On August 12th, I found
myself doing something that I never thought I would do. I was in Washington
D.C., six hours from home, sitting beneath the beating sun outside of the State
Department building, and risking arrest with about sixty other people.
“One!
We are the people! Two! You can’t ignore us! Three! We will not let you build
this pipeline!” My voice was growing ragged, but I persisted.
I
was holding a sign that said “Another person who grew up playing outside
against the pipeline,” and everyone else risking arrest with me was holding
these signs, each personalized to suit their reasons for protesting.
In
front of us was a crowd of about 100 people supporting us, and a swarm of media
with their cameras and notepads, running about like a colony of ants. At one
point, I looked into the crowd and saw a boy about my age holding up a sign
that said “Thank You Climate Heroes.” I almost cried. I typically would
consider Bill McKibben or Rachel Carson climate heroes, but today, some thought
I was a climate hero.
Just
a couple days before the protest, I was scrambling to get everything together
and be on my way. My parents were struggling to swallow the fact that their
soon-to-be-college-student was running off to D.C. all by herself, staying at a
stranger’s house, and that there was a possibility she would be arrested. And
if she was arrested, they couldn’t come get her. They would simply have to
leave her there in jail, because that’s how peaceful protesting works.
