No Kings 3: Protests reshape identity across America
A protester holds a sign outside the Historic Haywood County Courthouse as “No Kings 3” rallies drew residents navigating identity, belonging and political expression in public.
Cory Vaillancourt photos
Before the chants started and long before the first speaker took the microphone, people were already drifting toward one another — introducing themselves, comparing stories, soaking up the quiet relief of being in a crowd where, for once, they didn’t feel outnumbered.
What emerged in those early moments of the March 28 “No Kings 3” rallies in Haywood and Jackson counties wasn’t just a protest but a kind of recognition, a temporary reordering of identity where private beliefs, often muted in churches, social circles or workplaces, could be expressed openly and without hesitation.
In a region where political expression can carry personal risk, the “No Kings” movement has become an act of self-definition — not only against something, but alongside others who shared the same unease.
That evolution, from hesitation to habit, was echoed throughout the large crowds, where many described participation not as a single act but as an ongoing shift in how they saw themselves and their place in public life. What had once felt like stepping outside of identity had, over time, become central to it.
“It was a big step a year ago when I came out for my first protest, because I’m 70 years old and had never protested before,” said Mary Ford, a retired Air Force officer and one of the organizers of the Haywood County event. “And as things have gone on, and we’ve done our weekly protest, and the big protests, I’m finding it easier when I go out in public to speak my truth.”
The third iteration of the “No Kings” protest movement unfolded as a coordinated global day of action spanning more than a dozen countries and roughly 3,300 events, with millions participating in what organizers and observers described as one of the largest protest mobilizations in modern history.
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The movement, launched in 2025 and organized by a coalition including Indivisible and the 50501 network, has rapidly scaled from earlier multi-million-person demonstrations into an international expression of opposition to the second Trump administration.
Nationally, rallies reached all 50 states and increasingly penetrated smaller and more conservative communities, with turnout estimates ranging into the millions and flagship events drawing crowds in the hundreds of thousands. At the state and local level, the movement manifested through dozens to hundreds of events per state, including rural gatherings and small-town demonstrations alongside major urban marches.
In Western North Carolina and other rural regions, that structure produced parallel rallies in neighboring towns, underscoring how a global protest framework filters down into hyperlocal expressions of political identity, civic ritual and resistance while reflecting a structure that relies on local organizers to translate broad national grievances into community-specific action.
On the ground, the reasons people cited for showing up were less abstract and more personal, tied to a long and growing list of grievances that had accumulated over time and, for many, crossed a threshold.
Signs at the events mentioned concerns over bribery, economic instability, gas prices, Hurricane Helene recovery, ICE killings, national park funding, pedophilia, presidential immunity, Venezuela, Cuba and Iran.
Personal identity and civic expression are increasingly intertwined in small-town communities.
That sprawling list reflected not a single issue but a convergence of anxieties, with the most recent — the escalating conflict in Iran — emerging as a focal point that connected foreign policy to local consequences. For some, it wasn’t just about geopolitics but about priorities, about what it meant to be American and about who those decisions ultimately served.
“I am conservative on a strong military, but I want a wise military and proper use thereof,” said Tom Baker, a Webster native, Vietnam veteran and leader of a local veterans’ group. “I’m anti-Trump. Trump and [Secretary of War Pete] Hegseth are the two most stupid leaders we’ve had in my lifetime.”
Baker’s presence complicated any easy assumptions about who belongs at a protest like this. His identity as a veteran and a conservative didn’t align neatly with the liberal stereotypes often attached to mass demonstrations, yet his reasoning echoed a broader sentiment visible throughout the crowd — that participation wasn’t about abandoning one identity for another, but about reconciling them.
For Baker and others, opposition to the war in Iran didn’t contradict support for the military but reinforced a belief in how and when it should be used. That distinction, between supporting troops and questioning leadership, became another thread in a day defined by overlapping and sometimes unexpected identities.
Across the rallies, people moved between those identities fluidly — neighbor and activist, conservative and critic, first-time protester and weekly regular — forming a kind of temporary community that felt both new and deeply familiar. Conversations unfolded between strangers who spoke as if they had known each other for years, bound less by shared biography than by shared recognition.
That sense of belonging, Ford said, was as important as any political outcome.
“It gives people a chance to know that they’re not alone, that they have somebody that they can stand with, that they can lean on,” Ford said.
