I showed up on a gray Saturday by Park Street. The T screeched. A gust rolled up Beacon Street and hit me right in the face. I clutched my hot Dunkin’ like it was a tiny heater. You know what? Boston can feel loud and quiet at the same time. This was one of those days.
(For the full photo-heavy version of this story—including a few moments I didn’t fit here—you can read my extended write-up on Operation Defuse right here.)
Setting the scene (yep, it was tense)
The protest met near Boston Common, close to the gates. I saw hand-made poster boards. Some had neat letters. Some were wobbly and taped at the edges. One sign said, “Love Them Both.” Another said, “Every life is a gift.” A woman in a blue coat handed out little pamphlets that showed week-by-week baby growth. I still have one in my tote. The corners are bent from the wind. Local media later noted how Boston has become a recurring stage for demonstrations like this (Boston Globe).
Across the street, a group answered them. It was a counter-protest. They had bright pink signs. The bold one I remember read, “My Body. My Choice.” A chant hit from that side, then an answer from ours. Back and forth, like a tug-of-war you can hear. The police stood in a neat line near the curb. Calm faces. Yellow vests. One officer, tall with a soft voice, kept saying, “Please stay on the sidewalk.” And we did. If you're curious about organizations that specialize in calmly de-escalating high-tension public gatherings, take a look at Operation Defuse.
How it felt (honestly, my stomach was tight)
I’m not gonna lie. I felt nervous. I also felt curious. The crowd wasn’t huge, but it wasn’t small. Picture two school gyms worth of people, spread out. A man in a Red Sox beanie handed me a spare hand warmer. He said, “You’ll need this.” He was right. My fingers hurt less after that.
A speaker used a portable mic. It crackled like old radio. She told a short story about her teen years, her church, and a bus ride to a clinic. People nodded. A few cried. A mom next to me had a stroller and a diaper bag that kept slipping off her shoulder. She kept fixing it with one hand and clapping with the other. On the curb, someone led a quiet prayer. I heard the soft rhythm of a rosary being counted, bead by bead. Catholic-focused outlets have been following these prayerful marches closely, offering national context (Catholic News Agency).
Real moments that stuck with me
- A high school kid held a sign made from a pizza box lid. It said, “Please choose life,” written with a thick black Sharpie. The grease stain on the corner was still there.
- A man near me kept saying “Thank you for coming,” like he was greeting people at a cookout, not a protest. It disarmed me a bit.
- Counter-protesters across the way started a chant. “Not your body? Not your choice.” It was sharp and quick. Our side answered with a hymn. The melody wobbled, but folks tried.
- Someone dropped a coffee. It splashed over their shoes. Another person offered napkins from a brown paper bag. Small, silly thing. But it made me breathe.
Sound, space, and the stuff no one tells you
The sound system was hit or miss. When a bus rolled by, the mic vanished under the roar. If you stood too far back, you caught only bits. If you stood too close, it felt like the speaker was inside your head. The wind did its own thing. It pushed voices up and away, then shoved them back down.
The police kept both groups apart with metal barriers. It wasn’t harsh, more like a steady guardrail. I appreciated that. The layout made it clear where to stand, where not to stand. No guesswork. No crowd crush.
(Seeing badges, barricades, and strict lanes got me thinking about bigger crack-downs. I actually unpacked what full-blown emergency powers feel like for regular people in my first-person review, What Is Martial Law for Folks Like Me?.)
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My take, plain and simple
This was heavy. Not just “news heavy,” but heart heavy. I came home tired in a way that sleep doesn’t fix. I believe in protecting life. That’s my lane. But I also heard pain from the other side. It’s Boston—people tell you how they feel right to your face. I respect that, even when it stings.
Did I agree with every chant? No. Did I speak up? A little. I sang when the hymn started, soft, because my voice shakes when I’m nervous. I held one end of a sign for a woman who needed both hands to zip up her kid’s coat. That felt like the most useful thing I did all day.
If you go next time (logistics, not advice)
- Wear warm socks. The ground eats heat. I’m serious.
- Bring a small snack. A granola bar saved me from being cranky.
- Expect both sides. Expect noise. Expect to feel things you didn’t plan to feel.
- A tote bag beats a backpack in tight spaces. Easier to swing around and grab what you need.
- Keep ID in a front pocket. You’ll thank yourself if your hands are full.
(Side note: friends always ask what happens if things escalate way beyond a protest—like, can you even leave the country if martial law is declared? I tackled that real-world question in this piece: Can You Leave the Country if Martial Law Is Declared?.)
What worked and what didn’t (as an event, not a verdict)
What worked:
- Clear police lines and calm tone
- Short speeches with real stories
- Simple signs you could read from far away
What didn’t:
- Weak mic setup in traffic noise
- Confusing meetup points for late arrivals
- A few folks talking over speakers (both sides did this)
Walking back to the T
On my way to Park Street Station, a gust pushed a flyer across my shoes. I picked it up and tossed it in a bin. A busker down the steps was playing guitar and humming “Let It Be.” Funny choice, right? I stood there longer than I planned, letting my ears reset. Then I went home, quiet on the train, watching the city glide by like a slow movie.
Would I go again? I think so. Not because it was easy. Because it mattered—to people who showed up, and to me, too. I’ll remember the beanie guy, the pizza box sign, the cracked mic, the hymn that hung in the cold air. Small things. Real things. They stick.