No Kings 3 - Cuyahoga Falls

Saturday, March 28,

I started the day feeling groggy. After dropping my wife off at work, I grabbed a greasy fast-food breakfast and made my way toward Cuyahoga Falls.

As I reached the intersection of Broad Boulevard and Front Street, I saw a woman spiking signs into the turf. They read "No Kings" and "No Crowns," flanking a symbol of a crossed-out crown. Seeing them, I knew I was in the right place. I’d tried to attend a smaller rally in Kent back in the winter but missed it by minutes, arriving only to see people walking away with their signs. I wasn't going to let that happen again; I arrived an hour and a half early.

I pulled into the near-empty parking garage and headed to the top level overlooking the amphitheater. As I stepped out of the car, lazy snow flurries began to sting my skin. I was dangerously underdressed; I’d already retired my jeans for the season and, for some reason, decided on shorts. Shivering, I leaned over the concrete wall to watch the organizers setting up below.

Then, my anxiety flared. I stood there shivering, thinking: I should just leave; I’m going to freeze my ass off. The thoughts spiraled. Looking over that balcony, a dark paranoia took hold: What if they think I’m a shooter? It infuriates me that this is the state of the world. A state that I can't even stand on a balcony to look at a crowd without fearing for my life, terrified that my presence alone might be misconstrued as a threat. I became convinced the police were already on their way up to question me.

I retreated to my car and climbed inside, ready to go home. But I stopped. I forced myself back out and delivered a silent ultimatum: No. You have never held a belief this strong in your life.

Growing up, I’d heard stories of the American protests. I have the deepest respect for those who lost their lives protecting this country’s values, values that feel under attack right now. I knew I had to bite down and do any part, even if that just meant documenting this for the generations to come.

I pulled on my hoodie, grabbed my camera bag, and headed to the street. With an hour still to go, the area was quiet. I sat on a bench, watching the organizers work. Their conviction was incredible; they moved with a clear sense of purpose. Still nervous and shivering, I retreated once more to the warmth of my car, doom-scrolling to quiet my mind as the minutes ticked by. Eventually, I noticed more people walking past, some pausing at the same balcony I had occupied earlier.

I headed for the elevator. An older man stood nearby, zipping up a heavy coat. He remarked that it was going to be "brutally chilly" but a great day for a protest. I joked about forgetting to bundle up, though between his hearing and the noise of the elevator, the punchline didn't land until we hit the ground floor. He let out a hearty laugh.

"At least you made it out today," he said, smiling. "That’s all that matters."

As I stepped onto the street now a surging, massive crowd. I felt myself tearing up. His words hit hard. It was time to get to work.

Hundreds of people packed the streets and the amphitheater. While chanting broke through occasionally, the air was mostly filled with music and the rhythm of honking cars. A sea of signs and flags moved through the crowd, carried by individuals standing their ground. The scene felt like a historical echo reminiscent of the Vietnam-era defiance against government overreach and the gravity of Kent State. The catalysts change, but the underlying sentiment was familiar: a deep-seated exhaustion with overbearing authority.

Most people stood stalwart, holding signs high for the traffic on Broad Blvd. I, however, was fluid. Weaving through the crowd, snapping photos as my anxiety finally began to lift. People met my lens with either a smile or a stoic pride. By the time I finished, I had captured hundreds of images.

My hands were freezing. I’d taken my gloves out of the car recently to wash them, and a brief warm spell had convinced me to leave them behind. Despite the pain, I fought through to capture the moments that spoke to me. I noticed the majority of the crowd belonged to older generations. While my age group and younger ones were there, it was heartening to see our elders standing with us, sharing the conviction that things must change immediately. In that crowd, we were unified.

I had to leave for work before the rally concluded, though I felt truly at home among those people. I took the elevator back to the garage to get one final wide shot. On the balcony, I saw the same elderly man from earlier. He didn't notice me, but I overheard him tell a companion he was 92 years old. When they congratulated him for making it out, he simply replied that he wouldn't have missed it for anything.

I loved the circular nature of that moment... people just being happy to be there for one another. These photos may not be my technical best, but I love them with all my heart. I truly hope this dark chapter in our national history finds a peaceful end soon.