So, in my last post I dusted off Fish & Bicycles and declared my intention to resist the impulse to despair over the barely believable, gulp, election of Donald Trump, and rather, to get to work on being part of a solution.
After an initial round of research, I identified several local social justice groups, as well as a chapter of Our Revolution, the organization that the Bernie Sanders 2016 campaign morphed into, and I’ll be looking into these further and attending meetings soon.
But, my first offline action, this past Friday, was to attend a protest loosely organized around a demonstration that has been taking place on the same street corner here in Bellingham, Washington, save a few gaps here and there, since 1966, the longest running event of its kind in the U.S.
This weekly peace vigil, held every Friday, was the most natural place to find an organized group of people guaranteed to be equally shaken by the election and opposed to the agenda of the man elected. But, rather than the usual relative handful of protesters on just one street corner at Cornwall & Magnolia, as seen in the photo included in this post, this week all four street corners were packed.
I’d made my own “Love Trumps Hate” sign, and when I arrived I took my place at the street’s edge, where passing cars and my fellow protesters across the street could see me, and with the very first smile from these lovely people and honks from supportive vehicles zooming by, I felt better than I had, by far, since election day.
The signs held by those assembled ran the gamut: peace/anti-war, environmental, reproductive rights, pleas for black, brown, LGBTQ lives, etc. While I had been wondering how or if we could ever really come together and stay together, there we were, with good intentions and shared purpose, a mutual desire to keep hope alive, hope for a more peaceful world in the face of an unimaginable national nightmare.
And yet, standing there with my sign in hand, I experienced some conflicting thoughts and feelings.
As I looked around at the staunch peace vigil veterans who have shown up weekly for years, not just when there’s a headline-grabbing crisis, I felt humbled, ashamed even, inadequate, for not having done much more than preach peace and love casually to friends and family, to write about it on my blog occasionally, a protest here and there, volunteering as a Bernie Sanders delegate, but only at the County Convention, and all those stupid online petitions.
But then, I observed a group, young and old, singing We Shall Overcome, and every single derisive stereotype of hippies and 1960s/70s counterculture came to mind, along with thoughts of how it all seemed for naught, as we have slid so dramatically backward as a country. We shall overcome, my ass!
But then…the music reached my heart, and cynicism and skepticism melted away, and I joined my voice with theirs.
The next song, the hauntingly beautiful Singing For Our Lives, by Holly Near, with the refrain, “We are a gentle, angry people”, sealed the deal.
I was right where I belonged and past inadequacies no longer mattered.
Only action remains important.