Her name has been popping up in my phone for almost 10 years now – since I taught her in the tenth grade, and then, much to our delight, again in the eleventh.

When she texts me today, the first Monday in February, it’s nearly seven years since she graduated from high school, and exactly two weeks since the 47th president has, devastatingly, been in office.

“Good morning, Ms. Kerry.”

I’m about to respond gleefully, using the excessive amount of exclamation points I reserve for my former students, my lovelies, but read the screenshot she sent first.

Neustras Raices, Inc., a local organization that celebrates “the richness and diversity of Latino culture and artistic heritage” in Baltimore, organized a march to protest this administration’s anti-immigration policies.

“This is about more than just immigration reform. This is about supporting each other, defending our community, and exercising our fundamental right to protest peacefully,” their post says.

In just a few hours, protesters will march right here in my East Baltimore neighborhood; my lovely realizes this is last minute, but wants me to know about it just in case.

Grateful that she did, I promise her I’ll go as soon as therapy is over, which will be after the march has already started.

Later, when I step into the gray afternoon to look for them, I’m reminded of the sky during this president’s first inauguration: dreary and dim, as if the sun didn’t even have the energy to shine. As I walk toward Eastern Avenue, I keep thinking about the last time this man was in office. The fear he instilled in my lovelies then. The day after that election, one lovely held onto me, whispering, “He won, Miss.” That same day, another just fell wordlessly into my arms. Later, one lovely, amidst the hateful speech the President and his supporters spewed, wrote him a gracious letter. “We’re sorry if we hurt you by coming here.”

Today’s protesters are easy to find: dozens of people, several flags — blue, white, green, red, yellow — scattered among them. They bang cowbells and carry fluorescent signs. In front of the Pulaski monument, they form a loose crescent: a long, bending arc of the moral universe.

I stand near the outskirts, recognizing the rhythm of a familiar chant, shouted, this time, in Spanish. Scanning the signs, I only understand the ones in English.

We raise our voices for the undocumented.

Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.

No one is “illegal” on stolen land.

Often, again, I’m embarrassed of my country. Born through genocide and built by slavery, we should count ourselves lucky that anywhere else wants anything to do with us. In Nigeria, people greet one another by saying, “You are welcome.” Meanwhile, in and around Highlandtown, folks cheer for the deportation of our neighbors who weren’t born here — and, if this president gets his way, even neighbors, Americans, who were.

The protest ends not long after. “Thank you again for telling me,” I text my lovely as I start my short walk back.

“Thank you for standing with us,” she says, even though it’s truly the least I, anyone, can do. Especially when, while I’ll be home in just a few minutes, neighbors of mine are worrying how much longer they’ll be able to stay in theirs.