Last Friday I attended my first protest march in a while. It responded to how ICE shot Oscar Belgal, my fellow New Yorker, last week as he tried to flee a pack of armed goons in street clothes trying to break into his car to grab him and his 5-year-old son. (The goons would be ICE, I’m describing ICE.)

The marches that I have joined prior to this one have formed a sort of narrative. First there was a protest against Trump’s pathetic and failed attempt to kill NYC congestion pricing by fiat, followed by a broader Hands off New York march along the same themes, and then two broader-still No Kings marches. Each of these lent inspiration and energy to the next, and they all centered on a kind of joyful and proud defiance. They tended to have at least as many joking signs as angry ones, and lots of positive energy: marching bands, spontaneous dancing, and inflatable frog suits.

Friday’s protest had none of this. The photograph attached to this post shows the only sign I spotted with an ounce of humor in it; every other sign was much more blunt and brutal about what the marchers thought of ICE. The emotional energy was therefore much more negative than my prior march experience, and honestly that seemed entirely appropriate to the triggering event. As always, I did not carry a sign myself, or participate in any chants; my self-assigned role at protests is just to just show up and be present. Though I did clap along to some new-to-me chants: “Chiiiin-ga la Miiii-gra”, et cetera.

The intensity did lead to what struck me as confused or at least diffused aim about the protests. While the core message was all about ICE’s extremely unwelcome presence in the city we love, I saw lots of signs denouncing both Mayor Mamdani and Benjamin Netanyahu, which I recognized as spill-over from some local Palestinian supporters angry about how the mayor acknowledged the October 6th raids just days before. And I mean, sure, but, like, I didn’t see any signs with Trump on them, much less Stephen Miller. Much of the crowd also pointed and chanted rhymes about racism and fascism every time we marched past NYPD officers who seemed mostly busy keeping the early-evening Manhattan traffic at bay while we all rolled down the middle of the street, and I recognized why that was there too, though this was also a detail absent from my past marching experience.

I did not march the entire route. I’m a little embarrassed to say that it had been long enough since my last protest that I forgot to bring earplugs, for one thing, and this event was—not complaining—as loud as a rock concert. This was also the first protest I’ve been in that continued after sunset—we didn’t start rolling until 6 PM or so—and the mood started to feel meaner as the skies grew darker. After spending about an hour total among the protest, it felt like I’d put my time in, and so I did sidle down the opposite branch of a certain Y-intersection, finding the nearest subway station from there.

I am, as always, glad that I went.