19 Love Songs

by David Levithan

  Slowly, we begin to move. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a more polite crowd. There’s a lot of you first, no YOU first, and eventually we are moving around the Georgia Aquarium and making our way to the plaza.

  C.K. reaches into her pocket and takes out her phone. I’m hoping it’s because she wants to use the camera, but no—instead she’s checking a text. Then another.

  As much as Courtney may think she’s hiding it well, I can see the concern on her face. The needle of bad luck is pressing hard against the balloon of her happiness. She was starting to think of C.K.’s time as hers, but now she’s feeling like she was only borrowing it from C.K.’s real friends, out in the crowd.

  True friend that I am, all I can think is, Please may she not already have a girlfriend. Please may she not already have a girlfriend.

  “What’s up?” I ask casually as she texts a response.

  “Nothing.” C.K. puts the phone back in her pocket. “Some of my friends are over there.” She points to a building that has yellow construction-material walls. There have to be tens of thousands of people between here and there. “They want me to find them. But I was like, That’s just not gonna happen.”

  “It’s okay if you need to go,” Courtney says. Because that’s what Courtney does, always providing the escape route from her own heart. I try to signal her to stop, to not give the out unless she wants it taken.

  “I’m really good here,” C.K. says. “Assuming you guys don’t mind.”

  “It wouldn’t be the same without you,” Courtney quickly replies. And I think, Good for you. Don’t worry about where it ends up; just keep it going.

  We’re coming onto the plaza outside the Center for Civil and Human Rights now, and nearing the new sculpture that lies at its heart. The crowd could easily go around it, but most of us are going through. The sky is lighter now, the weather beginning to feel like early summer, and volunteers are handing out free bottles of water for anyone who needs them. As we walk under the monument, Margaret Mead’s quote plays against the glass, backed by white clouds and more than a hint of light blue sky.

  NEVER DOUBT

  THAT A SMALL

  GROUP OF

  THOUGHTFUL,

  COMMITTED

  CITIZENS

  CAN CHANGE

  THE WORLD.

  It’s as if Mead is speaking to us across time. I stop to take a picture, already sensing that I’m going to need to collect moments from this day to get me through the next four years.

  Pockets of people cheer at Courtney’s sign and C.K.’s sign. They hold them up proudly. People start to chant, “Hate does not make America great!”—louder and louder with each repetition. We get to the stairs by the side of Coca-Cola World, and as we’re walking up, I turn around to see what I think will be a trail of people behind me…and instead find people as far as the eye can see. Pink hats and baseball caps. The full skin spectrum. The future is STILL female and I’M with HER. And HER. And HER. And HER. And HER. and White Silence is Violence. Black Lives Matter. and All People Are Created Equal. Behind me, a woman in a black windbreaker holds a portrait of Ruth Bader Ginsburg saying I DISSENT. We aren’t just marching through the plaza—we are surrounding it.

  OUR BODIES. OUR MINDS. OUR POWER.

  Everyone is waiting her turn to march—and then everyone is taking her turn to march.

  We skirt around Coca-Cola World. As we stride, the city watches over us. We find our way to Centennial Drive, which is now the main artery of the protest. We enter the bloodstream.

  Courtney and C.K. are ahead of me again, are holding hands again, and from the way they lean in to each other, I can construct the rough shape of a heart. Next to me is a twelve-year-old white girl in a white T-shirt with a similar red heart on it; she wears red lipstick and her hair looks like it was shaped by 1920s Hollywood. She isn’t carrying a sign; she is enough of a sign herself, walking purposefully with her mother beside her.

  I fall a little farther back. The woman beside me is carrying a Hillary sign. In front of me, there’s a dark-skinned toddler on his mom’s shoulders—a black-and-white striped long-sleeve T underneath his orange T. He looks fussy, so his mom turns around and walks backwards so he can face his other mom, who makes faces to cheer him up. He bursts into a cloud-break grin, facing us all now like he’s conducting the crowd. Everyone around him welcomes this.

  I spot a row of Porta-Potties and see a bespectacled guy with a bright pink Radical Queer Librarians poster. As I pass, a blond spitfire of a librarian joins him. I’ve noticed many librarian-related signs in the crowd today, although I can’t explain why. I am happy to be librarian-adjacent.

  I catch up to C.K. and Courtney, who are now talking about the largest crowds they’ve ever been part of…which turns into a conversation about the first concerts they ever went to…which turns into a conversation about whether an affection for the Jonas Brothers is more or less shameful than an affection for Nelly. (The answer, of course, is that neither is particularly shameful.) Courtney starts to serenade C.K. with “Burnin’ Up.” C.K. responds with “Just a Dream.” We’re passing the convention center (more librarians, cheering from the sidewalk) and getting close to the modernist monolith of the new stadium, which in its construction phase looks like something Darth Vader deemed too ugly for his own backyard.

  We’re heading for the elevated length of MLK Drive, and as we turn onto it, a brass band a few dozen feet ahead of us starts to play. I don’t recognize the song at first, but then the tune kicks in and I realize it’s “I’m Every Woman.” Courtney and a few other women in the crowd start to sing along. But C.K., for the first time, looks bashful. I don’t get it, but as the song goes on and the bashfulness persists, my gaytuition kicks in—in my case, it’s most useful for making largely useless pop-culture connections.

  “Holy shit!” I say to her, far too excited. “Your real name is Chaka Khan, isn’t it?”

  Courtney, thinking I’m making a dumb joke, groans, “Otis.” Then she turns to C.K. and says, “Sorry about him. He was raised by goats.”

  “No,” C.K. says. “Actually, he’s right. My mom is…a big fan.”

  “No shit!” Courtney says.

  “Mmm-hmm,” C.K. confirms.

  “Well then, dude, you have to sing,” Courtney says, pulling at her arm.

  “After all, it’s all in you,” I add.

  “Shut up,” C.K. and Courtney say at once, then sing along as the four tubas at the center of the brass band bring the tune home.

  “This is what democracy looks like!” we call out again and again as we continue down MLK. I can hear waves of cheers coming from ahead. When we get closer to the spot where the cheers are emanating from, I realize that the crowd is cheering the police officers who are watching over us. People are calling out thanks, and many of the police officers are smiling and waving back.

  There are no counter-protesters in sight.

  My phone vibrates and I see it’s a message from my mom, checking to see if everything is okay. As I’m texting her back, I look at Courtney and say, “Hey, text your mom.” She turns to C.K. and says the same thing. C.K. then turns to the woman next to her and says, “Text your mom.” The woman says it to the guy next to her. And then, all of a sudden, people are starting to chant, “Text. Your. Mom! Text. Your. Mom!” People are pulling their phones out, taking pictures, sending them. I take a video of the chant for my mom, then send it to her with the message, You did this. We’re all good.

  As we get to the edge of the Fulton County Courthouse, there’s an African American woman standing on a ledge above the sidewalk. She looks like she, too, could be a librarian—glasses, cool earrings, white T-shirt, black skirt. She is hoisting a sign above her head that proclaims I AM MY ANCESTORS’ WILDEST DREAMS. We call our admiration out to her and she calls us forward.

  The brass band pipes up wit
h “This Land Is Your Land.” Behind them, another sign is hoisted: Protect each other.

  I turn around and face two women with matching Be a Good Human sweatshirts. Behind them, the streets are filled to the horizon line.

  It is a sea of people, and I feel one of the strengths of this is that it not only joins us to the other bodies of humanity that are forming in cities and towns across the world today, but reaches back and unites us with all the other marches in history that were about justice and fairness and resistance to those who would undermine equality and opportunity. It’s as if when we march today, we are retroactively marching behind John Lewis in the sixties and marching on the mall for gay rights and abortion rights in the nineties and marching to protest the war in Iraq in the new century and the brutality in Ferguson only a short time ago. All of these histories overlap in us, and they are the fuel to our fire.

  We are nearing the state capitol, the end of our route. We have by now been out here for hours and our feet are starting to feel sore. But it doesn’t feel like enough, not nearly enough.

  The capitol is in view now. The band unexpectedly fills the air with “I’ll Fly Away” and we all start to sing along. People who learned it from their parents or their grandparents. People who learned it from church. People who learned it from Alison Krauss. People who learned it from George Jones or Johnny Cash. We sing it at the capitol and then past the capitol, right up to the heavens.

  As I watch, Courtney puts her arm around C.K.’s shoulders. C.K. reaches over and takes off Courtney’s hat. Then she reaches to her own hat, removes it, and places it on Courtney’s head. Next, she puts Courtney’s on her own head. They sing the whole time.

  We strangers are all smiling at one another. We are so much louder together than we are on our own. I knew I was here to protest; I knew I was here to unite. But what I didn’t know was that I was here to remember why I am so in love with the world. As hard as it is, as difficult as it may be, I am deeply, unfathomably in love with the world that can have us here like this. I will always fear losing this world, but I must always keep in my heart what having it is like, and what loving it can bring. I must remember that I am not the only one who loves it. This love is shared by multitudes. It is visible in tens of thousands of different ways right now. Because when you are in love with the world, you want the world to know it.

  There is a sniper on the roof of the capitol, watching over us. When we wave to him, he awkwardly waves back. John Lewis is probably on his way to a reception by now, or on his way home. This isn’t a race; there is no finish line. There is simply a corner where some people are going one way and some people are going another.

  I’ll fly away

  I’ll fly away

  We cheer as the band ends the song, because music is a victory, and our march is a victory, and we love each other so much at this moment, all of us in this together.

  I don’t want to breathe this in—breath passes through too quickly.

  I don’t want to simply remember it—memory starts to feel unreal.

  I want this in my DNA.

  I suspect it’s always been in our DNA.

  As we reach Capitol Avenue, we need to make way for all the marchers behind us. When we get to the corner, I will ask C.K. which direction she needs to go. When she says left, I’ll say I need to go right—and then tell Courtney I’ll catch up with her later, so they can continue their conversation wherever it may go. I will watch them walk away in their matching-yet-different pink hats, and then I will wander through the city as we marchers continue on, the glory remaining in our hearts. Were you there? we’ll ask each other. I was there, we’ll say. From this center, we will spread to the far reaches, go to our homes and to the places less welcoming to us. We will not stop being together. Our love will endure.

  TRACK NINETEEN

  Give Them Words

  For the Freedom to Read Foundation, and all of the librarians, teachers, booksellers, writers, and others who fight for such freedom.

  You are here for

  the inquisitive and the ignored,

  the noble and the bored,

  the slouchers and the hecklers,

  those caught under the spell of spelling

  and those who couldn’t even begin to spell

  their own vulnerability.

  You are here for

  the loose-end, loose-change tenth grader sitting all alone at four o’clock, staring at the screen and scrolling, scrolling, scrolling through the world without stopping on any of it.

  You are here for

  the maladjusted truant with the heart of gold she thinks is made of coal, because every time she tries to feel something, smoke rises.

  You are here for

  the girl who sees college as her only way out

  the gay boy who wants to get married someday

  the lonely girl whose father hits her

  and her brother, who knows it’s happening but doesn’t know what to do.

  You give them words.

  You are here for

  the geeks who know more about Spider-Man than they know about life

  the gamers who, if they’re not careful, will shoot their way right into a war

  the nice girls who want to scream but are afraid of breaking something

  the mean girls who hate themselves more than they hate anyone else

  the children of addicts and accountants, the grandchildren of bigots, the great-great-grandchildren of slaves, the great-great-great-grandchildren of chiefs and immigrants.

  You give them words.

  You are here for

  the boy who has never been to Russia

  and the girl who has never been to Detroit

  the slow and violent starvers

  the bold and ignorant strivers

  the boy whose boyfriend makes him feel like shit

  the girl who thinks sex is safe because the boy she’s with says so

  the know-it-alls who know nothing, time and time again.

  You give them words.

  Like me, you have seen them

  fumble in the daylight

  risk the articulation

  shudder away from who they are because of what they’ve been told

  as if the truth is an electricity that will damage them

  when we know it is there to power them, empower them,

  plug them in to what the wider world has to offer.

  You know that some of them struggle every morning to rise from the weight of their own thoughts.

  You know that some of them have swallowed every name they’ve ever been called without being able to digest them, so that they hardly know who they are anymore.

  You know that some of them can only feel their own isolation, and none of the joy of the people around them.

  Words are the bridge.

  Words are the balm.

  Words can take us out of the hands of the people who believe in closed borders and closed minds.

  Words are the open base from which we build.

  If they do not have parents and schools that will teach them that all human beings are created equal,

  you give them words to know that all human beings are created equal.

  If they do not have friends and family who will show them that every life has a context, and every context has a meaning,

  you give them words to show them the context, to bring out the meaning.

  If they do not know who they are, you give them words to provide the options.

  If they do not know how they’ll live, you give them words to demonstrate that they are not alone in this.

  You are here for

  the sallow boy who remains quiet as his friends make fun of the free lunch

  the headstrong girl who will grow up to be preside
nt or something more important, like an English teacher

  the scared boy who never thought he’d be a father

  the elevated girl who dreams of catching fireflies because she read about them in a book that was born two hundred years before she was.

  You are here for

  the girl with the mockingjay tattoo

  the boy who needs to laugh at Captain Underpants because there are holes in his own

  the girl who learned to speak out from reading about a girl who spoke

  the boy who no longer wants to be phony and the boy who’s caught him in the rye.

  You give them words.

  By learning the ways other people have told stories,

  we learn to tell our own.

  By telling our own,

  we become free.

  Yes, free.

  The girls with their reverent dog-eared pages.

  The boys who need to keep that book with that title under their beds.

  The girls who don’t need God as long as they have Margaret.

  The boys who know what a real monster looks like, because Walter told them so.

  You may know me

  I am the boy who walked over to the library every day after school

  as my mom went back to school for her degree.

  I am the boy who worked for five dollars an hour in the high school library

  pressing magnetic strips against the spines

  making sure the microfilm was in order

  and using my employee discounts

  to build a library of my own.

  I met more gay teens in books than I ever did in high school.

  I traveled so much farther in books than I ever did in high school.

  I understood more about the colorful chaos and the delicate despair of the world from books than I ever would have figured out on my own.