OCTOBER 17, 2026 – Today we joined a few hundred other demonstrators at one of the “go-to” sites of anti-Trump protests around the Twin Cities. Our previous time at this site was in the dead of last winter, when we had to do the penguin-walk over ice covered sidewalks from our car to the protest, then freeze our butts off for an hour before resorting to our back-up tactic: driving past the site while honking on the car horn to signal our support. Despite the wind, the sun was considerably higher today than in February or on the day of the huge No Kings rally in front of the Capitol in March.
Our favorite among the bumper crop of protest signs read simply, “READ, THINK, VOTE.” That summed things up well, listing as it did, the fundamentals of a functioning democracy.
Personally, I liked seeing so many American flags; more than usual, it seemed—a reminder that the mostly Republican people who’ve commandeered the flag for every conceivable commercial purpose, don’t have exclusive rights to those 50 white stars on a field of blue or the 13 red and white stripes representing the original 13 colonies, all flapping in the breeze. I liked the Minnesota flags too—the new ones of a simple design consisting of a light blue “Minnesota,” its western border lined up with the pole side, with a large white star (Polaris) in its center and a stylized eastern boundary facing a darker blue (representing water) field.
“The more I see our flag,” I said to a woman holding up one, “the more I really like it.”
“So do I,” she said.
“And now when I see the old flag—which Republicans in this state insist on clinging to—I say to myself, ‘What were we thinking?’”
The woman knew what I was referencing: the scene at the center of the old flag, adopted in 1858—the native warrior galloping into the sunset while a white farmer plows up the indigenous people’s homeland. “There are a whole lot of other things,” she said, “that make me wonder what in the world we were thinking.”
“READ, THINK, VOTE,” I thought.
At ground zero of the demonstration—the northwest corner of Lexington Avenue and Seventh Street in St. Paul—we ran into Alan Maclin, an old friend and former colleague, retired barrister, modern day Odysseus, serious salmon fisherman, survivor of a close encounter with an Alaskan “big boy” bear, an all-around good person, who reads books and votes Democrat. He introduced us to his other demonstration-friends, including Chris, originally from England and a retired professional race car driver and more recently, a non-lawyer member of the Minnesota LPRB (Lawyers Professional Responsibility Board) and Nancy, his engaging lawyer-wife, with a solid sense of humor.
Accompanying our animated conversation was the constant honking of sympathetic motorists driving past the busy intersection crowded with demonstrators. In the main, signs urged people to get out and vote against the prevailing nonsense.
One of the motorists, however, seemed not to share the love. Stuck at the corner, not being able to turn right on a red light because of pedestrians crossing, the driver suddenly floored his car through an opening and squealed his tires as he rounded the corner and sped away. His impatience with the demonstrators, I figured, reflected his disagreement with our politics. I chuckled at his probable frustration in having to suppress the urge to lean on his car horn. Surely he’d wanted to use the horn to blast demonstrators out of his way, but he must’ve realized that honking then and there would’ve been interpreted as support for a Blue Wave.
Later at our house, over dinner and cards with friends, we learned of the other demonstrations today around town. We talked in earnest about politics—recent polling; Trump’s waiver of the sanctions against Russia; his recent hiring, then firing of his press secretary; turmoil in the White House; the rioting and financial issues in France; the probability of Trump’s impeachment if the Democrats control House and Senate, but the need to gather 67 votes in the Senate; the latest outrage over newly proposed data centers; and so on, until we remembered why we were sitting around the table, namely to break bread . . . er, pizza and salad . . . together, turning to our go-to card game, “Shanghai,” to divert our worries about what November 3 will bring.
Feeling jinxed by our having hosted past watch-parties on election night, a consensus built among us three couples around the table, that there’d be no party this time around. As one of our group said, “If the results put Democrats in control, I’m fine celebrating that alone. If the results disappoint, I want to cringe alone.”
On election night in 2016, we’d hosted a sizable crowd. When Trump appeared to be on his way to victory, the harsh reality settled over us like a cloud of toxic gas. Everyone knew the result would be bad for the country. None of us had the ability to see just how bad.
Participation in today’s demonstration did us all good. It was a noisy but wholly civil and orderly reminder that we’re not alone; that railing against the Trump regime on a balmy day in October is far easier than on a harsh freezing day in January; and most important of all, that we need to “READ, THINK, AND VOTE” . . . and salvage our country on Election Day.
But at the demonstration, we also encountered cautionary symbolism. At our corner had stood a man holding a five-foot-long wooden flagpole sporting a handsome green flag bearing three golden oak leaves above the slogan, “Tyranny Shall Not Prevail.” As the fickle wind randomly whipped the flag back and forth on itself, every few seconds the fold would obscure the word “Not.” How thin the line, I thought, between “Tyranny Shall Not Prevail” and “Tyranny Shall Prevail.” Which will we choose in less than three weeks?
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
