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As we pass by an alley, a sudden idea strikes me. “Wait here!” I exclaim, pulling away from Race. I return with a couple of milk crates. “It's a soapbox! I want us to be seen and heard. Wouldn't you like an advantage to say what you need to say?” I offer a milk crate to my friend.
Reluctantly accepting my gift, Race remarks, “You know I'm only doing this in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the man behind your recent moodiness.”
“Race!” I exclaim.
Once we reach Grand Street, we realize that we are among the first protesters. The organizers have secured a street block between Grand Street and 6th Avenue, east of Canal Street. In a matter of minutes, Race and I are handed bullhorns by an overly enthusiastic organizer. She shakes our hands and exclaims, “Thank you so much for your support!”
Smiling uncomfortably in response to her exuberance, I accept the responsibility of my bullhorn without any hesitation. Race and I follow the lead of other volunteers as we make our way to the center of the block. After a briefing with nearly fifty other volunteers, we all begin chanting in unison.
“Stop the pipeline! Save indigenous people! Protect our planet!”
Immersing myself in the collective energy, I raise my bullhorn high in the air and search for a spot to set up my soapbox, deliberately choosing a location slightly apart from the other protesters. Equipped with enough information to sway even the most stubborn hearts, I feel a sense of pride as I stand up for what I believe in.
“Stop the pipeline, it's claiming lives!” I shout from atop the milk crate that I brought with me.
“Stop the pipeline! It's claiming lives!” Protesters on the opposite side of the block start echoing my chants.
“It's a good thing you're here, or else they wouldn't know what to say!” Race laughs, being the first to adopt my catchphrases.
Positioning his milk crate a few feet away from mine, ensuring that we can easily see each other no matter how much the crowd expands, we prioritize our safety and the avoidance of any potential arrests.
“I'll echo your words, homegirl,” Race declares, lifting his bullhorn. “Give me the signal.”
“Shut it down, lift them up!” I shout, and in perfect synchronization, Race and the crowd repeat the phrase moments after me. Shaking my head at my loyal friend, I do a double take as I catch a glimpse of a tall, muscular man in sweats and a hoodie standing across the street. He looks like he could be Brando, but with his back turned to me, I can't confirm.
Get him out of your head, Ana. He’s your boss!
“And he's the enemy!” I seethe under my breath just as the man turns to face me. In an instant, our eyes meet, confirming that it is indeed Brando. Stepping down from my platform, I stride toward him, my words echoing through the crowd.
“You do realize that you're protesting against your own employer, right?” Brando remarks casually as I approach him, gesturing toward the group of protesters behind me.
“I already told you it goes against my beliefs, and I made it clear that I would be joining the protest against the pipeline deal. I believe in fighting for the rights of the oppressed and underprivileged,” I assert, my words carrying more strength than the unsteady feeling in my knees. I struggle to resist getting lost in Brando's hazel eyes. “Stay and learn how the other half lives.”
“Why should I?” Brando snaps, covering one ear as the chants of the protesters surround us. “Everyone seems terribly angry!”
Annoyed by the air of intolerance in his voice, I retort, “Of course, they're angry! Major corporations are bidding on and purchasing the land their families have owned for generations. No one wants to lose what rightfully belongs to their family.” Fuming at the loss of my own family inheritance to big business, I take a deep breath. “Since you're determined to improve the company, why not start right now?”
After scanning the crowd, Brando responds, “Fine, Ana. I'll give you an hour.”
Motioning for Race and a few other protesters to join us, we each take turns enlightening Brando with facts he may not have been aware of about the pipeline.
A part of me hopes that he will develop a genuine interest in the devastating impact these pipelines have on human lives, all to benefit the wealthiest 1 percent.
An elderly woman, leaning on her walker for support, extends a pamphlet to Brando. I'm surprised as he attentively studies it, seemingly absorbing every word. She must have recognized him, as a murmur spreads through the crowd that a Sanders is on the protest site.
“It robs our land from the future generations of my people,” she utters, her voice trembling amid a harsh cough.
My heart aches at the sight of this frail lady feeling compelled to stand on the street for hours. Beside her, a young man provides stability, his hands steadying her as she clings to her walker.
“She gets tired easily,” the young man explains.
I exchange a glance with Brando, while the younger boy explains the reason behind her distress.
“The chemicals that flow through the pipeline seep into the land and atmosphere, making the soil nearly unusable for farming and depriving us of the means to feed our livestock and warm our homes as we need to,” he says, his voice breaking as tears well up.
A young woman approaches us, appearing no older than sixteen.
“My name is Alinta Weathervane Sharp. I am the granddaughter of our people's chief,” she introduces herself, reaching out to shake Brando's hand.
