The protesters’ tears—ridiculous, melodramatic, over-the-top—reminded the world of the existence of the artist who got lost when a man silenced her, the courts didn’t vindicate her, and institutions forgot her. The weeping protesters reminded me of the girl I met in the crepe shop, who allowed herself to feel love for the musicians who had disappointed her, even after everything. Like the crepe girl, the protesters were writing their own kind of criticism: a criticism made of feeling. They made a humming bird hum that got louder and louder.
