Originally written in January 2017

The day after Donald Trump's inauguration, I attended a large protest to which my friends on Facebook had invited me. I felt an obligation to go, carrying a sense of guilt for not being more engaged during the election. I planned to take an Uber for the 13-mile trip downtown, but the morning surge had fares hovering between $120 and $180. I opted instead for one of the many buses that course along Los Angeles's arterial boulevards.

As I waited, my first encounter with a fellow protest-goer unfolded. An industry-looking type walked over, sheepishly asking me the bus fare. I briefly wondered why he'd chosen me to ask, but glancing around, the answer became clear. Apparently, I was supposed to share in his sense of displacement. I told him the standard fare, and without so much as a thank you, he turned to rummage in his pockets for the correct change. A young mother with her child, also heading to the protest, overheard and began loudly complaining about the bus's delay. She seemed to be seeking an ally, but I found it hard to indulge her anxiety. I assured her that the bus would arrive in due time — as it always does — but my reassurance was lost as she stomped into the street, scanning the horizon for any sign of it. A young homeless man, dozing on the bench behind us, flinched each time she exclaimed something.

Eventually, an empty bus rolled up, and we paid our fare to board. Over the next hour, a steady flow of protest-goers and regular riders trickled on. As we traveled further from my beachside neighborhood, the pink-hatted, sign-bearing crowd gradually gave way to housekeepers, construction workers, homeless men, and elderly Korean ladies with push carts. Their uniforms were the tools of working-class people, not the costumes of protest. The clash between our agendas could not have been more stark.

When the bus crossed into the edges of L.A.'s gentrified territory, a few protest-goers started anxiously wondering aloud about which stop was ours. The regulars looked on with muted amusement as we reoriented ourselves. Others in our crowd chatted, trading disbelief over the idea of Donald Trump as president. A consensus surfaced: no one could fathom enduring his administration.

The bus buzzed with energy as helicopters appeared, weaving around skyscrapers in the distance. People pulled out their smartphones, gripping their signs and readying for action. Laughter burst here and there whenever someone revealed their political slogan for the day. Then, like sheep, we all poured off at a single stop, flowing toward the growing crowd across the street. As I made my way into the thick of things, the movement slowed to a crawl. Protesters would stop unpredictably, pausing to snap selfies or group shots. It felt intrusive to cross into someone's frame uninvited, yet nearly impossible to avoid. Somewhere in the distance, an echo of voices amplified by a PA system floated over the crowd, but I could never quite reach it. It almost felt as if the unstructured, wandering nature of the gathering was intentional.

I eventually found myself in a section lined with tents and portable toilets. Political organizations filled the tents, eagerly handing out pamphlets. I didn't take any; the surrounding bins were already overflowing. As I passed, a particularly long line caught my eye, unsurprisingly leading to a hip coffee shop, known for its gourmet beans and elite price tag.

After a while, I slipped away from the crowd to find some cellular service, feeling the need to process the day's events from the vantage of my Facebook feed. Wandering a few blocks, I found a sunny corner with a cafe and some outdoor seating. I leaned against a nearby wall, checking for a signal. While scrolling, I was interrupted by the sound of a woman yelling obscenities. I looked up to see a mentally disabled woman flailing her arms at a few protesters inside the cafe. Her urgency was a stark contrast to the lighthearted commotion just blocks away. Inside, people pointed their smartphones at her to capture the moment, unaware that this scene, raw and unresolved, was the day's most meaningful moment.