Rochelle Distelheim
The street intersections were the hardest part. The women, tangled up with cars and buses and taxis and dogs, the police, directing everyone to slow down or hurry up or get out of the way, blowing, blowing their whistles, until somehow the marchers made it to the opposite side, regrouped, and moved on. For several blocks, a small clutch of boys, twelve, thirteen, fourteen years old, tagged alongside, shouting, “Go home, do the dishes, your kids are calling you.”
