March Together
"She's marching against the new immigration bill. He's the Somali journalist covering the protest. Their interview turns into coffee, coffee turns into dinner, and by midnight they're debating policy in his bed."
"Can I get a quote?"
I turn from the crowd. A man with a press badge and a voice recorder, Somali by the look of him, professional by the stance.
"What kind of quote?"
"Why you're here. What this bill means to you." He holds up his recorder. "I'm covering for the community radio station."
"My parents came here as refugees. This bill would have kept them out." I look at the crowd around us. "I'm here because I exist."
He's good at his job.
Asks follow-up questions. Listens to my answers. Treats my words like they matter.
"That's incredible," he says when I finish. "Thank you."
"That's it?"
"Unless you want to continue over coffee." He grins. "Off the record."
"You're asking me out at a protest?"
"I'm asking you for coffee at a place where we clearly have something in common." He shrugs. "The protest part is coincidental."
Coffee turns into two hours.
We argue about tactics—direct action versus community organizing. We agree about goals—dignity, respect, belonging. We discover we went to the same secondary school, just different years.
"How did we never meet?" he asks.
"I was invisible in school."
"Impossible." He leans forward. "You're the least invisible person I've ever interviewed."
"That's either flattering or concerning."
"It's honest." He checks his watch. "I have to file my story. But can I see you again?"
He sees me again.
And again. And again.
We go to protests together now—him with his recorder, me with my signs. People think we're an activist power couple.
"Is that what we are?" I ask one night.
"I don't know what we are." He pulls me close. "But I know what I want us to be."
"What's that?"
"Everything." He kisses me. "I want to fight beside you. Dream beside you. Wake up beside you."
"That's very poetic for a journalist."
"Journalists can be poetic." He lifts me onto his desk. "Especially when inspired."
We make love surrounded by his notes on immigration policy.
"This is ironic—" I gasp.
"This is perfect." He pushes into me. "Politics and passion. Same thing."
"They're not the same—"
"They're both about believing in something enough to act." He speeds up. "I believe in you."
We come together.
Lie tangled in his flat while the city sleeps.
"There's another protest next week," he says.
"I'll be there."
"Want company?"
"Want a quote?"
"I want you." He pulls me closer. "Everything else is extra."
We march together for years.
Through protests and victories and defeats. Through changing governments and unchanging convictions.
"Marry me," he says at a rally for refugee rights.
"Now?"
"Now. Here. In front of everyone who believes in the same things we do." He kneels in the crowd. "I want to commit to you the way we commit to this cause."
I say yes.
The crowd cheers.
And we march together into the future.
Side by side.
Forever fighting.
Forever loving.