturally resulted in us getting turned around twice in D.C.’s narrow neighborhoods. We did, however, eventually manage to find Union Station, and from there it was smooth sailing.

Already in the elevator to the ground floor, we encountered a few demonstrators. “I like your sign,” mumbled a woman to one of my friends as she was entering while we stepped out. Once on the street, it was a matter of following the stickers, banners and signs to the Mall. “All You Fascists Bound To Lose,” the Guthrie line, was scrawled on the power box of the streetlight in red paint pen near where we crossed over to the park. I was in a city where even the infrastructure bore a grievance.

Not five minutes after entering the now-accumulating crowd, I hear “Yo, press guy! You with Stars and Stripes?” (I was completely floored with that one—I had a brief out-of-body experience. A decade or so ago, in a completely different life, I was doing photography for a WWII reenactment group, taking on an impression as a Stars and Stripes correspondent. And here I am, dolled up like a slightly less mescalinated Hunter S. Thompson, donning yellow-tinted shades, red keffiyeh, and blue press vest with a dinosaur of a camera yoked around my neck. I had to think about the nature of all of us playing some kind of part or another in the costume drama of life.) “No, ma’am, freelance.”

Once I was found out to be a listening ear and eager lens, I was shepherded around to all sorts of interesting people. “I was in the army for nine years,” a fellow named Tim told me, “and I swore an oath to the Constitution, not these traitors and insurrectionists. Plain and simple. It’s time to fight.” Muriel, an Air Force Veteran, echoed that, “Our Constitution is under attack by both elected and unelected officials. I’m here to stand with the resisters for all of us.”

Richard, a Vietnam combat Vet, called me over. “Look around this crowd. What do you see? There are not a lot of people like me here. There are a lot of black vets that don’t come out to these demonstrations, but I try to keep up with all of it for them.” Richard was right.

That had me thinking about who was there. It was an eclectic mix for sure, but an overwhelmingly unified one. Vietnam vets and old hippies, side-by-side, standing next to punks and young activists. Active duty personnel, Special Forces operator types and trans soldiers commented on each other’s signs. Combat battalion pennants, pride banners, the standard of the Iron Front, Canadian, Mexican and inverted American flags all flew in solidarity.

I was most surprised by the feel of the whole thing. It was hard to tell on the ground, but I’d estimate there were a few thousand in attendance, and I felt not only sheltered but also perfectly welcome the whole time.

There was one counter-protester, who showed up with a megaphone—a dude-bro with a D.O.G.E. T-shirt and far-too-tight track pants. The moment he started shouting, he was surrounded by a group of vets blowing whistles and barking at him. I never caught a word he said over the din. He left without incident shortly thereafter.

I made a point to move through as much of the green as possible, grabbing shots of the signs and people who stood out to me. In one of my passes, I was waved over by a young man who went by KZ. “Hey, thank you for wearing the keffiyeh. I was told not to wear mine, not to cover my head. I had to give mine to one of my white friends to wear for me.” We talked for a few minutes and he told me a little bit about his life, moving from Egypt to New York. “I left my homeland thinking they’d never do that kind of thing to me here.”

There were a number of speakers scheduled to talk on a stage set up at the front of the crowd. I had an ear open while I was chatting with people. There were two messages repeated over and over again. The first, summarily put: “No one is coming to save you.” That one rang differently for everyone, but it was largely taken less as a threat, more as a call to action. A call for self-empowerment, to take leadership, to act. It dovetailed into the second beautifully, “Stand the f#*k up.”

“Run for office! Yes, you! You think Schumer’s smarter than you? You think Pelosi’s smarter than you? If your elected officials don’t stand for you, primary them. Democrat, Republican? It doesn’t matter. Primary their ass. Stand the f#*k up!”

After sustaining a heel blister sufficient to exclude me from the draft, I packed up and left at a little after 3:30 p.m. The crowd dispersed around 4 p.m. I caught the last speaker’s closing remarks as I crossed the street toward the Capitol Building. A few minutes later, I was eating the freshest salmon sushi I’ve had in ages at Momoyama, a hole-in-the wall, family-run joint. The man at the table next to us clocked our signs and my vest and said, “Good turnout, huh?” He was a D.C. local just making nice, who said he made a point of showing up to all the demonstrations he could. “I was dreading the 250th anniversary of the United States, but lately I’ve been thinking about how we’ve overthrown a king before. We kind of have a precedent for that.” When I asked if I could quote him, he said, “Me? I’m nobody. I’m sure other people are thinking it.”

On the road home, we stopped at a gas station to tank up, stretch our legs, and grab a snack. There was a Turning Point USA edition of the U.S. Constitution on the bathroom sink, damply calling to me while I washed my hands. I couldn’t help but thumb through its Americana collage-clad pages. It featured helpful commentary and explanations to help young fascists properly interpret our immaculate founding document, as well as helpful dog whistles and jingling keys from America’s top conservative minds. Under the Second Amendment was a quote from Dana Loesch that ended with “… my holster, my choice.” So, you know, in light of the day’s messages, “No one is coming to save you” and “Stand the f#*k up,” do with that one as you will.

Weeks later, as I reflect on the whole of it, I keep coming back to the thought, “What does it change? What does it mean?” Certainly nothing in the realm of policy, but seeing everyone together like that left a mark on me. People who are supposed to squabble with one another in solidarity against a common enemy—that’s not for naught—on the contrary, that’s what gives me a spark of hope. As we stare down the barrel of god-knows-what and take a stand how we can, I take some solace in knowing we’re not standing alone. 

13.14 Now DC was a peaceful demonstration organized by 14th Now! to challenge Donald Trump’s presidency on the grounds that it is illegitimate due to his involvement with the January 6 insurrection. The date, the 14th  of March (3.14), was chosen as symbolic as it represents article 14, section 3 of the U.S. Constitution, the source from which they derive their claims. Now DC was billed in part as a veterans demonstration, as well as an inclusive protest for others who were sympathetic to the cause.

Nico Bleu is the pseudonym of a Wayne County, PA resident. They have been granted anonymity by the River Reporter.