July 4, 2011

 July 4, 2011 / A Free Speech Protest

Superficial, Subjective Civility First… Democracy Last
An Experiment in Free Speech

It doesn’t take a Constitutional amendment to end free speech in America. Apathy in the face of oppression is enough to do the job.  Free speech is already under assault.  

—Elisabeth Sabaditsch-Wolff, tried in Austria for criticizing Islam under Austrian “hate crime” legislation

Lots of noise.  I guess that’s what the 4^th has come to mean and be:  noise, nothing but noise!  I’d decided to skip my protest idea at the celebration parade and muzzle myself like everyone else.  I’d done enough protests to know that nobody would understand or really give a damn.  Heavy polluting fire engines raced down the road, followed by cars and trucks with commercial logos, as part of the beginning of the parade.  But then the noise pushed me to create a sign:  CELEBRATE THE FIRST FUCKING AMENDMENT, NOT COMMERCE!  Hell, I wasn’t going to do it.  My superego had the upper hand.  Then suddenly my Id took over.  Today could be my last day on the fuckin’ planet.  Who knows?

Out I went with the sign from the other day, “Sturgis Library Censorship and Hypocrisy,” around my neck and holding up the larger sign on the First Amendment I’d just created.  I walked down Commerce Rd.  “Excellent!” says a woman sincerely.  Well, that bodes well.  But then heading down Millway by the harbor and bridge I pass scorn, scowl, grimace from one adult after the next.  They’re coming back from the parade, which I missed.  “That’s mature!” says some guy with kids.  “Watch your language!” says another guy.  But I didn’t say a word.  “That’s inappropriate for children!” scolds a woman.  Then I walk up by Cobb’s Hill West Cemetery where events for the kids in the park by the church. Scowling humans like rabid dogs confront me.  “Nice!” says some guy with scorn of hatred on his face.  Then an old buzzard walks up to me, looking like he wants to beat me up.  “That’s bad language!” he states.  “You shouldn’t be here.  Go home!”  “You go home!” I say.  “I use whatever the fuck language I want to use.”  He walks right up to my face.  “What are you going to do, beat me up?” I ask, then walk off.  That’s all I need, get caught fighting an old man.  

But there’s hope.  “Great use of the First Amendment!” says a young woman, walking over to me to shake my hand.  I thank her for the encouragement and tell her she wouldn’t believe the looks of hatred I’ve so far gotten.  On 6A heading into town, I step into the potter’s shop where last week I’d chatted with the potter regarding the library censorship.   I show him the sign.  He evidently disapproves, though can’t quite get the words out.  I think he’s afraid he’ll lose business if I hang around.  And indeed he’s got a bunch of clients looking around.  And to think he’d told me last week that people considered him as different because he’d dare do what others often wouldn’t… or whatever.   I ask if I can borrow a pencil.  He kindly gives me one.  I step back outside and write down some of the things people said on the back of my sign.  Traffic is heavy.  I hold the sign up to the autos passing by slowly.  A carload of college-age kids cheers me.  Bumper to bumper.  I stop and chat with them and thank them for the support.  “Great sign!” says one of them.  “I’m glad some of you aren’t dead yet,” I say to them.  They like the comment.  “You have a nice day, sir,” says the driver.  “I’m courageous,” I say.  “I almost got beaten up by some old guy.”  

“Too much white glove cleaning!” I say to a woman driving with White Glove Cleaning printed on her car.  “Just joking!” I say.  She appreciates the comment.  “Come on, man!” says some guy with kids.  “It’s not cool!”  “Well, I’m not cool then,” I say.  “It’s that simple!”  I stand for a moment in front of a cop, who’s talking to a woman.  But he doesn’t pay attention.  Good enough.  Maybe he’s actually First Amendment educated.  Who knows?  

“Why do you use profanity,” says an unaccompanied guy.  “For this, it makes a damn good point, that’s why,” I say.  We talk for a bit.  “What you’re doing isn’t really important,” he says.  “You should be out fighting for health care or other things instead.”  “But there’s always something more important,” I say.  “For me, the First Amendment is very important.  For you, it isn’t.  And what do you do, if I might ask?”  “I’m an IT,” he says.  “That’s Information Tech.”  “You know, I wasn’t even going to do this,” I say.  “It’s much easier to sit at home or just be one of the herd.  But I do it for my dignity as a human being.  I stand up and away from the herd.  You probably wouldn’t understand because you’d never do something like this.  Right?”  “I just think there’s more important things you could do with your life,” he says.  “Like what?  Be an IT?” I say.  

“I believe in freedom of speech, but,” says some guy without finishing his sentence.  “Yes, there’s always a BUT,” I say.  “And that’s the problem.”  He continues on.  “That’s real nice showing that to children!” hollers some guy out of his pickup.  “I appreciate it, sir!” I say.  “Asshole!” mumbles a woman with hubbie and wheeling a couple of kids.  “Now, that’s a good one!” I say.  An old buzzard slows down, reads the sign, then shakes his head in disgust.  “Have a heart attack!” I say.  Then a car with American Civil War written on it passes.  The driver scowls.  The old buzzard from before arrives now in his car, slows down to frown at me.  “What are you gonna do, shoot me?” I say.  “I don’t have a gun,” he says.  “Mr. Charles Manson.”  So, now I’m Charles Manson!  

I stop and chat with five old ladies seated on a bench by the road, looking like daughters of the American Revolution.  “Hypocrisy at the library?” says one of them looking at my sign.  “Yes, nothing’s perfect, not even the public libraries,” I say.  She wants to know why hypocrisy, so I explain, but don’t think she quite understood.  A rare black dude wants to take my photo next to the ladies.  But the ladies don’t want that.  So he takes my photo in the opposite direction.  I hand him a flyer and ask him to send me a copy.  “I detect a slight accent,” I say.  “West Africa,” he says.  “See, Americans wouldn’t do that, they wouldn’t be interested like you,” I say.  Nice guy.  

Back I head.  I stop at the cemetery again and stand by the road with my sign.  A little kid comes up shoots a photo of me and scurries off.  I tell him to come back.  Nice kid.  He takes another.  “I love America,” I say to him.  “Cause I can do this and not get shot!”  He scurries off, then is back again.  “Can you say what you said before and I’ll take one?” he says.  “Ah, so it’s a recorder too,” I say.  “Sure!”  And I do and he records it.  “Send me a copy,” I say.  “Here’s my email.”  Nice kid.  I decide not to walk up for a second time to the playground where the kid’s activities.  It could get violent if I did.  By the dock, a college kid attendant is talking with a couple of other college-agers in the street.  “Do they teach you this in college?” I say.  “No,” he says with a smile.  “Too bad,” I say.  

Hot blasting sun.  Back down Commerce for a few more scorns, then into the house I go. Interestingly, I think, both liberals and conservatives generally expressed disapproval.  Well, it wasn’t all bad, just 90% more or less.  It’s as if so many of them thought I was the guy teaching the kids bad words.  Holding the placard enabled me to see what fellow citizens were like underneath the veneer. Most apparently learned from their parents and are now teaching their children: Sticks and stones will break my bones AND words will be offensive to me. How they can be so offended by a mere word like "FUCKING," while so indifferent to censorship and banning of ideas in their own backyard, is beyond my comprehension.  And so, I write up the experience, then poemify it.  

Just One Word Is All It Takes
An Experiment in Free Speech

Noise, noise, noise—cop sirens,

fire engine diesel stench, and

local merchants parading their logos 

past my house in the morning.  

It was the Fourth of July, and I’d

decided earlier not to go, 

but somehow they’d gotten under my skin, 

so I grabbed my felt markers, ruler 

and piece of cardboard, got to work, 

then out I went to brave the citizenry 

holding a large red, white, and blue placard:

Celebrate the First

FUCKING 

Amendment,

Not Commerce!

Most of them didn’t say anything.

They didn’t have to—their faces said it all.

One by one they scowled hatred at me.  

Nice! said one of them sarcastically.

That’s real mature! said another.

Watch your language! yet another barked.

But I hadn’t even said a fuckin’ word.

That’s inappropriate for children, sir!

snarled a seething female mommy. 

Ah, a nice neighborly Christian, I replied.

Then a large man seemed like he wanted

to engage in discussion over the issue.

I believe in freedom of speech, but…

he said without finishing.

Yes, there always seems to be a ‘but,’  

I said.  Isn’t that the problem?

Well, he walked off, not quite sure 

how to deal with my response.  

Asshole! whispered a young gal

wheeling a kid with hubby next to her.

Now, that’s ironical, I said, not knowing

if she knew what the hell the word meant.  

That’s real nice, showing that to children,

snapped another concerned mother.

But I’m showing it to you, not to them, I said.  

They could give a fuck about my sign.

Would she have me arrested?  I knew

how easy that would be to do.

Then I got braver and stood for a moment

not far from a cop, knowing quite well

that my expression of free speech 

could easily be interpreted by him 

as disorderly conduct.  But he didn’t respond.  

Come on, man! said a young daddy. It’s not cool! 

Well, I’m not cool then, I said.  It’s that simple!

Most citizens seemed ignorant of their rights

and didn’t give a damn about the subject. 

I was ever interested in it, but still didn’t know

what the hell my rights were.    

In the bleak and dismal, hope suddenly appeared 

—a young college-aged woman approached me

and said, “great use of the First Amendment!”
She shook my hand, but then a minute later 

an old bugger rushed up to my face, snarling.

You, Charles Manson! he yelled angrily.