“Every child had a pretty good shot, to get at least as far as their old man got, but something happened on the way to that place, they threw an American flag in our face.”
The late civil rights icon and Democratic Congressman John Lewis, died on this date (July 17) five years ago. In 1965, Mr. Lewis was beaten to the ground and arrested in Selma, Alabama by lawless cops and a mob of white men, who assumed they would be unidentified and even praised for defending segregation and white power by violently breaking up a peaceful, non-violent march across the Edmund Pettus Bridge petitioning for voting rights. Mr. Lewis was 25 that year and I was 17. This year, today, I officially turned 77 on the “anniversary” of John Lewis’ death. Although I’ve rounded my age off to 77 since sometime in mid-January. Congressman John Lewis was fighting for justice, decency, equality, and the tattered remains of American democracy into his last week of dying of pancreatic cancer at 80-years-old.
I, on the other hand, woke up this morning without any hope for this country; and I have been on the white privileged end of the stick for all of my 77 years. The closest thing to knowing what it’s like to be non-white, that I have experienced, has been a result of my life-long atheism. And that is, more or less, a choice I made at age 9 after watching my mother die of cancer at 34 and hearing the cynical “God works in mysterious ways” bullshit from the so-called adults in my life. All I had to do was pretend to believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the god-of-the-moment, like every other faux-believer overcrowding and polluting this world, and I could have avoided any of the discrimination I’ve experienced as “a godless heathen.” [Yes, I absolutely believe that 99.999…% of the people pretending to be Christian, Muslim, religious Jews, and the rest of LaLa Land worshipers only “believe” in the bits that benefit themselves and pretend the inconvenient “love thy neighbor” bits are inconsequential and inconvenient.]
My pitiful contribution to humanity and my country, today, is supposed to involve changing from my usual “whatever was at the top of my dresser drawer outfit” to my “Sunday best,” a 40-mile drive to Northfield, and a short walk across a park and a block-long bridge on a mild summer day to participate in the Northfield Good Trouble Lives On March.
The Red Wing Friday protest has been diminishing steadily for the past month or so, after peaking at about 300 people (far short of 3.5%) in June. Most Americans appear to be unsupportive of the Republican platform, but most are clearly baffled by Russia’s non-stop disinformation and the weak knees of the pitiful remains of the US billionaire-owned MSM. We are clearly at one of our 80-year-reinvention moments [If you aren’t familiar with this historic cycle, I really recommend that you read that last link.] and, this time it seems that it could be the last one. It isn’t because of Russian interference, billionaire contamination, or even the fact that the Republican Party is totally fixated on destroying the United States of America. I think the country has been breeding for stupid for so long that we’re at a turning point that will require more than a moderate level of ruthlessness from the people who actually make things work. So far, I’m not seeing any signs that is likely to happen.
A friend, whose opinion matters to me, argued that it’s worth putting in an appearance, especially in a venue as benign as Northfield, Minnesota where the odds are good that Republican violence is unlikely. I’m torn. I’m not worried about my safety, other than the drive which is no more dangerous on Thursday afternoon than Sunday morning, from the usual Trump-deranged nutjob with a car full of weapons. We have lots of them in Minnesota, like every other part of the country that has an inventory of uneducated, uninformed, racist idiots. In other words, rural people everywhere. At 77, I’m more worried about living too long than dying too soon. My father lived to 91, but his last two decades were almost totally without anything resembling a quality of life. My younger brother and I are the oldest males from my mother’s side of our family. And I’m definitely at the stage of life where I am giving up favorite activities at an uncomfortable rate.
So, my only real resistance to “one more protest” action is that it feels pointless. The wild hope is that the Trump resistance will meet or exceed the magic 3 ½% mark. Maybe it’s because I live in a cowardly, conservative rural area, but I know a LOT of people who express disappointment and, even, outrage at the Republican assault on American democracy. But they aren’t bothered enough to even join a safe local protest that lasts for 1 hour on Fridays. If that level of “participation” is too big a step to make, rebelling against a national fascist takeover is not a possibility. And that is where I am, today. Do I keep trying to make some kind of contribution in a country that is doomed to fall into fascism and decline or do I begin to marshal my resources and plot an escape? I have no interest in being “the last Jew to leave Germany.”