Substack tried to eat my post! Reposting my reflections on Philly’s No Kings Day March for anyone who didn’t catch it.
The last time I stood in the middle of the street surrounded by thousands of colorful, costumed characters, the world felt very different.
Back then it was the DragonCon parade, and I cosplayed as Nell Ingram from Faith Hunter’s Soulwood series — part of her official team that year. The air buzzed with joy and celebration of fantasy, pop culture, and nerdom. Heroes, villains, and droids marched side by side, reveling in the worlds we loved together.
Yesterday in front of City Hall, the costumes were different. Inflatable frogs and unicorns, handmaids and revolutionaries, and Tricorn Hat Gritty in all his glory.
Flags snapped in the breeze, flinging the Baby Trump balloons to and fro. I recognized the flag bearers from the last march — their leader’s bass voice somewhere between a rally and a revival. I want to learn to command like that.
His cadence echoed in my head as the marching band kicked in — brass and drums rolling down Market Street with ‘Fly, Eagles, Fly.’ I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was — not just that the Eagles had a theme song, but that everyone knew every word. It was beautiful, and a little chilling.
The atmosphere was electric — a reminder of that defiant joy that brings nerds from around the world to Atlanta every Labor Day weekend. Different costumes, but cosplaying the same stakes.
Somewhere between the brass band and the chants, I spotted a pirate flag — the Straw Hat Jolly Roger flying over the crowd. A few feet away, a guy in a straw hat was excitedly talking to another about One Piece. It fit.
I stood in my own familiar costume — all black, heavy eyeliner, and glitter on my face. My megaphone, slung over my shoulder, displayed both my Harris–Walz stickers and my Princess Leia Rebel sticker. A bit different than two swords — and I really hope it doesn’t come to that anytime soon, because I’m woefully out of shape. Still, I’m sure Nell and Skye would be proud.
I used to think the stories didn’t prepare us for this. In some ways they did — and in others, not at all.I’m learning it’s more about the emotional connection than anything else — stories teach us values, not strategy. They don’t hand us a plan; they hand us the courage to keep showing up for each other when the plan falls apart.
The heroes we grow up reading about don’t prepare us for this kind of courage. They save galaxies, solve crimes, or swing swords. No one tells you about the kind of heroism that looks like being assigned to lead chants at the front of a march — alone.
The call and response of “Let freedom ring.” One of the few originals I brought. Video by @Jacenbowman.
How much is too much? Am I supposed to be official? I tried a mix of both. If I heard a chant, I amplified the call and response. I listened, experimented, and fell back on old favorites when the moment called for it.
I did get a big laugh with Trump hates us / We don’t care / He poops his underwear. An eerie bit of foreshadowing, given the President later shared an AI-generated video of himself defecating on protesters.
I got scolded by a former teacher reminding me there were kids in the crowd after amplifying Go Birds Fuck Trump. (I get it — but also, it’s Philadelphia.) Then again, I’m an official volunteer now, so maybe not my best move. A solid reminder of what my chant leader, Vashti, had suggested when handing me the chants written by a volunteer:
Try not to use the ones with the eff word in them. They’re a little spicy.
Those who know me know I love a solid eff bomb. I sprinkle it on like Parmesan. There is no such thing as too much. Ah well — you live and learn, probably more than once. Vashti reminded me of that balance — to amplify joy without losing perspective.
Some of my favorite moments are when people come up and suggest a chant. One young woman — Gen Z, nervous, full of energy — asked if I’d start a few old favorites she had pulled up on her phone. I loved it. There’s something grounding about listening instead of leading, about echoing what the crowd already knows. I’d rather amplify what the people want than try to be the star.
Her brother actually brought her back to ask if she could use my megaphone. She didn’t want to, so I offered to amplify whatever one she wanted instead. She grinned and said she liked what I was doing so far. The crowd was a nice mix of generations — families, older couples, college kids, and a few very good dogs. It filled my heart to see such a diverse scene, knowing some were there for the first time. There’s something special about first rallies — the anticipation of the unknown and the unexpected camaraderie.
The march always ends too early for me, but I’ve always liked the sound of my own voice. I stayed behind to volunteer for anything else that was needed and watched the rally from backstage. The drum group kept the energy alive as the crowd gathered joyfully around the stage.
The naysayers are right about one thing — rallies alone aren’t enough for sustained resistance. But they still matter; they show us the strength in numbers and remind them they haven’t broken our spirit. At smaller rallies, I’ve seen tables and tents for local organizations, food pantries, and other ways to stay involved. There are already underground rumblings about a general strike, but most movements start like this — people finding each other, learning, showing up. A lot of us start here.
Is it frustrating that we have to move so slowly? God, yes. But mobilizing seven million people across this massive, messy country is hard work.
The music, witty signs, and inflatable absurdity — they aren’t distractions. They’re reminders of the cause. Of the good in this world worth fighting for. And that there’s a whole lot of heroes here trying their best to fight for it.
Philly has always known that defiance doesn’t have to be dour.
Sometimes it’s an inflatable frog.
Sometimes it’s a Gen Z girl — voice shaking, but pure excitement.
Sometimes it wears glitter and carries a megaphone.