Can We Stop For Tacos On Our March On Washington?

Never in my life have I been much of an activist. I've always been fascinated by the dedication and drive protesters bring to their beliefs, but for the most part I just can't summon up the energy to rail against the status quo. Things have come and gone for which I've had one feeling or another, but something that would spur me to get up out of my chair would have to be a rally for free tacos or a demonstration involving drinking pina coladas. Indoors. On lounge chairs.

To say that I am a lazy person, I feel, is a bit unfair. True, I don't march on Washington or take part in sit-ins. Whereas some people organize their next rally against homophobic politicians or a war taking place in a far-off land, I take pill bottles and outfit them with construction paper and googly eyes, transforming them into cartoon characters. To me, this is a productive use of my time.

Still, that's not to say that I've never been involved with demonstrations.

My friend Amber is more politically inclined than I am. She and her boyfriend Andy display a motivation that would inspire those looking to make changes in the world. Their level of commitment is such that I can only describe it as "overwhelming," something I can attest to since I was with the two of them for the first rally I ever attended.

Together we were protesting the suspension of a former English teacher of ours for his classroom use of an article exploring the element of homosexuality in the animal kingdom. The article at its worst was timid (nothing more than what a person might read in National Geographic), but from the furor that a single parent raised after reading it, one might have believed the article was an excerpt from a Jackie Collins novel. And so our teacher, Mr. DeLong, had been suspended, and on the night on the school board meeting to determine whether or not he would keep his job, a small army of protesters gathered outside the building to show their support.

My decision to go was based on the emotional connection I had with Mr. DeLong. As a former student and someone who had once imagined himself becoming an English teacher, it felt even more unfair that he should be chastised for encouraging his students to think outside the normal bounds of small-town Midwestern life. As a homosexual the fact that someone would make a fuss over her child having to learn about the inevitabilities of gayness among peacocks and turtles made me angry.

While the motivations behind my going were sizable, the protest itself felt a bit underwhelming. In my head I'd conjured up scenes of people boasting signs and making catchy chants. People would throw bottles in fits of rage. And might it be too much to ask that someone set themselves on fire, like in those schoolbook pictures of Buddhist monks during the Vietnam War? What I got instead was a crowd of maybe seventy people, all of whom were in favor of Mr. DeLong's reinstatement. There were no angry counter-protesters. No screaming mobs. Nothing but a group of students and middle-aged parents standing outside a converted house in the middle of a field.

I guess, in a way, it's good that nothing got out of hand. But a part of me had to wonder, where's the fun in this? If I'm giving up my free evening, can't I get a little excitement in return? After all, the November air was chilly, and my feet were on the edge of a mild discomfort from standing for an hour and a half.

The more professional protesters, the ones who do this kind of thing all the time, might vilify me for that kind of a statement, and so it seems like a fair thing to say that it's a good thing I am not involved in many demonstrations. All in all, I make for a pretty poor protester. This being no more evident than when, at seven-thirty, I told my friend Amber that I was leaving to go to a birthday party. In all fairness, I'd made the commitment long before I agreed to come to the rally, but I did feel slightly guilty when I learned later that Amber and Andy and a good group of the protesters were there, showing their silent support, until a little after midnight.

So maybe it's a good thing that I don't make it a priority to involve myself in political demonstrations or rallies against injustices. After an initial bout of shame, I'm coming to terms with the knowledge of my place in the grand scheme of things. When I imagine myself at any of the great movements in history – Vietnam, D.C.'s civil rights marches, the 1969 Miss America Protest – I cannot help but hear my voice among the chants of civil disobedience, dampening their power, saying, "Hey, I thought there were going to be pina coladas! And where are the lounge chairs? Well, can we at least stop for some tacos?"

A Day In The Life...

The Working Life

The other day I was thinking about how great it would be not to have to work. This sentiment is a pretty common one, I'm sure, but the more I thought about it, the more invested in the idea I became. In my head I envisioned a scenario in which I lay on a chaise lounge, sipping Mai Tais somewhere in the neighborhood of eleven in the morning, maybe reading a book or just catching up on the latest cases in Judge Judy's courtroom. As it stands, I'm currently employed in the retail field, which is to say that I get yelled at by people who want important things like toasters and "That one bedspread; my daughter said it's called 'Jasmine' " that happen to be out of stock or, more often than one might believe, completely nonexistent. For the past five years I've worked for a major department store, and for three years prior to that, I spend my after-school hours stocking shelves and ringing up tubs of potato salad at a small-town grocery store.

Eight years of working with the public has taught me one thing about myself: that I hate people.

That might not be entirely true. For every ten middle-aged women trying too hard to pull off the sophisticated demeanor of upper-middle class status by claiming that the pillow I have shown them "does NOT go with their theme," there's always one or two friendly folks who will smile back at me and offer a genuine thank-you. An elderly woman in tight, leopard-print lycra will tell me her preference for fullscreen DVDs, and when I tell her that her chosen movie only comes in widescreen, she shrugs it off and says, "Okay. Thanks, hon." Then, ten minutes later, I'm attacked by a man whose child, it seems, has been taken hostage, and the only way he can save him is to buy ammo for his staple gun, here in the home improvement section the size of a Smart car rather than, say, at the Home Depot across the street.

Having been at my job for several years, I've managed to weasel my way into a position of some responsibility. How I managed to convince anyone that I should be in charge of anything or anyone I'll never know, but having been given a supervisory role in my store means that I get the brunt of most people's aggression. A coworker will encounter an angry customer, and before anyone can get too fired up, they'll jump in and say, "Would you like to speak to my manager?" Basically, offering my head to them on a silver platter.

I can't really blame them, though. I did the exact same thing when I first started.

Often, after explaining to someone that a sign for laundry soap in one spot does not apply to another soap three spots away, I get the privilege of listening to any number of responses. These can range from the litigious "Well, this is FALSE ADVERTISING" to the malicious "You sonofabitch" to the comparatively friendly "This is why I do NOT shop here." On a given day, when I have to crush someone's dream of owning a thirty-dollar slow cooker or telling a grandchild not to climb on the shelves, I'm thought of by any number of people as an asshole.

I've developed a thicker skin, having a few years of insults, curse words, and angry glares under my belt. Still, every once in a while the inevitable confrontation will get to me. In the middle of a woman's rant, I'll sense my heartbeat quicken to something I can actually feel in my neck, the pounding so loud that I can barely make out which four-letter words she's basing her qualifiers on. Thanks to that damned fight or flight response, the part of my brain that would ordinarily make me sound not like an idiot diverts its resources, leaving my mouth numb and giving me a tendency to stumble, buffoon-like, over words a toddler could speak with ease.

In these cases, after I've been left standing victorious or wallowing in defeat, I'll conjure up the image of me resting comfortably, propped up against a mountain of cushions with a drink in my hand. The room around me sits silent with the first words of a novel. Or maybe the television offers its passing promise of more Judge Judy, coming up next. Either way, back in the real world I'll continue on, checking my watch and counting down the hours until my fantasy comes true. If not the one in which I'm free from the bonds of working life, then at least the one, more attainable, where I can clock out and call it a day until tomorrow.