APRIL 5, 2025 – Late this morning, Beth and I headed down to the state capitol, site of the local “Hands Off!” protest that was part of a coordinated nationwide effort to demonstrate opposition to King Musk and the Pyrite President. In the back of our vehicle was Beth’s “STOP” sign, which she’d hurriedly painted onto a piece of cardboard in the shape of a toilet seat (because it has been part of the packaging of a new toilet) and my industrial gauge sign. I’d labored long and hard over the sign yesterday, yesterday evening, and early this morning. It was so big, it barely fit into the back of Beth’s RAV4—both back seats down. On one side was a column of three, two-word declaratory sentences: FIRE ELONIA. / IMPEACH NONSENSE. / RESTORE REASON. On the other side was a single three-word phrase, NO TARIFF TAX[1].
Our house is less than a 15-minute drive from the recently restored Cass Gilbert-designed Capitol with its bright shiny gold Quadriga above the grand entryway and at the base of the dome—the second largest (after the Basilica in Rome) self-supported marble dome in the world. The landmark has a commanding view of the grassy mall, which slopes down toward the freeway that borders the north edge of downtown St. Paul. On the other side of the traffic corridor, which runs through a channel out of sight from the capitol, the land rises sharply to the southwest and the great St. Paul Cathedral, with its spectacular view back down the proud hill it dominates, then up again to the Capitol[2].
Within a mile of the Capitol, we began seeing people on their way to the appointed gathering place. Dressed appropriately against the sharp wind and still cool temperatures, the protesters—mostly white and older—were self-identified by the signs they carried tucked under their arms.
To avoid the hassle of parking, many protesters had taken the light rail. At the Marion Avenue stop, four long rail cars disgorged their passengers. The scene reminded me of rush hour on a workday back in the day, pre-Covid. As we watched them crossing in front of our car at the traffic light, Beth and I joked about what it might portend for overall turnout.
“There go 10 people, now another 10, and look at the people still on the train,” I said.
“Good. A few more and there’ll be a hundred,” Beth joked. “How many do you think will show up—a thousand? Ten thousand?”
“I don’t know about ten thousand,” I said, “though I’m ready to be pleasantly surprised.” Beth reminded me that the Women’s March in January 2017 drew an estimated crowd of 100,000 in St. Paul alone.
By the time we reached the sprawling, long-abandoned Sears store parking lot two blocks from the Capitol Mall, the place was jammed with cars. We managed to find a slot near the southwest corner. Our walk would be manageable.
Upon extracting my five-foot high, three-foot-wide sign from the back of the vehicle, who should appear out of nowhere—or actually, from the somewhere of the very next parking spot, was an old work colleague of mine and his wife. Exactly 30 years ago, I’d recruited him away from his law firm to fill a niche position in my group inside Corporate Trust at the bank. One of the most cheerful and outgoing intellectuals I’ve ever had the pleasuring knowing, Gavin was ever so bright and engaged. Years had passed since we’d last run into each other.
We tried to catch up on life as he carried the front and I held the other end of my way-too-large sign, which, in the brisk wind, thought itself to be a giant kite destined for the high blue sky. In fact, my sign had turned out too well—it would be one of the largest at entire event. I had all I could do to hold onto the thing and keep it more or less vertical in the wind. Several times it threated to leave my grip altogether and go sailing up and over the growing crowd before diving back down into it, potentially doing wiping out a dozen innocent demonstrators. Eventually, I had to ground the sign and retrieve it upon our departure. Its fate reminded me of Howard Hughes and his famous H-4 (popularly known as the “Spruce Goose”) all-wood transport plane, the largest float plane ever made[3].
Liberated for the rest of our two hours on site, I freely enjoyed the many clever but smaller signs, each attacking one or more of the seemingly endless list of grievances that we all had with the current regime. I snapped dozens of photos—as so many other people were doing.
As time passed, the assembly grew until it reached an estimated 25,000. We wandered into all sections of the dense crowd—the middle, the front, the rear, most of the perimeter. Demographically, it seemed to draw people of all ages, though I think it was weighted toward older middle age and across the entire range of Boomers. I did not observe a lot of racial diversity; it was largely a white middle class crowd, judging by attire, as well as the signage.
People had put an impressive measure of thought and work into crafting their signs. It was certainly a crowd that had done well on school projects involving at least a modicum of skill in arts and crafts. I found this heartening. Despite our heavy use of electronic devises, people still know how to use markers, paint, and paintbrushes on cardboard. And they were impressively literate about such fundamental concepts as the rule of law, constitutionality, positive character traits, bad character traits, and trust vs. phony baloney.
The other notable feature of the crowd was the contrast between their public demeanor—polite and pleasant—and the slogans on their signs, which conveyed unmistakably, outrage and anger. I guessed very confidently that nearly every single person fit the definition of “high propensity” voter. Come November 2026, they will be a force to be reckoned with, all civility aside.
Everyone displayed model crowd decorum. We observed no sign of the police or security guards, even to manage traffic. Given the crowd’s exemplary behavior, there was no need for any patrols, though we later learned of a vocal group of MAGA folks issuing amplified taunts and driving around the periphery of our protest. There were no takers of the venomous bait, however, so peace could prevail.
Another interesting aspect of the crowd was revealed when in the course of her pep talk at the opening of the formal “program,” the M.C. asked for a show of hands by all who were attending their first demonstration. Beth and I were amazed by how many arms shot up—a vast majority, we thought. If I were a Republican, I would find that informal but lopsided poll to be quite unnerving. If current trends continue, there will be hell to pay in 2026 by the Party (formerly) of Lincoln.
What Beth and I found remarkable was that aside from Gavin and his wife, we didn’t recognize anyone in the huge crowd, despite our moving about thoroughly throughout all sectors of the horde. This was highly unusual. The Twin Cities are a small town when it comes right down to it. It’s rare to be in large public gatherings and not see friends, neighbors, acquaintances, former work colleagues, or at least people you’ve seen before. On the downside, perhaps this is a reminder that people have aged (imagine that!), so much so, that a good many have moved on—either to happier hunting grounds or diminished levels of public activity. On the other hand, we know that many friends and acquaintances had previously stated their plans to attend, and we have no reason to think those plans changed (given that the sun was shining, at least); I’m thinking optimistically, that our not having encountered people we recognized was simply a function of the crowd size.
We did recognize the voice, at least, of our senior U.S. Senator, Democrat Amy Klobuchar, though the crowd was too large for us to see her. She’d left the floor of the Senate at three in the morning, then boarded a 6:00 a.m. flight back to Minnesota so she could appear at the rally. Her voice sounded as if it desperately needed rest, but she insisted on giving an effective speech of encouragement. With gravel in her throat, she nonetheless spoke forcefully and convincingly. She was applauded often and boisterously—overwhelmingly by seniors; less so by younger folk who chanted, “Do your job. Do your job.”
Beth’s back behaved well for two hours, but she wisely decided that she shouldn’t test her nerves’ outer limits. We headed back to the car. Once underway toward home, for several blocks we saw innumerable groups of additional protesters making their way to the Capitol. They continued to self-identify with signs firmly in hand.
For the first time too long a while, I felt a glimmer of hope; a measure of faith. The country still has a chance to save itself. Will enough people be moved to march more, again—to effect the necessary change? The crowd we encountered today certainly appeared motivated to make a positive difference.
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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson
[2] The Capitol sits on high ground but lower than the Cathredal. At the time of its design and construction, the then Archbishop John Ireland insisted that the Cathedral be sited in such a way that it would look down on the Capitol and the Capitol would look up at the Cathedral.
[3] Hughes had designed the plane for transport of war matériel during WW II, but the war ended before the aircraft could be developed beyond the single protype eight-engine monstrosity that made its maiden (and only) flight two years after the war. With Hughes in the left seat, the plane reached an speed of 135 mph, and lifted out of the water for a 26-second flight reaching an altitude of 70 feet before descending.
