“One thing I know for sure—he doesn’t care about us at all!”
At a small town protest
The call…
Went out on Facebook and a friend tagged me. It’s a Facebook sort of town. The post said to show up in front of the courthouse for International Women’s Day from 11 to 1.
Was the first person I saw, walking down the street toward the courthouse. She was coming from the opposite direction, in her brown leather coat, holding a sign, looking stylish as fuck, like she always does. I had to fight back tears when I saw her. I find myself doing that a lot lately. The littlest thing makes me cry. It’s all so much, every single day.
But here the was the Goddess, the matriarch of our town and she was showing up. She was showing up again. She’s been showing up for decades. For too many decades, she’s had to show up. And even if it was just the two of us, which it seemed as I turned the corner that it might be for a moment, that would be okay.
The other protesters…
Were mostly people I didn’t know and that surprised me. It’s a town of about 13,000 people and, to a lot of you, that probably doesn’t seem like a lot. But there are networks even within those small numbers. There are cliques and groups. You can build a bubble even with 13,000 people.
I expected to see people from my bubble. I expected to see a lot of folks who worked at the college with me. Other professors. I expected to see all my like-minded friends and I did see a few.
But mostly it was people I didn’t know. A woman who’d driven all the way up from Henry County. A younger couple who stood on the sidewalk with their hands clasped, holding their signs. I thought, in my naivete, that I knew who my allies were. I was wrong. There are more of us than I realized.
The people…
Drove by, through one of the main intersections in town. They were busy going about their Saturday mornings, stopped at the light and squinting at our signs, trying to figure out what these 30 or so people were doing in front of the courthouse. It is a fascinating exercise, to spend two hours watching people drive by in cars. To peer into that intimate glimpse of their lives.
The people driving by honked or they gave us a thumbs up. Or they ignored us altogether. Yes, a few of them flipped us off or gave us the thumbs down. But most either just drove by or showed some sign of support.
It all reminded me that the person who actually won this presidential election was no one. More of the voting eligible population in the U.S. cast no vote for president than cast a vote for either Trump or Harris. That was the largest category, even though many of them voted down ballot.
A lot of people in the U.S. are happy to just drive by, but maybe it’s possible to persuade them to do something else. Maybe it’s possible to persuade them to do something more.
The older white men in trucks…
Honked or gave us the thumbs up. Not all of them, of course, but so many more than I ever would have expected. White men in big trucks. White men in plumbing trucks and construction trucks. White men in trucks hauling trailers behind them. White men in trucks by themselves, yes, they honked, too.
It feels so often like the world out there is hostile. Like everyone is against you. Like everyone is bent on the destruction of you and everyone you love. Like there are a thousand big trucks baring down on us, seeking to run us down. But maybe not.
I wanted to laugh out loud every time a white man in a truck honked at us or gave us the thumbs up. I wanted to cry. I wanted to run after them and thank them.
The women in the passenger seats…
Leaned over the men who were driving to honk the horn in support sometimes. This is fairly common, some of the women who do this more regularly informed me. A woman leaning across the front seat to honk the horn.
Can you imagine the conversations inside those cars? Can you imagine that dynamic? Do the women tell the men to honk and the men ignore them? Or do the women not even bother to ask them to honk? Have they given up all hope that their desires will be acknowledged?
What happens after that moment as they’re driving by, leaning over to honk the horn? Do the women and the men have a laugh about it? Does a tense silence descend? God bless the women who have to lean over to honk the horn and how glad I am not to be one of them.
The woman who flipped us off…
Looked so fucking unhappy. I’m sorry, but it’s true. Hers was not a casual finger, lifted briefly and almost as an afterthought. Hers was a determined gesture, in place as she came through the intersection and still there as she drove off down the street. She had time to think about flipping us off. She was committed to the act.
She didn’t look at us. She didn’t make eye contact. She wasn’t that brave. She was hunched over the wheel, her whole body coiled with anger, I guess. She was, at the very least, determined. I wonder how the rest of her day went. I wonder if she told her friends stories about how she flipped off those liberal snowflakes. I wonder if she felt lifted up. Her body did not speak of joy as she drove by.
I think about the people I’ve flipped off myself. Mostly it’s motorcyclists who drive right through stop signs and stop lights in our town. Or cars who have paid for modified mufflers to make loud and grating noises as they drive past my house.
Do I look like that woman as I flip them off? There is a fleeting joy in raising the finger toward them, followed at once by a sharp jolt of fear that they’ll come for me.
Years ago when I was in college, I did clinic defense at the one place in the state of Mississippi where women could get an abortion. There were two sides, yelling at each other across a carefully patrolled battle line.
I spent so much time wondering about the people on the other side of that line. I wondered about their anger. Their passion. About their lives. I am a person who finds it very hard to turn off my empathy. It’s a quality that’s good and bad, the product of a certain type of parenting.
I’ll think about the woman who flipped me off for days, but I doubt she’ll wonder much about me.
The homeless guy…
Wandered by and asked us what we were doing. He’s a homeless person who’s new to town, as opposed to one of the regulars I see on the street every day. He’s been hanging out at the corner across from the gas station. Our friend who lives there sees him with a bottle of liquor, which he probably uses to try and quiet the voices, but still, first thing in the morning, he’s out there having a conversation with them.
The homeless guy wonders what our being out here in front of the courthouse has to do with him and it’s such a good question, isn’t it? What does us being out there have to do with him? I think about this a lot. I have so little power to influence what happens in Washington, DC, besides reading one doom-filled article after the other.
Meanwhile, this man is cold. And alone. And has no place to go. Is it easier, in some ways, to read those doom-filled articles than it is to confront the reality of this man and all the others like him on the streets of my small town? Is it easier to keep the flame of outrage kindled than it is to do the hard work in our neighborhoods?
I don’t know. I know that I can’t subscribe to any version of feminism that isn’t as concerned about this homeless guy as it is about birth control or the wage gap. I can’t subscribe to a feminism or an activism that’s willing to leave some people behind.
The guy on the bike…
Came riding through on the sidewalk. There are lots of people on bikes I know in town. The guy with the fancy three-wheel e-bike. The woman with the little scooter-like e-bike who doesn’t really ride it so much as toddle around with her feet on the pavement like someone just learning how to balance. The woman who rides her pink bike around town in all good weather.
I didn’t know this guy on a bike, but he had a black pug with him, trotting along behind. He crossed the road to drive by us.
“That’s right, get him out of that office!” he yelled as he rode by. “One thing I know for sure, he doesn’t care about us at all!”
Then he called to his dog and crossed the street and was gone.
The point of it all…
Is what? We didn’t have petitions for people to sign. We didn’t pass out fliers. We didn’t make demands. We didn’t even chant. We just stood there with our signs. Signs that said, “Trust Black Women.” Signs that said, “Angry Women Will Change the World.” Signs that said, “Abortion is Healthcare.” Signs that said, “Trans Rights are Human Rights.”
We kept a tally of positive and negative responses. The positive responses far outweighed the negative. By the end of the two hours, I was cold and my knees and back hurt, but I felt better. I’d done something. And I felt less alone. I felt buoyed by the other people who showed up. I felt lighter because of those people who drove by honking. Some of them honking and honking and honking, as if the motion itself would undo all the horror that’s been unleashed into the world. As if with that motion, they could shove it all back down. Make it all go away.
I felt better. Maybe some of those people who drove by felt better, too. And then there were…
The kids…
Who rode in the backseat. One little girl who clapped even though the people driving her car did not honk. Some kids who gave us the thumbs up even though their parents ignored us. The one long van that sat at the stop light for what felt like forever. The man driving looked out at us. He didn’t honk or wave. He didn’t flip us off, either.
The back of the van was filled with kids and they gathered at the windows, staring out at us. We could see their mouths moving as they read our signs. They didn’t clap. They didn’t wave. They sat there a long time, for a full cycle of the stop light. They absorbed. They watched. Maybe they learned something. Maybe some seed was planted, there in those backseats, as they rode by the protesters.
At home…
I collapsed on the couch and pulled the blanket up over me, trying to get warm. I took an Advil for my back and my knees. I told my husband all the stories. I took a nap. I fell asleep and dreamed of a different world.
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The media doesn’t seem to much be covering protests. I don’t think our local paper sent anyone to cover ours. So please send me pics of protests you’ve gone to (I don’t think you can post pics as comments). I want all the pictures. Things are happening. People are showing up, even in small towns in Indiana.
Thank you for such a powerful essay!
Thank you for this Robyn!