A Protester's Journal

Clinton Wilder participated in the protests at the Bush inauguration in Washington. He is editor-at-large of Information Week magazine, a leading business publication for information technology professionals. Below is his account of the demonstrations.

Granted, it was a face behind a rain-streaked limousine window. But there he was, just yards away, riding past the Executive Office Building while we held our "You'd Better Start Listening, Georgie Boy" and "No Illegitimate Presidents" signs in full view and booed in full voice. And a few minutes later, after the requisite squadron of baby blue-helmeted motorcycle cops, Dick Cheney's limo rolled past to the same treatment.

Back in mid-December, when the Supreme Court brought its dismal curtain down on the month-long media marathon in our northern California home, my wife and I decided we had to be in Washington, D.C. to protest on Jan. 20. We were joined by two local friends and my (Washington resident) sister, her husband and her 11-year-old daughter, attending her very first protest march and looking the part with a "Hail to the Thief" sign and a Pittsburgh Penguins cap.

But none of us really expected that we'd actually get to express our sentiments to the new president and vice president in person. We arrived at the VoterMarch rally at Dupont Circle in late morning, shortly before a noontime moment of silence to mark Bush's swearing-in ceremony a couple of miles away. "We are entering possibly one of the darkest times in the history of our democracy," a rally speaker exhorted the crowd of about 500.

After about an hour of speeches and songs, some clever and some painfully bad (rhyming dubious with lugubrious?), we headed off in the frigid drizzle on a three-mile march toward the Ellipse behind the White House. It turned into a downpour as we passed a bronze statue of Gandhi, his sarong looking odd behind our parade of the North Face and Columbia ski jackets.

Spontaneous chants broke out, with my brother-in-law, a veteran of the 1973 Nixon inaugural protests, leading many. "I don't know but I've been told, this election has been sold!" and "I don't really mean to trouble ya, but could you please get rid of Dubya?" were some of the 2001 variations on old 60's themes.

Rumors of police scuffles elsewhere filtered through the crowd as we walked, but all was peaceful on our route. A couple of frat boys heckling from passing limos were more than offset by the support of car and cab horns, and thumbs-ups from folks in an airport shuttle van. "We're wet, we're cold," we sang, "but democracy's been sold."

Arrival at the Ellipse was anti-climactic. George was nowhere near the White House, and save for a few riot police across the chain-link fence, there were few non-protesters around to hear us. So we headed to 17th and G ad gathered near the Secret Service security checkpoint where people (mostly Bush fans) were lined up for screening to get to the Pennsylvania Avenue parade route.

We didn't bother trying to get to the parade route ourselves – and it turned out to be our lucky decision. About 3:30 p.m. the presidential motorcade turned off Pennsylvania and headed towards us, with nothing but a waist-high barricade and a single row of applauding Bush supporters between us and Dubya's car. We held our signs high in the rain, yelled "Booooo!" and "Hail to the Thief!" with all our might, and saw Bush (and Cheney after him) wave to us, or so it seemed.

At least we know they saw our group and our signs, and you can't ask for more than that. We took the Metro home soon afterwards, noting the fur coats and cowboy hats of the parade-goers across the subway tracks waiting for the Vienna, Va.-bound train. We were cold, wet and exhausted, but happy to feel a little bit like part of history.

And when I asked my 11-year-old niece what was her favorite part of the day, the answer came easily: "When George drove by."

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