It was during the heady days
before the violence started. When a badge of honor was to be had merely by
hearing the words, “get ‘em outa here…get a job, loser!” But how to slip into
the party, past the bouncers, unnoticed among the truckers’ hats, beards, strawberry
blonde wigs, and over-sized t-shirts?
What if we just covered our
own sign to fit in with the crowd until he starts to speak? Then we remove his
support cover and wave our own. That seemed easy. And it would involve tape or
rubber cement, or something else so primitive that wasn’t even an app for it.
But the last march was a
thousand years ago; at least 1973. What would it be like now? The passion is as
intense, but it’s about a person, not a cause. Or maybe it is a cause because
the ravings against innocent people seem to garner as much support and anger as
those who fought us so hard so many decades ago.
Yep, there had been other
causes to support: women’s rights, Native American rights, animal rights,
hungry and homeless kids, voter suppression, the building of McMansions; even
the silly fuss over a Hooters coming to town. But this seems urgent. A
demagogue feeding the frenzy of bigotry and xenophobia that surfaced 8 years
ago. The fears stoked by an economy that hasn’t completely recovered and by
terrorist strikes overseas and in the Republic.
But, what would the younger
protesters think of our subversive plan, when, with all their chutzpah, they
just throw on a protest shirt and get into the rally? Why were we planning such
undercover tactics? Maybe because we’d been watching The Americans too long, and the appeal of covert action was more
appealing than the in-your-face methods of our youth.
So, two signs of equal size
are ordered on-line. The rubber cement comes out, and the board of one sign is
carefully attached on top of the other sign. We’re excited. It’s been too many
years, and too much life that pushed action to the side.
The BIG day arrives. We take
a bus to the stadium for numerous reasons. Everyone on the bus is a big fan so
it’s like a party going to a U2 concert…or maybe more like a Ted Nugent gig. The
commotion is huge: a line of devotees snaking around blocks, parking lots, and lawns.
Groupies are everywhere with badges on cowboy hats, American flags, the
celebrity’s face on masks and hand-held fans, kids in costumes and, of course,
those t-shirts, wigs, and zillions of signs.
A large group of protestors is
gathered and chanting some anti-hate slogans tossed our way. But, because of
our age and color, we fit into the fan crowd pretty well. We just bite our
tongues and try to stay cool among talk so different from ours. Finally we’re
at the entrance. Security is HUGE, but we lie our way in. The excitement is
palpitating: the biggest performance in the country is about to begin! There’s
a warm-up show with a preacher and dancing girls. The excitement is getting
more feverish, the crowd getting more heated. Hmmm….would we be safe unveiling
our true colors? Would our age save us from an angry crowd?
At last the real show begins.
He comes out on stage to a deafening uproar of adulation. After minutes of
basking in the worship, he finally speaks. It’s now or never. Our hearts are
pounding so hard and we’re sweating so much, we pretty much look like everyone
else. We glance at each other – now is the moment. The multitudes are so
entranced that no one’s paying attention as we lower our sign and rip off the
cover.
Up goes our sign and we start
yelling at the top of our lungs, “Build Bridges, Not Walls”!!!! Everyone around
us starts booing and yelling at us. HE finally notices us and seems genuinely
shocked that the blue-hairs in the back are actually protesting him. So,
instead of calling us losers, he politely says to security, “please guide the
little old ladies out (we’re younger than him)….pick up your Social Security
Checks and go home, darlings.”
Well, THAT was disappointing.
I guess it’s back to raising hell on-line and in the papers.
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