To the editor:
I came of age in 1967-1968 in a working-class world shaped by the draft and the Vietnam War. In my community, Vietnam wasn’t a headline — it was a phone call you dreaded and a name you might see in the paper. And for young women, the consequences of being labeled “fast” were real: reputations, opportunities, futures.
I also remember a time when women had far fewer choices and protections than we do now. I remember “homes for unwed mothers,” and the quiet shame that surrounded them. I remember when women could not open a bank account, apply for a credit card or take out a loan without a husband’s or male relative’s permission. Those limits weren’t theoretical — they shaped real lives, constrained real futures and were enforced by law and custom alike.
I’ve lived long enough to see something important: public pressure can become public policy, and public policy can change real lives. When I was young, I watched civil rights activism force America to confront segregation and discrimination. I watched the women’s movement push open doors in education, work and basic independence. I watched gay rights activists refuse to be shamed into silence and I watched the culture begin to shift. These weren’t abstract arguments in a classroom. They were visible, concrete changes — who could vote, who could rent or buy a home, who could go to school, who could be hired, who could be treated with dignity in public. That’s why the right to protest matters so much to me. The First Amendment isn’t a decoration. It’s a promise that ordinary people have the right to assemble, to speak and to demand redress when the powerful aren’t listening. Protest is what citizens do when polite silence becomes complicity.
So, when you see people out on the street in Marblehead — young people, parents, grandparents, working people, retirees — you’re seeing something deeply American. You’re seeing neighbors practicing citizenship in public. I also protest because of the people I stand with. My friends and neighbors are the reason these gatherings feel less like anger and more like purpose. Out there, we are not only grieving what has been damaged — we are talking, face to face, about what we want this country to be. There is deep pain in recognizing how far we have fallen short, but there is also deep belief: belief that this country, though always imperfect, is still defined by ideals worth fighting for, and that we are always meant to be working toward a more perfect union.
And I protest because of the work that most people never see. People make signs and bring extra ones for anyone who arrives without one. People show up in 90-degree heat and in freezing weather. Organizers arrive early, set up music and speakers and build the kind of welcoming public space that helps strangers become neighbors. They write newsletters, keep people informed and keep everyone steady and connected. That steady, behind-the-scenes labor is not incidental — it is what makes sustained civic action possible.
I protest, too, because of the values my family handed down to me. My father, my Aunt Peg and my uncles who served in World War II taught me — by example, not slogans — that liberty and justice have to apply to everyone, or they are not real. One of my uncles, Paul, was shot down, imprisoned and forced on a death march as a prisoner of war. Even after what he endured, he never lost his belief in this country’s founding promises: “that all men are created equal,” and that life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness are not privileges for a few, but rights meant for all.
Not everyone standing there came of age when I did. Some were shaped by different wars, different movements or different turning points entirely. But many of us were raised — directly or indirectly — in the shadow of World War II, by people who believed that democracy required participation, vigilance and sacrifice. That belief still runs deep. It’s what brings people out week after week, in the heat and in the cold, to do the steady, unglamorous work of showing up. I’m proud that this country has always had the capacity to change, even when change was overdue. We are not a perfect nation, but we are a nation built on the idea that the people are allowed —and obligated — to speak when something is wrong.
I protest because I love my country enough to insist it do better. I protest because I know history: showing up matters. And I protest because I want my children and grandchildren to inherit the same rights, dignity and pride I was raised to believe in — and to know those promises are still real.
Sincerely,
Mary Chalifour
Ocean Avenue
