"I Didn't Fight for This"

Sanford, NC — Steve Bowles wore his black Vietnam Veterans hat to his first-ever protest on Saturday, October 18.

At 80 years old, his white hair shining bold against the vibrant blue sky, Bowles stood on the corner of Horner Boulevard and Main Street in Sanford, one of more than 400 demonstrators at the second "No Kings" anti-Trump protest in Lee County.

"I didn't fight for this; I fought for democracy," he said. "And it looks like we're losing it.” Bowles glanced at his family, who held their own signs and chanted with the crowd. “I bled for this country, and I don't want to see it destroyed."

A growing coalition of veterans, service members, and their families gathered on the four corners of the busy Sanford intersection, where temperatures climbed to 80 degrees.

They opposed what they described as President Donald Trump and his administration's authoritarian overreach, alongside seven million other protestors in more than 2,700 cities nationwide for the second iteration of the ‘No Kings’ protest movement. 

Their presence marked a notable shift in Lee County, a conservative stronghold in central North Carolina where political dissent has traditionally been whispered rather than shouted.

Still, organizing in Lee County presented unique challenges. The county leans heavily Republican, and many Democratic voters remain cautious about openly expressing their political views.

For Imaja Chavis, a 21-year-old North Carolina A&T student studying African American studies, family concern about protest participation was rooted in generational memory. Her father was "terrified for me to go," Chavis shared.

She participated in a poster-making session on Friday, October 17, hosted by the veteran legal organization Common Defense at Hugger Mugger, a growing gathering spot for artists, activists, students, and parents. Two wide tables were filling up as an imitation skeleton held a "Fuck Trump" sign while propped in a chair, and sample posters taped to the wall offered inspiration.

The dark, gothic imagery behind the posters complemented the skeleton's statement. For anyone on the fence about their impression of the president, the setting made the activist group's position unmistakable.

"He says that he was too young to march with MLK, and that he wouldn't have marched if he could because of the risk to him and his family."

But Chavis, who'd attended the June No Kings protest and marched in Sanford's 2020 racial justice demonstration, saw her generation stepping up. "There's more diversity now. They see how it affects them," she said, noting the number of white protesters making signs at the poster-making session.

Wilson Farrington, a jazz vocalist and Sanford resident since 1986, protested at the 2017 Women's March. She wasn't surprised by the current administration’s actions.

Originally from New York, she'd known Trump's reputation for years. "I worked in catering in Manhattan and we were told that any young women who went to Trump's events should expect to be harassed," she recalled.

Christian Villagomez, 31, also joined the poster-making session at Hugger Mugger.

He attended both the Raleigh and Sanford ‘No Kings’ protests in June, driving between the two cities to let his voice be heard. The Sanford resident, who moved from California at age 4, was preparing to join his third protest on October 18. He joined the Navy specifically to help his undocumented parents.

"I did four years so my dad could get papers," Villagomez explained. After completing his military service, both of his parents applied for and attained their green cards. Now, facing the administration's aggressive deportation policies, he asked a question that haunted him: "Did I do four years for nothing? They're trying to take their cards away."

His frustration extended beyond his family's situation. "We fought for this democracy. Kids joined at 14 and 15 in World War II, and we lost young soldiers. We promoted why we fought that war so much, but now we support fascism? They'd be so disappointed."

In the days before the protest, Kari Kilcullen, a digital organizer for the June demonstration and owner of Artbot Gallery, described the atmosphere during an interview at Hugger Mugger, a downtown Sanford bar whose Gothic interior and eclectic clientele set it apart in the conservative county.

"We could all get along, and now it's not like that anymore," said Kilcullen, originally from Alexandria, Virginia. 

In Sanford, political organizing requires navigating social isolation. "There are whispering registered Dems with a growing desire to organize," Kilcullen observed. "But people don't have to whisper. They aren't alone."

She'd questioned herself: "Are politics different here? Am I too radical?"

But the interest in building a coalition suggested otherwise. Citizens For Democracy’s nine founding members include Republicans, Independents, and Democrats, "who all believe that what's happening is not okay," shared Kilcullen. "There are Republicans who are mad and scared at what's going on at the national level."

The personal toll of sustained political anxiety was evident. "I've been living in trauma since 2016, and it's getting worse," she said, grey wisps visible in her blonde hair. Faded blue paint on her fingers flashed as she waved her hands in frustration. “It's taking its toll on us. It's aged me."

Thomas Dunlap, 49, hadn't attended a protest in 30 years. But Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth's October speech to military leaders, which Dunlap interpreted as demanding loyalty to the president over the Constitution, made remaining silent untenable.

"We're moving away from democracy and towards dictatorship,” he added, saying that the deployment of military forces to act as law enforcement in American cities had deeply troubled him. While initially uncomfortable with operations in Los Angeles, seeing the actions progress to Chicago and Portland, and hearing Hegseth's speech was the tipping point for him.

Dunlap's concerns weren't abstract. His three children face direct impacts from the administration's policy agenda: an eight-year-old son on Medicaid, a 13-year-old son with autism whose services face cuts, and a nine-year-old daughter whose love for science would be negatively affected by proposed Department of Education cuts.

Lindsey Knapp understands the power of veteran voices in conservative spaces. As the Executive Director of Combat Sexual Assault, a nonprofit supporting service members and veterans who've faced retaliation for reporting assault, and an attorney with Common Defense, she's spent years advocating for those the military system has failed.

Knapp herself is one of three whistleblowers who worked for the Pentagon's Sexual Assault Prevention and Response program, later bringing legal action against Fort Bragg for retaliation. Her credibility within military circles makes her a practical organizer for a movement that deliberately leverages veterans' trusted status.

"There's this idea that vets are conservative," Knapp explained in an interview ahead of the October protests. Common Defense, she said, focuses on "leaning on progressive vets to encourage them to use their voice and organize them, and that it's safe to do so." Knapp and her organization covered the first drink for poster-makers at Hugger Mugger.

Beyond tactics, Knapp emphasized the psychological necessity of community organizing. "There's a constant barrage of bad news. If that's all you're seeing, then maybe you're not building community. You're not seeing all the good movement we're making and how we're growing."

The October 18 protest unfolded under bright sunshine, with Williams's neon-yellow vest visible as she navigated the multiple lanes of traffic between the four corners, carrying a wicker basket of rally sheets and signs and hyping rallygoers with a megaphone.

Pro-MAGA music blasted from a pickup truck stopped in a turning lane, windows lowering as Williams hustled towards the McDonald's from the Arby's. A muscle car glided down Horner, its engine emitting sounds reminiscent of gunfire, alarming protesters with its pointed, concussive effect.

Eric Cartagena, 36, who moved to Sanford from Brooklyn, inched towards the sidewalk as people climbed up from the Piggly Wiggly parking lot onto the grassy banks along Horner Boulevard.

He was also attending his first protest after being informed by Brian Tyler Cohen, an online journalist who reported on the localized protests. Cartagena owns a landscaping business that employs workers with H-2B visas, and he spoke about the fear his employees were experiencing and his inability to help. "It's the only thing we can do; it's just crazy out there." 

Red Imported Fire Ants, an invasive species in the Sandhills region of the state, silently attacked protesters' ankles on the grassy slopes that buffered the Piggly Wiggly grocery store, forcing protesters to squeeze onto the sidewalks.

Tensions flared at the southeast corner when two young protesters held an upside-down American flag near the Arby's where the Harnett County Police Athletic League was hosting a car wash fundraiser for its wrestling team. The visual upset fundraiser organizers and parents, including Vanessa Henegar, 37, whose significant other is a veteran.

"It's disrespectful to have it upside down," Henegar said. The protest, she added, "derailed our profits."

Amethyst Albert, another mother present at the car wash, posted on Facebook the following day: "Unbeknownst to the club, the No Kings protest was being held on the other side of the parking lot. Which shouldn't have been a big deal, but so many protesters were giving the kids grief and telling them they shouldn't be there. To the point, the club made a last-minute sign stating, 'We are not with them' because the protestors decided to try to block the kids' visibility to the passerby."

Albert's unconfirmed anecdote continued: "This truly hurts my heart that adults were attempting to tear down the kids and keep them from completing their mission." 

Williams approached the protesters with the flag, navigating the confrontation carefully after explaining that the veterans at the event found the display upsetting, while affirming the protesters' right to be there. The flag bearer at first refused to lower it, and Williams asked them to leave. They walked away, and Williams offered cash to Alice, their second protester, for “food.” Alice, surprised by the gesture, asked for a hug, which Williams provided.

At the northeast corner of the intersection, protesters at the Sheetz gas station reported being sprayed with an unknown liquid from a passing vehicle.

Michael Knapp, the husband of Common Defense’s Lindsey Knapp, arrived around 2:30 p.m., just after the incident. He saw a protester with longer hair speaking to a police officer, attempting to file a report. The long-haired protester photographed the vehicle's license plate but couldn't see the listed state.

Protesters also reported a diesel truck "rolling coal,” deliberately producing thick exhaust in front of those gathered, which made at least three passes.

When protesters asked police to stop the driver, officers said they couldn't take action. According to Knapp, protesters asked the officer to run the license plate for Alabama. When that search came up empty, they asked if he could try Alaska. The officer reportedly responded: "I'm not going to run it 50 times."

A report has not been filed with the Sanford Police Department.

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