Sometimes, after a long day’s work, you’ve just had enough. So when you hear the president’s motorcade whining its way up Connecticut Avenue toward your apartment in Washington, you instinctively lift your head off the sofa and think: What can I do, in this moment, to be the change I want to see in the world? Across the room, a “Not My President” placard sits behind your softball bat. But there’s no time. So you run to the window and you, you know, resist.