Wednesday, June 18, 2025

For What It's Worth

 I am a cynic. 

No news here. I am simply stating a fact. While I purport to be creating hope and change, I am still turning over rocks to look at what crawls beneath. 

Which probably explains the reaction I had to participating in the No Kings protests this past Saturday. I was initially quite ambivalent about going out to stand on a street corner with signs (hooray for our side) for a couple of hours to try and bring about regime change. Then I was encouraged by my wife who is much more sincere than I will ever be to create "a sign or two" for her mother and her to share with the masses. This was an opportunity that seemed much easier and fun to fulfill. 

I brought out our big markers and commenced to draw with a mild fury. Soon I was on my fourth poster and realized that I had made enough signage for my wife's aunt and uncle to parade about with artwork I had provided. With one left over. My wife had her own design prepared, so I had unwittingly opened the door to be one of the few, the proud, the placard bearers. 

So Saturday morning we went out to join the "old folks" version of civil unrest. When we arrived, hundreds were already lining the street on both sides, waving their own pointed message to the "man who would be king." Drivers honked their horns. Ambulance drivers and fire trucks flashed their lights and blew their sirens in support. We found a spot along the curb and set up shop. 

We were a like-minded group. It was not hard to set up a conversation. So many voices were raised in anger and frustration with the Second Trumpreich. A good deal of time was spent admiring the creative sentiments shared on our homemade protest projects. I got to take a bow for my efforts, and moved through the crowd with my wife, creating a "tank parade" of our own. 

Then, around lunchtime, the party broke up. We carried ourselves and our signs back to the parking lot, and drove home filled with the sense of accimplishment that comes from standing on a street corner. 

As you can see, the bloom was already fading from my protest rose. By the time I went to bed that night, I was feeling something larger than simple chagrin. The forty-five million dollar celebration the convicted felon had thrown for the sole purpose of salving his gargantuan ego had taken place on the other side of the country. Two Minnesota lawmakers had been shot in their homes. And the unconscionable immigration raids continued to the south of us where demonstrators encountered tear gas and pepper spray once again. In Los Angeles they were fighting the fight. They weren't just admiring one another's signs. 

Still, for what it's worth, I hope that somehow somewhere the message we sent resonated in a way that might stir others to action. Elected representatives. People who had closed their eyes for the past ten years believing that America was really going to be Great Again after his truculence was finished with it. Somewhere, embedded in the midst of all that cynicism was a kernel of hope. A diamond in the rough. 

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Squeek squeek squeek