We shall not be moved

When Obama was president, I had the luxury (and the good spirits) to have a funny blog.  I wrote about the quirky people and circumstances that cross my path, and all was light and fun.  It’s not funny around here anymore.  We’ve been hiding out in our basements, waiting to see if North Korea is going to call 45’s bluff, because we’re in nuclear warhead distance, as it were, of N. Korea.  They talk on the radio about what to do.  (Note:  Eclipse glasses won't do a bit of good in the nuclear bomb situation.)  We don’t even have basements here.  So we have been lying around in our crawl spaces with the rodents.  And, until a few days ago, the skies were dark with soot and smog from the fires in Canada -- a preview of what’s to come if we don’t start taking climate change seriously.  (I wanted to say that with more emphasis, like, “Dead-ass seriously” but that didn’t sound quite right.)  And, it's been unbearably hot, like in the 90’s.  No rain for months.  We were already at that, “fine, North Korea, bring it on, we can’t breathe here anyway,” point.

But the heartbreak ratcheted up to a new unspeakable level this weekend:  white guys with tiki torches and their rally against oppression.    The kind of oppression that healthy young men with names like Bob and Dave suffer routinely.  Where they make 20 percent more money than the women they sleep with, where businesses are closed for the religious holidays they celebrate, where citizenship, the one they happened into by being born, protects their freedom to rally and spew their angry, small-minded, hate-filled rhetoric.  Those oppressed guys.  You know the ones.  I started crying about the whole situation and couldn’t quite stop.

Anyway, just like North Korea, I realize that I’m in a good spot to take some risks. I’ve enjoyed the good fortune of being born white and middle class and all that comes with it.  I’ve raised two beautiful humans, and been able to live in one of the most gorgeous places on the planet, and I’ve had all the thumbs and legs and friends and brain cells that I’ve needed (so far).  Life has been good to me.  

No one is counting on me for anything at this point, except for my dog, who enjoys kibbles at precisely 6:30 am and 5:00 pm, uncannily, as if she wears a watch.  (She doesn’t even wear pants, so there’s absolutely no way she’s getting a watch.  Have you ever seen a naked dog in a jewelry store, trying to buy a watch?)   Although I know she loves me madly, if I disappeared, she would find someone else to give her kibbles.  In a day or two, she would have forgotten all about me.  That’s the beautiful thing about dogs:  they move on with a grace that we can only dream of.  They live in the present moment.  My point with all of this is simply that I’ve got the freedom that Janis sang about, in a good way. 

So I went to a counter-protest yesterday, which is a confusing phrase.   I was there to protest the people who are protesting that this country is rich with diverse cultures, ethnicities, and religions.  The protesters want this country to be populated only by people from European countries who celebrate Christmas and wear polo shirts and MAGA hats.  They believe, I suppose, that expressing hatred towards people who are different from them is the way to make America great. The counter protesters want all beings to have a place at the table:  a roof overhead, clean water, satisfying work, acceptance, a chance to love who they love in peace, and with the support of their community.  That's what the counter protesters are for.

I took the bus with two lovely friends who thought to bring milk and bandanas and almonds.  I thought to bring change for bus fare, which seemed pretty good.  Because this is our world, where we mostly feel safe and white among white people, we chatted about art and what to make for dinner with a special kind of peppers that I’d never heard of as we rode into the city.  Because the assumption, of course, is that we’ll always make it home for dinner if we feel like it.  I wonder if Heather Heyer thought she’d also be home for dinner on Saturday.   Probably.  

We disembarked in Seattle, and walked toward the park where the counter protesters were gathering.  The opposite of “protest” is “agree”, so I’m going to call us The Agreeables from now on.  At the park, we encountered the mix of humanity that

You have to appreciate a broom
that doubles as a peace sign

you’d expect to see – the grey pony tails with peace signs attached to brooms, young anarchists wearing masks and carrying “Fuck You” signs, and the people like us, whatever that is.  

We tried to listen to the speaker, but as usual, there was a crummy PA system and a lot of crowd chatter, so it sounded like what my dog hears.  “Blah blah blah blah blah let’s go for a walk Blah blah blah blah kibbles” But instead of a walk, it was solid blah blah punctuated by applause.  We eventually did go for our walk.  We filed out of the park and tried to join in the garbled chanting. I didn’t want to chant some of the things because they seemed so negative.  (After all, I thought, we are The Agreeables!)   There’s also something that freaks me out a bit about being in a crowd thick with people chanting, even if I have no problem with the words.  I tried to get singing going but, as you know, I have an inside voice and, well, I’m not much of a singer either.  For a little bit, we all sang “We Shall Not Be Moved”, and that was pure goodness.  (Side note:  our culture needs to learn more songs, and be able to pull them out when it's time. It's time.)

From Crosscut.com

The police blocked us from going the way we intended to go, which is toward the actual protest.  The Agreeables wanted to face off with the guys named Bill and John whose lives are riddled with oppression. I don’t know exactly how that would have gone –  but the police were having none of it.   They pepper-sprayed people and shot off loud noise-making bombs; the sound, like a dozen cannons, bounced off the tall buildings, bringing the adrenaline level of the crowd up a hundred notches.  We backed up and dispersed for a bit.  I thought maybe we should go somewhere out of harm's way and wait to let things unfold.  I was all, "hey, guys!  Let’s take a break from protesting and have a cocktail at the Virginia Inn!" But my much braver and more ethical friends reminded me that to be an ally, you can’t just leave when the going gets rough, because duh, that’s privilege in a nutshell.  Which was an excellent point, so we stayed with the march.  

There was a guy with another muffled PA system leading a chant that I can’t recall right now, but we said it over and over until I literally began to laugh so hard I almost wet my pants.  That’s the kind of protester I am.  It wasn’t really funny at all – our purpose was anything but funny.  Our purpose was to show the haters that they can’t get away with it here, and we mean business.  Not a laughing matter.  But all I could do is imagine that we would walk around endlessly, circling a park that was blocked from us by cops with weapons and pepper spray, following a funny little man garbling out, “SAY IT LOUD, SAY IT CLEAR, NAZIS ARE NOT WELCOME HERE.”   Like that scene with the goldfish in Me and You and Everyone We Know.  Driving at one speed, forever, so that the goldfish doesn't fall off. But I also started laughing because suddenly, unexpectedly, irrationally, I was struck by a giant dose of hope.  

I think we’ve got this.  I think there are so many more loving, engaged, smart people, than tiki torchers.  So many people have moved past the developmental stage where strength is measured by blowing things up or ripping a toy out of someone's hands.   Most of us live in a world where strength is related to integrity, being candid, humble, consistent in word and deed, and loving our loved ones as generously as possible. And then, trying to reach beyond our little tribe to love the rest of the world as generously as we can.  That's where our power lies.  Let's use it.