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Last Sunday, I lost my viriginity. It was at Butcher's Tears, a craft beer bar in a forgotten corner of Amsterdam. You could say Donald Trump was to blame. I attended a manifestation organized by #writersresist. My first demonstration ever as part of a worldwide gathering of writers "to defend the ideas of a free, just and compassionate democracy."
It felt a lot like the poetry readings I used to attend in my youth. More women than men, all of us sitting cross-legged on the floor. Lots of shaved heads, tattoos and nose rings. (This is not an aesthetic judgment, just painting a picture.)
Do demonstrations make a difference? Maybe not. Maybe so. It's hard to see the avalanche coming when you're one pebble sliding down the hill. In any event, we need more conversation rather than less. More speaking out than biting our tongues.
So this Saturday I'm going to the Women's March on DC. Why? Not to protest Trump or Geert Wilders or the other "nativist" crowd. I'm going to show my support for a civil society, equal opportunities and open borders.
On that last note, here's my latest blog post: The Good Immigrant. I must be getting radical in my old age.
And just in case you're new to this blog, here are my most recent articles: