A Hard Reign’s A-Gonna Fall
I have to confess I am not a very good activist.
That doesn’t mean I’m not filled with moral outrage and righteous indignation at the hideous and heinous behavior of the higher-ups in the hellscape that is our current feral federal government (or that I lack adjectives on the subject). It’s just that I’m uncomfortable with communal experiences. I don’t clap along at concerts, I only mouth the words when obliged to sing “Happy Birthday,” and I have never participated in “the wave” or a flashmob. I prefer to keep my public service private.
It was not always thus. An early childhood memory has me watching with envy all the Vietnam War protesters on the evening news. Why do the big kids get to have all the fun? While I don’t remember either of my older brothers demonstrating, I do recall a string of love beads slung over one of their bedposts that I fingered like a rosary. Yes, my eight-year-old self thought, why can’t we give peace a chance? And while we’re at it, why can’t I stay up to watch The Mod Squad?
So, since there were no public displays of civic unrest happening around my hometown burg of Bath, I thought I’d stir up some good trouble on my own. I went out to the barn and painted a “We can save the world” protest sign, propped it up in my brothers’ former newspaper-delivery wagon, called a couple friends and marched around the neighborhood, picking up trash. When our efforts failed to attract attention (where were those nosy neighborhood moms when you needed them?), this budding media maven called the Bath-Brunswick Times Record, suggesting they send a photographer and reporter. I wanted a splash on the front page – such valor demanded attention – but no team was sent. Instead, a couple days later, a tiny paragraph, buried deep in the paper’s pages, listed our names, that we had been on litter patrol, and not much more. And, as I recall, they spelled my name wrong.
My rabble-rousing took a pause for adolescence, when groupthink and conformity were strictly enforced by a clique of mean-girl bullies. By high school, I’d broken free and was on my own trajectory, questioning authority and rallying against injustice. I led organizations, captained teams, and was a member of my church’s state youth council. I joined the Sierra Club and got involved in student government, petitioning the city council in opposition to arts funding cuts in Bath schools. I was a 1976 delegate to Dirigo Girls State, where I was awarded the “Most Outstanding Participant in Government” prize: a marble Bicentennial pen stand, poised and ready for my executive action.
So, what happened? Orono. Well, that’s not entirely fair. The University of Maine wasn’t single-handedly responsible for my departure from civic engagement, but after having been accepted to the University of Denver – my dream school – but ending up enrolled at UMO, something was snuffed out in me. I found books and boys and bars more interesting than tilting at windmills. After three semesters, I fled to Portland, where I started my own quixotic quest to become a writer. On my own.
My discomfort with group activities came to light during the No Kings rally in Portland on June 14. I’d come directly from a memorial service in Falmouth, hustling up to Lincoln Park with my pathetic sign tucked under my arm. At prior rallies, I hadn’t even bothered with a sign. I stood with my friends Tom and Ann, whose dog, Toby, sported a sandwich board that read, “Trump: worst thing since cats” — the standard-bearer for all of us.
But No Kings was a special march, and, like a good guest, I didn’t want to show up empty-handed. So, in my haste to rush out the door that morning, and being bereft of art supplies, I pasted two Barry Blitt New Yorker covers satirizing Trump to the cardboard back of a legal pad, Sharpied the only words I could muster – “Yuck. Just yuck” – under Trump’s rump, and called it good.
I never took the sign out from under my arm. Not because I was ashamed of my lack of artistic talent amongst all the brilliant signs on display (I was), but because holding my sign aloft felt fakey for me. I also couldn’t bring myself to pump my fist or join any of the rally’s chants or songs. It’s ironic that as someone who has spent her entire career mouthing off and helping others find and use their voices, mine failed.
But I was there, as were thousands of others. Loud and proud or solemn and still, we made our presence known. And that’s why I will continue to show up, so long as our democracy is being dismantled in front of us. Comfortable or not, the important thing is we stand – yes, together – and be counted.
Elizabeth Peavey wants to congratulate her hometown burg of Bath for the nearly 3,000 protesters who turned out on June 14. Just one question: Where were you during my wagon march to save the world?
