On Saturday, Donald Trump took off on Marine One and flew over a crowd of vapers who promptly began shouting at the helicopter. The president was on his way to the University of Alabama football game, where he was likely seeking spectators who wouldn't boo him . But what many of those gathered below sought was simple: They were vapers, and they needed Trump to notice them.

Vapers have grown accustomed to bad news lately, as well as to patiently waiting. The gathering had already been delayed by an hour, until 1 PM, as the president needed to leave; the Ellipse, the 52-acre park where their rally was being held, essentially borders the White House grounds and was therefore temporarily closed. Those in attendance, many of whom had driven hours or flown in that morning, were forced to wait across the street, near the Washington Monument. Some had brought their children. They were anxious to start. Naturally, almost everybody had a sign. They had banners with edicts, almost like mad libs—I quit "X" years ago by vaping "X" flavor—and, as you might expect, ridiculous slogans. A poster near the front of the audience, for instance, read "Vapers Lives Matter." Another: "Mango Is Not a Crime."

They might have appreciated it if some aide leaned over to the president and explained that smoking combustible cigarettes was the number one cause of preventable death in the world , and that they believed vaping to be a safer alternative. They wanted him to know that they did not condone teen use, and that they disdained embattled vape giant JUUL Labs for its marketing . Most importantly, they wanted him to reconsider a federal ban of e-liquid flavors, one he had called for weeks ago and just days earlier suggested was imminent . They wanted him to let them vape cake. And cinnamon roll, and bubble gum, and custard.

Passers-by seemed to have no idea what to think, as they pulled up on rented bikes and electric scooters to snap photos, survey the scene, and whisper about whether or not vaping was worthy of radicalism. Vapor clouds billowed into the air, and there were constant chants of "We Vape We Vote." There was one guy strutting around in a "Jeffrey Epstein Didn't Kill Himself" T-shirt. If nothing else, the vapers hoped, theirs was a remarkable spectacle.

In the era of crowd exaggerations , it's important to be careful with estimates. But the permit for the protest capped out at 2,500, organizers said, and they believed it had potentially surpassed that by 1,000 or so. It's a fair guess. The group was predominantly white and included a lot of couples. Jeff Lawson, a 53-year-old firefighter from Michigan, was there with his wife, who never had a cigarette habit. (Lawson ditched the smokes, he said, with a vape flavor called "Strawberry Chill.") Dylan Vogtman was there with his girlfriend, Taylor Cage, who he had been introduced to while working in the vape industry. The psychiatrist Sally Satel, a resident scholar at the right-of-center American Enterprise Institute and a lecturer at the Yale School of Medicine, lingered behind the stage, with fellow academics and political types.

From their perspective, the issues are straightforward: Flavored products, what the feds and so many of the state regulators are focusing on, are what helped them kick traditional cigarettes in the first place, and now they fear them being taken away because concerned parents—whom they sympathize with—are worried about their children's nicotine dependency . Meanwhile, a federal ban on flavored vaping products could also cause many stores and manufacturers to shutter .

But this wasn't just about agitprop or camaraderie. Consumer advocacy groups, vape store owners, tax-reform activists, and run-of-the-mill vapers had a rather rough go this summer, with a spate of vaping-related illnesses and a vague hysteria over what exactly brought about 2,000-plus cases and dozens of deaths. So they turned out in force in the country's capital with a clear message: "Vaping isn't a lifestyle. It's life or death."

But even if they represent a decent portion of the population, especially in swing states—a 2018 survey found that there were nearly 11 million vapers in the United States —one question did remain: What could actually be done next? Where do vapers go from here, and how do they weaponize this cultural moment—equal parts political insurgency and public-health crisis—without just barking into the sky at a man whom many of them once admired?

Generally speaking, vaping might seem farcical or collectively small, as opposed to something massively catastrophic like climate change—even some vape advocates concede this. But it does incorporate almost every major talking point heading into the 2020 presidential election: The crisis shows the ongoing failures of a greedy private healthcare system that doesn't incentivize harm reduction, the struggling working class attempting to save livelihoods (by keeping vape shops open), and the wealth gap and racial divide (people who can afford to travel can get their vape fix even if they live in a city with a ban; banning menthol could be a blow to Black vapers, too). So while it might seem one-note, and while most vapers will admit that they had been politically radicalized at the prospect of losing what had gotten them off smoking, the recent reaction to vaping shows what often goes wrong in the U.S. and why.