We are WAAM

A WAAM day starts with a coffee carafe brewed by early-rising marchers or by even-earlier-rising church deacons. Oatmeal, muffins and hard-boiled eggs are eaten among the deflating of air mattresses, “Hey, let me help you with that,” the rolling of sleeping bags, street medics treating blisters and joking as they apply tape to ankles and knees. A marcher with torn cotton socks is gifted a pair of Darn Toughs, and bathrooms are crowded by sink-showerers.

In the parking lot, a line of marchers load up the U-Haul with duffles, suitcases (wheelies last), sleeping supplies. Someone climbs up with the giant laser printer and there’s the double-check of extra medical provisions, don’t forget all the cellphone charging stations (now that would be the end of the world).

A check for misplaced water bottles, stray toothbrushes. A facility cleanliness inspection. A reminder to take your pills! Tie your shoes! No public urination! It’s time to march!

When you imagine resistance, you probably think of signs and rallies. After the last year, resistance has come to include frog costumes and whistles. But that WAAM morning, that is also resistance. It is the core of true resistance. 

Over the last four decades, the Far Right has come into our communities and widened the fissures already there. We’ve been conditioned to blame a neighbor, to fear a stranger. Toddlers are taught at Pop Pop’s knee to hate people who seem different.

November 2024 seemed to be a referendum not just of politicians but of our character as a nation. Would we define ourselves by who we cast aside? 

What connects our WAAM team – from marchers to organizers, all different ages, religions, ethnicities, educational experience, even political parties, from Texas to Alaska – is a shared belief that living day-to-day in this society of exclusion is untenable. This is not the true nature of America.

And so we march. Pilgrimages can be found throughout US history. When the crisis is deep and vast, when people need to feel connected and find strength – 300 miles from Delano to Sacramento, the Longest Walk of 1978, those three heroic marches from Selma to Montgomery – we unite and march. With every step, we redefine what it means to be American.

We do not do this by being loud (yes, we have megaphones), or by waving signs (yes, we also have signs) or by wearing funny costumes (yes, Gritty’s head is floating somewhere in the back of the U-Haul). Instead we negotiate who gets the leaky air mattress. We drop the truck ramp on someone’s foot and fight over the proper way to handle lunch meat (the answer is not to leave it in a car overnight). Our march leads can’t agree on the right direction and you’ll hear over the radio, “Justin, slow the fuck down!” But then we make each other sandwiches, patch up holes, apologize and stay up late pouring over maps together.

We build a ragtag community where it’s least expected. That community spreads. It spreads to the CVS cashiers when we beg to use their restrooms. It spreads to the pastors and church elders whose initial hesitance turns into the offer of not just an overnight but a potluck breakfast. It spreads to the gas station attendant calling us the “Route 40 gang” and the nurse who travels down the state highway to Perry Point each morning and home each night, who sees us marching for days in a row and understands, deep in her bones, the physical sacrifice.

WAAM visits churches, community centers, little league fields and basketball courts. We dance at farms and break bread at the American Legion and VFW posts. We line up on docks, hike through forests and clog up interstate off-ramps. We are not just following in the wake of that Far Right infestation, we are charting a path through America that is all our own.