Maybe the end of the world is not upon us

I was glad that some of the people I work with went out into the women's marches across the country. One retired person, who still substitutes at my library, drove across the country with a friend to march all the way over at the big one, in Washington. When she came back I saw her pictures and heard some of her stories. But it was a story of hers that she told after all her other stories were done that sticks with me the most. It wasn't about signs, or Trump, or righteousness. It was a small story about a crowd of people. And though I am deeply jaundiced about the positive power of the people, it was oddly this story, above any I heard, in all the marches, that I found heartening.

In giant crowds in Washington D.C., my co-worker was marching. She had her sign. Her friend had a sign. As they marched along a chant, a marching chant, moved its way forward towards her. As they understood its import, she and her friend took up this chant too:

"Imelda,
Imelda,
Imelda from New York.
You lost your I.D.
Imelda,
Imelda,
Imelda from New York.
You lost your I.D."

And then after chanting it for awhile the crowd parted like unto the Red Sea before Moses. A woman worked her way back through the crowd to the source of the chant and a great space was made, the crowd and my co-worker hushing their marching song as they saw her coming through.

Then, in a few minutes, the chant came forward through the crowd once more:
 
"Imelda,
Imelda,
She found her I.D.
 Imelda,
Imelda,
She found her I.D."