The Demographics Of Protests - Women Are There In Numbers To Meet A Man, Political Causes Are Incidental

At last weekend’s "No Kings" protest in Washington, D.C., inflatable chickens bobbed above a crowd that, according to demographic research, was made up mostly of educated white women in their 40s.

Psychotherapist Jonathan Alpert said that the "No Kings" protests are a snapshot of an era when emotional catharsis and civic activism have begun to blur (MSN)

Felicia Wright had recently turned forty, was still single - well, she had been married once to an emotional vagabond, but for nearly ten years she had been on her own.  She lived in a small condo on Wilson Boulevard in Arlington, a reprise of the girl ghetto of the Upper East Side back in the day, but no where near as chi-chi.  

Those were the days, recalled her mother, just out of Vassar and 'in publishing', shopping at Bendel's and Saks, meeting swells from Yale at the Oak Bar of the Plaza, dining with investment bankers at Max's Kansas City, and packed into the Long Island Railroad for weekends in the Hamptons in the hot summer months. 

 

No, the Arlington condo complex was not the Upper East Side.  It was more of a cheap bedroom community for women like herself who came home after tiring days in one government agency or another, too knackered from the routine, the airless warrens, and the deadening, purposeless meetings to go out at night.

At least in her marriage there were some life prospects.  Her husband, as much of a prick as he turned out to be, had money, some of it inherited from his family, the rest earned in commercial real estate development; and Felicia and he went island hopping in the winter, and took long summer vacations in Tuscany. 

They lived in the Dresden, an old fashioned, early Twentieth Century building in Kalorama with an ornate stone work facade, a historic Victorian wrought iron door, Baccarat chandeliers, and spacious apartments overlooking the park.  It was not a bad life, a comer's life, and if it hadn't been for 1) his insider trading; 2) his bilious drinking; and 3) his serial affairs with the likes of Amanda from Accounting, they might have made a go of it.  

She had found him inimitably attractive when she met him at the Yale Club, was charmed by his elegantly sophisticated ways, and therefore overlooked the prick beneath.  So be it, life is not fair. 

'I've got to get out more', she muttered to herself one evening on the Red Line, headed home; and vowed to make an effort.  She wasn't getting any younger, her biological pull-by date was fast approaching, and she had no intention of remaining solitary for the rest of her life. 

Like many young women of her age and background, she was a committed progressive, and was wedded to ideas of social justice, compassion, international peace, and environmental sanity.  She had never been a joiner, and despite the repeated requests of her co-workers and condo neighbors, she demurred.  These meetings always ended up with desperately ugly women hammering away at something or other, and she preferred a life of uninvolvment to one of hysterically reaching out. 

'Come', said a friend, 'just this once', and together they marched on the Washington Mall for climate action.  There were thousands of people there, most very much like her -fortyish women of good pedigree, education, and employment - all of whom were having a grand old time together.  

It was like her Girl Scout Jamboree in Indianapolis long ago, troops of girls on their own for the first time, laughing giggling, whispering about boys. There was the same camaraderie, the same girlish enthusiasm, and the same hopefulness, and except for Father Time - many of these women had not aged well and already had the sags, folds, and lines of grandmothers - it was a joyful affair. 

Felicia had to admit, it was fun.  It was a glorious October day, the Capitol and the White House shone brightly in the sun, the grass on the Mall was still green, and the cheeriness and bouncy happiness of the crowd was exciting.  

The political issue at hand - demand for a dramatic reduction in carbon emissions - was lost in the jubilation.  The podium was far from where she and her friend stood, the speakers were second hand and crackly, and there simply was too much chatter to hear what was being said.  No one cared, for the wonderful sense of community, friendship, common values, and shared experience were quite enough. 

Washington is the mecca for protests, and groundskeepers are always reseeding, returfing, edging, and rolling the Mall grounds, keeping  it in good shape for the tourists and for the next protesters.  Fall was a particularly good time for demonstrations - the cloying heat and humidity of the Washington summer had retreated, winter's cold was still distant, and everything combined to make the Mall a congenial, welcoming place. 

 

And so it was that Felicia became a frequent protester.  The dullness of her job, her single life, and her bare condo, were quickly forgotten once she got downtown with thousands of her new-found sisters in arms. 

Many young women came to Washington to do good, and they worked at the many non-profit agencies helping the poor, the black, the marginalized, the gay, and the underprivileged.  These women formed the core of the protests on the Mall for they were expressions of the same commitment evidenced during working hours. 

Felicia was a 'tweener - a professional in a for profit company which relied on government grants to improve the health and welfare of poor Africans.  The company took their fair share of the monies won, and their stock options and generous retirement accounts were well known in the industry.

So Felicia was not a do-gooder and primed for social protests, but the environment of her firm was decidedly progressive - pro-Palestine, anti-Israel, pro-black, Latino, and gay - but noses were too close to the grindstone for any political activism. 

But on the weekends, out they went to the Mall to protest, to shout and demand dignity and recognition; so it really was only a matter of time that Felicia was enticed. 

Now, given the demographics - thousands of single, available, anxious women - the protests were also prime feeding ground for the savvy young men of Washington who had come to the Nation's capital for fame, fortune, and influence, but who reveled in the distorted demographic curve - young women flocked there in great numbers. They took jobs as interns, associates, subalterns in the vast army of bureaucrats and politicians, and of course novitiates in the congregations of doing good. 

'Imagine it' wrote Bob Atkins to a friend from Chillicothe. 'Pussy everywhere for the asking', and so it was that he cruised the Mall every time there was a protest and never left empty-handed.  There was Betty from Freedom From Hunger, Charlotte from the Environmental Defense Fund, and Megan from the Equal Opportunity Commission.  These women simply could not get enough political commitment 9-5 and poured out into the sunlight every weekend. 

Now, Felicia would never have admitted any sexual intentions for her attendance at these Mall rallies, but she was quick to notice the young men in her midst.  They did their share of shouting and hollering for social change, but were not indifferent to the women around them.  In fact they were most attentive, considerate, and engaging. 

What could be better? An attractive man who shared her personal values and with whom there might very well be a future. 

Robert Alling noticed Felicia at an abortion rally - she was still young-looking, had a pertness and very youthful appeal, and he noticed her diffidence.  She was clearly not interested in the political goings on, had an air of expectation and promise, all personal.  Bob had known many women like this who lived on the cusp, never quite happy with their lives, always looking for something more fulfilling and satisfying. Particularly attuned to this neediness, he was quick to profit.  Poor Felicia never had a chance. 

The affair was good while it lasted - passionate, hungry, adventurous - but Bob soon returned to the Mall to troll for new conquests. Why tie oneself down when a cornucopia of sexual delights awaited? 

And so it was that Felicia was left on the curb, a note left on her pillow, and the adored Robert disappeared into the crowd. 

'Better to have loved and lost', she reminded herself, 'than never to have loved at all', but in her heart of hearts she knew that Robert was just as much of a despicable prick as her former husband, and it took quite a while for the resentment to settle and disappear. 

Meanwhile, sexually recondite, she was quite happy in the company of women, and the delighted political enthusiasm was infectious.  She came home from the protests exhilarated, alive, and satisfied. 

'Can't do this forever', she said two years later, finally exhausted from the good cheer and faux enthusiasm, but there was nothing much on the horizon, so she kept it up for a desultory few more months and then disappeared.  Her colleagues were surprised - she was such a good worker - but there was always something flighty about her 

As for Felicia, it is presumed that she is either in Humboldt County amidst the redwoods or lying on the sand on Venice Beach, or back in Carmel, Indiana with her folks.  One of thousands of female aspirants who come to Washington, leave, and find solace elsewhere.