It’s always sunny in nostalgia. When my mind summons up sepia-toned Kodak memories of the big protest marches I witnessed as a kid in the 1960s and ’70s, it sees big throngs under a bright powder-blue sky, on a crisp autumn day.Protesting in the Trump era has felt absolutely nothing like this. It is always dark, under steel-grey winter afternoons or early nightfall, marching into a stiff wind or icy pellets of drizzle. The so-called Resistance that was born in the 3 a.m. despair of a November night and soon flooded urban boulevards or airport lobbies amid January flurries has always felt like …
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