I no longer advocate for red vs blue or right vs left. I side with the poor and the educators against the rich and the deceivers, whatever side they be on. Biden deported more people in his first few weeks than Trump. One is just louder and more saturated than the other. While the great clans pass the keys of the kingdom back and forth, their wealth builds. They pit the rest of us against each other to fight for the crumbs of the pie they stole.
I look up the definitions of oligarchy and the warning signs of fascism.
Monday morning, on President’s Day, I go to the fertility clinic and wring my hands as they herd me from room to room under a barrage of information. They separate me from my husband for different tests. He looks at me in question, “is that ok?” but I think I’m brave so I go.
“Any plans for the day?” they ask. They want to set me at ease because I look nervous. “A meeting to organize protests against deportation,” I answer.
They are kind and thoughtful, but this environment, these people, and this situation are new and frightening. They ask me time and again in soft voices if I have questions, if I understand. Too many questions swim to grasp. Uncertainty fogs my brain. So I say, “No questions. I understand,” just to move on.
Then I see the chair and the machine. I freeze. I ask them to bring my husband to me for moral support. He holds my hand and tells me how brave I am.
I hear arguments for deportation: the crime rate in New York has gone down since they deported the gangs and cracked down on illegal immigrants employed by companies exploiting a cheap labor force. The enemies I see are not immigrants but gangs and predatory companies. Yes, neighborhoods of people being paid very little have crime because poor people are desperate. The city has failed these communities by failing to stop the gangs or punish the predatory companies that plague them. And yes, moving all the poor, desperate people out of sight reduces crime within the sphere you choose to see. That doesn’t make the world a better place. Just your corner.
It reminds me of my favorite comic. Wherein the rich, who dominated the main character’s home island, grew tired and fearful of the poor in their city. They exiled all the poor outside the city walls among the trash heaps. Then, the rich complained when the poor built a slum instead of having the decency to die or sail away.
Or of the Enforcers of Piltover invading Zaun to crack down on its criminal underbelly.
I go to the meeting. The energy frightens me. Chants. Shouting. The passion and the anger. I feel it, too, but I’m reminded of fanaticism and cannot join my voice. We need these people who are loud, passionate, and -dare I say- aggressive. For the fight becomes more critical. Politeness in the face of cruelty got us here. We must fight back. And yet, I’m not a fighter. I can’t bring that anger into my heart and feel justified or righteous. My fragile soul can only hold grief. I shrink and leave the powerful declarations and chanting to others, grateful they have hearts strong enough.
They encourage us to call our representatives. I write down the numbers. They even provide a script. Yet I know I won’t call. I’m too afraid. Not of retaliation or judgment, not yet. I’ve always been afraid to speak, and with the stakes so much higher, my fear only grows.
We’re given a protest date. Asked to recruit. They teach us how to put the rallying script into our own words. Give the reason this personally affects you. It hurts my heart, that’s why. Others share their reasons. A woman only speaks Spanish, and even in the few scraps of words and phrases I understand ‘derechos’, ‘comunidad’, ‘miedo’, she brings tears to my eyes of the stories of her neighborhood torn apart, her neighbors disappeared without a word. A man speaks of his ancestor who survived Auschwitz. The stories he heard from her he hears again in his own lifetime. A teacher tells of education funding being cut and history censored, while teachers are blamed for the slide of literacy rates, and Musk, the man recommending the cuts to education spending, is rumored to have made enough money from our government in a single day to pay for the annual salary of 130 teachers.
While others cry out ‘shame’ and ‘boo’ upon the evils expressed, I cry silently, my head down, and a photographer points a camera in my face. To document the devastation of the moment, I suppose.
Once we’ve shared our reasons, we’re told to make the ask. Will you join in our crusade? Will you be strong and stand with me?
Fear again, for the crowds and the chanting. I once went to a concert with a throbbing crowd. I retreated to a corner for fear of the body press, fear of the noise. Add to that the fear of police, hatred, and violence? How can I invite or recruit anyone when I’m not sure I’ll go myself? Am I strong enough to stand in a crowd and add my voice? My heart races at the very thought.
But what else can I do? I crave action. A way to express my pain, my hurt, my grief. What can I do? What can I do? I research and write and hope.
Pirate Ferret.com 