Protests to me have always felt like funerals.

It’s not that I think they make no difference, for some they do. People who are being oppressed, hurt or disregarded, even eliminated often need to feel a part of a larger group, for reinforcement, for encouragement, for enthusiasm and energy. I am happy for people to have these feelings, but it is not why I attend. I mainly go because it feels the right thing to do, to be present, to be one more person added to the group so the aforementioned might get what they need, if they need it.

But like at a funeral, I don’t feel much of anything for a country put on life support.

America has been a myth for as long I’ve known it, a slogan, a bumper sticker, a bad television show about evil businessman who couldn’t care less who lives or dies, or who is lied to so long as the bank accounts are full and the gilded get their easy pleasures.

I don’t find purpose in gilded myths, or business, but I do sometimes find it in helping others.

So I go, and place my flowers on the caskets.