November 17, 2001
  art of the protest

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So, our subject today is protestors.

Originally, our subject was going to be about racial identity. I had that entry started somewhere on my computer. Then something else happened, and this entry decided to be about the mysterious immigrant status of my clock radio, which could also be considered some sort of race-centered homily, if clock radios could be considered to actually have possession of race.

However, since then, several somethings new have happened, and as a result, several metamorphoses later, I've decided to write about protestors. There is logic to this because I've always wanted to be one. Back in ye old America, when my sister hadn't yet arrived on her two-week-to-two-year visit to San Francisco, she participated in what could fondly be referred to as the WTO 'demonstrations ' -- though it would be more accurate to call them 'riots' -- in Seattle.

I'm sure it will comfort everybody out there to know that she was not actively involved in any criminal activities. On that occasion. She says so herself. "I wasn't involved in any criminal activities," she says, firmly. "On that occasion."

My sister, when she is involved in actions of dubious morality or legality, is disarmingly ready to confess to her sins if asked. "Oh, jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge carrying thirteen thousand dollars and a human kidney from e-Bay?" she says, surprised. "What, I forgot to tell you I was doing that?" This is the same girl who used to volunteer for the unwilling City of Seattle by walking up to uniform policemen on the sidewalk, waiting until they caught sight of her, and then running away with an expression of alarm. It will surprise nobody that, even in Seattle, police tend to chase someone who looks guilty and then runs away. I've noticed that German Shepherds do the same thing with sheepish Mazda Miatas.

I reproached her on that particular hobby in her youth. "What?" she asked, puzzled. "I'm doing a public service. They need the exercise. What'll they do if a real criminal runs away from them and they're not in shape?"

Right.

So, as I said, the subject is about protestors.

I have a boundless respect for people who are willing to stand up and demonstrate for what they believe in. I've always had an earnest desire to someday number myself among their rebellious company, to stand on a street corner or in a park with a placard displaying a bold, brave slogan scrawled in permanent marker. The Bay Area is the ideal place for someone who wants to take an active part in the world of politics. Here, children are weaned directly from mother's milk to poster paint and environmentally friendly paste, and their first artistic efforts are displayed in bright colors on large cardboard signs announcing: "Womyn Unite, Boycott Viagra!"

I've always envisioned myself as one of them, that fierce and passionate company, bearing my own sign. "Free Tibet!" or "Free Afghani Women!" or "Free Vasectomies!" Because, to be honest, I'm big into freedoms, being particularly cheap myself. Admit it. When you've been stopped in traffic for a long time because of a demonstration, and you see them out there waving their banners and chanting for greater representation of whites in Hollywood, your first thought -- after, "Kooks. Get out of the effing road," -- is, "Wow, those people are really doing something about what they believe in. I respect them. I look up to them. I hope their voices are heard. They're part of what makes America great." And a few months down the line, when you notice just how strong the white presence in Hollywood has become, you think back to that small and hardy band of brethren exercising their American freedoms and realize that they did, in fact, make a difference.

It brings a tear to the eye.

This past week, after my first doctor's appointment, I was sent down the street to get blood drawn from a charming, flamboyant phlebotomist. It was all of a block away, in an utterly pacified neighborhood almost exclusively dedicated to medical offices. Half a block down from my doctor's office, in front of a dentist's office, a large, man-sized poster displayed in lurid detail a photograph of a bloody, deformed baby's head clasped in a pair of forceps. "Aborters are terrorists," it announced. "They deserve to die." Two more of the same poster were parked a few feet away from it, another one on the other side of the street, and two lanky men were busily passing out flyers to passersby. "Abortion is no better than WTC," one of them proclaimed to me, the only human in sight for miles around, and a squirrel who was busily inspecting his privates on the branch overhead. "It's a crime against God."

A pro-choice advocate myself, I still had to admire the strength of their conviction. I'm sure that everybody on that block, the dentists and the podiatrist and the blood lab I visited, not to mention the pre-school two blocks away, were all equally impressed by their demonstration. In fact, if there had been an abortion clinic or Planned Parenthood anywhere within the area, I'm sure it would have been impressed, as well.

I carried deep thoughts about the power of protest for the rest of the day.

The next night, the Guy and I drove up to Reno. "Harry Potter's out tonight," I realized, finally making the connection between a conversation I had had earlier in the day with a co-worker, and the bright lights of a movie theatre en route.

We pulled into a gas station to fuel up and there, on the street corner between the freeway off-ramp and the large parking lot leading towards the movie theatre, two dignified gentlemen were standing with makeshift signs, demonstrating.

Protesting.

"God does not approve of witchcraft," one of the signs stated, crookedly.

"Thou Shalt not suffer a witch to live," declared another.

"Harry Potter is the son of the devil!" accused a final posterboard, propped up against the man's beer cooler.

I was thrilled. More American action.

"Get out the camera!" I cried, happily. "I want to take pictures of the protestors!"

All across the United States, this band of brothers, this company of conservatives has been making its voice heard. Harry Potter is evil. Its movie is a corrupting influence on the young. Deeply impressed by this, I went to see the movie myself on Saturday night, and discovered it to be everything that the protestors had proclaimed, if not more. In fact, I'm going to see it again on Wednesday with all of my coworkers, just to confirm my initial impressions.

Protestors have spoken, and lo, America has listened.

It makes you proud, doesn't it?