On Saturday, as I watched the procession cross Tremont into the Common, I was one of many snapping photographs of the events unfolding. Most people continued on without acknowledging my camera lens — an approach I prefer — but one man snarled.

“This isn’t a f–king show,” he spit out as he passed me by.

I thought about following him to engage in dialogue, but instead turned to get another angle, my brow furrowed slightly. Isn’t it a show? Isn’t a demonstration of such a large scale the embodiment of theatricality?

Movement, power, strength in numbers to prove a point, argue an issue (or seven, depending on who you listened to during the protest) — these are all things that are done for show. Many of the protesters gathered have been quietly raging against the political machine for most of the four years U.S. military has been present in Iraq. They told the assembled that they needed to be loud in order to prove their point.

There were speakers, puppets, people dressed in farm animal costumes that were just asking to be seen and discussed.

But let’s take this guy’s point and apply it: several thousand people descend upon a park on a Saturday afternoon and there’s no one there to snap an image or write a word. No one beyond eyesight of the display knows what unfolded, let alone the politicians in Washington or the man in the Oval Office with whom the mass has an issue.

There is no record of the action that has taken place.

Sir, don’t you want me to take your photograph?

That’s what I thought.

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