My mother was a politically active doctor. She introduced me to activism the way some people teach their kids to cook or do laundry, i.e. as a necessary life skill. A naturalized citizen, she worked tirelessly to make this country better, specifically for children. She cried at even a few notes of the National Anthem. Like every daughter in history, I found my mother’s approach flawed. But the larger message, of responsibility for this expansive nation with all its diversity, and possibilities, stuck.
We were raised on stories of family members in Norway who took part in the Resistance, and those outside (i.e. our extended family across the border in Sweden) who helped keep them safe and fed. The occupiers were ultimately defeated by a population that simply refused to bend. As a child, the stories of this sabotage by a thousand cuts were oft repeated, and I loved them all. My uncle Lennart, one of the best men I have ever known, was deaf in one ear from an explosion during an underground training exercise. My second Cousin Sara was arrested and questioned for days, miraculously talking her way out of being sent to a camp or executed. My father was GI when the US entered the war. I was welcomed to the Norwegian fold largely out of gratitude for the part our forces played in defeating their oppressors.
I’ll repeat what you already know. Overwhelming numbers and collective action are powerful. They can have the most exalted of elites weeping publicly over the consequences of their actions. I’m sure the ongoing debate about whether or not regular people are finding out has reached your life. A narrative about quiet quitting on the part of regime supporters is making the rounds. I have no idea if it’s true.
I take the position that the more of a hard line I draw with individuals on a cultural front, the harder for them to soften. Both sides are oblivious to how their use of the blunt instrument of internet hate harms their cause, how the need to be morally superior creates immovable resentment. Nefarious forces have been using this blind spot to manipulate us for years, the most fearful and easily offended especially vulnerable. So, here we are. Polarized, full of jargon, an in many cases, aching for the friends and family lost to the information war.
Yet, we are still living in a world that somewhat resembles the before times. The notion of voting, demanding governmental responsiveness, or protesting remains normal, set deep in our identity as Americans. Don’t try to undo the cognitive dissonance of it all. Emotions rule this day, and emotions can be volatile. Deeply embedded norms, perhaps less so.
Anyone who is marching or protesting on Saturday understands the threat posed by the most powerful whining about their imagined oppression. Such self-victimization enables ghastly score-settling, and as we are seeing, cruel efforts designed to dehumanize. The world is upside down.
So, be very careful out there. Check the vibes continuously. If you are marching, I’m sure you’ve been warned not to allow provocateurs to incite violence, because it leads to escalation, ushering in the longed-for martial clamp down. They are looking for an excuse. They will be making up false narratives to enflame fear and justify escalation.
(Remember when ANTIFA was supposedly invading Coos Bay, Oregon, and residents came out to the main highway with their rifles to “protect” their town? The buses at hand turned out to be perfectly benign, of course. Fear arouses our inner monsters. They are well aware of this.)
As the saying says, do not touch the bricks that just happen to be there.
It’s hard to remain calm, when you care enough to show up and put your body on the line. I’ve stood getting screamed at in front of a clinic, epithets hurled at me, spit landing on my skin. During one march, I disappeared down an ally because I felt the vibration of jackboots. I’ve run from fights between cops and protesters. Sometimes, protesters behave badly, and I resent being sided with them. It’s possible to become disenchanted with people you agree with. Showing up can be panic-inducing and exhausting, not to speak of dangerous. It’s a risk.
(Personally, panic disorder prevents me from entering crowds of any kind. On a trip recently, it was all I could do not to hyperventilate in a packed museum. Years ago, I was crushed by a crowd at a concert, and my body just will not let it go. So now, I write. I encourage others to use their voice, if they can and they want to.)
Joining others out in the street for collective action is unforgettable. If you have done it, you know what I mean. The exhilaration of being together, seeing events with your own eyes, hearing voices raised in common cause, is the most hopeful thing you can do.
Whether you march or engage in other good trouble, thank you, friends. My late mother would be very proud of you.
Amen!
In honor of your mother, I thank you for declaring this so courageously. Yes.