Hands Around the Kennedy Center: Don't Do It for JFK — Do It for You

I went, protest sign in hand, because it was my duty.

I went because they dismantled Blue. Because I graduated on that Concert Hall stage in 1982, cap tossed into the audience. Because I was a member for decades, a subcriber, an avid symphony lover. Because I danced many an evening on the red carpet at the foot of the Millennium Stage and practiced yoga out on the terrace by the tinkling fountains on quiet, patronless mornings.

Now the entire place is a ghost town. The theatres are dark, fountains shut-off, artists and stagehands all fired. The board has been replaced by a gang of thugs.

I felt my adrenaline pulse as we rose up the Metro escalator amidst the crowds. When the Kennedy Center shuttle pulled up, I looked wide-eyed at my friends. "The shuttle? Sure, why not." The door opened and we piled in, and on the brief excursion, bus packed with protestors, we had a collective chuckle. "The irony," cried one fellow passenger. That bus was still going, though the only show playing at the Center was us.

Better to laugh than to cry. And we've all been doing a lot of the latter lately, as we've watched the decimation bit by bit — sculpture by sculpture, artist by artist, tree by tree — carving of the imposter's name into sacred marble, into our living memorial, threatening what we hold dear: our freedom of expression.

As we made the pilgrimage up the majestic walk toward the gleaming iconic edifice, I got distracted. On a patch of lawn before us lay a giant inflatable baby Trump, mid-tantrum, red-faced and flailing. Not quite the performance you'd find in the Opera House, but captivating theater of the absurd, nonetheless. I could not contain myself: "Poor baby, poor baby," I wailed in glee, letting out a tiny gale force of pent-up steam. "Does he need to be changed?" someone asked. "Definitely," we all chimed in. "Someone change him."

From the colicky infant, the crowd drew my friends and me forward, and the main event came into focus. The gleaming marble edifice, sharp iconic angles against a pastel sky.

Simultaneously, the tarp appeared in my vision, hanging over the entrance façade where Kennedy's name should be. My free hand formed a fist as I wielded my sign with the other, and held it high: "This Is What Democracy Looks Like."

There were so many signs - most handmade: "You Are No JFK." "Vote!" "Artists Unite!" "We Are the Ones We've Been Waiting For."

Two weeks earlier, news had come about the dismantling of the whimsical statue, Blue. Driving along the river and past this building that Labor Day, my body had seized — numb hands, held breath, futility weighing on my shoulders. 

But tonight, surrounded by friends and strangers, I was beginning to feel just the opposite.

When "America the Beautiful" started up — an operatic soprano on stage, her voice carrying far and wide and stilling the crowd — I felt my heart fill with spaciousness. Then all the voices joined, a whispering roar.

The music, the music, the music.

The Gay Men's Chorus of Washington stepped onto the stage, all red-shirted, faces glowing in the dusky light, and belted out a baritone command, a demand to be seen and heard: "Make Them Hear You." I felt a sense of calm wash over me. I was not so alone.

Yes, I came because of JFK, his inspiration, his legacy, this institution a living memorial. I came for the artists, the art. But as the horns sounded and the drums beat and we marched in unison to "Get Up, Stand Up," I got a feeling.

As we grasped hands and encircled the building, it became clear as the indigo night, half-moon shining bright: I came for me. For a sense of community, for a morsel of hope, for a kick in the pants of resolve.

I came for me. It’s what makes the continued fight possible.

Postscript: A Viral Video and An Invitation

Ask Not What You Can Do for Your Country. Ask What You Can Do for You.

Two days after the event, a video I posted went wild. Over 300,000 views. 30,000 likes. More than 1,200 comments, and I read every one. https://www.facebook.com/reel/3197598717111475

They came from St. Louis and LA, Florida and Texas, Washington State, Ohio, Idaho, Indiana. From Germany, Australia, British Columbia, France, London, and our good neighbors in Canada. Not one hater. Every message filled with gratitude and love, many wishing they could have been with us.

Here's what I told them, and what I believe: you were there. Connecting with us energetically, feeling and engendering hope and resolve. Keep it up, in whatever way you can. Six weeks from the midterms, vibrating high is an absolute necessity.

Join my Zoom yoga for activists — pop-in class, donation basis, come as you are and let's energize each other. All levels, all welcome. Info and Zoom link: https://www.seechangeconsulting.com/work-with-me