Staking One Small Claim

Yesterday, we joined an impromptu protest at the Sonoma Plaza. It was not particularly well attended, maybe 100 people. But for those of us who were there, it felt necessary. We needed a place to be, a place to stand, at this moment of insanity. It was a strange little gathering: sort of festive, which felt odd, because we were there because Alex Pretti was murdered. Sort of somber. Sort of awkward. I didn't know anyone there, although I saw some familiar faces.

Here are some things I observed.

Almost every single person there was white. Not all. The gregarious mother who chatted with us about how there were only four people on the sidewalk when she first got there with her kids—she was a woman of color. And one young Latina stood near the back. She didn't have a sign. She was alone. She did not put herself forward, which meant that all of the folks chatting and waving at the cars driving by did not see her. She stood still, arms at her side, with her bleach blond hair, her thick turquoise eye shadow, her dramatic lashes. I couldn't shake the fact that no one spoke to her.

Almost all of the cars that drove by honked and waved, gave us thumbs ups, or powerful fists. Not all. Two people flipped us off. A huge red truck—possibly fueled by straight testosterone—turned in front of the crowd, idled for a moment, and then revved his engine, pouring thick black exhaust smoke onto the retirees in lawn chairs holding their signs of solidarity.

We arrived at Noon, and stood and waved for an hour. Rick and I stood together, cringing at the near misses unfolding in the intersection in front of us; protests are excellent fodder for distracted driving. We took turns holding our cardboard sign lettered with: RESIST FOR PRETTI, RESIST FOR GOOD. 

At a few minutes to 1, people started peeling away. The young mom promised her restless daughter lunch at Burgers and Vine. We had all given up one hour to stand on a sidewalk and hold a sign. Just one hour to stand, because Alex Pretti and Renee Good will never stand again. 

I expected a bit more chatting amongst the crowd. That didn't really happen. People who knew each other talked to each other. I guess I expected more people to say "Hi, I'm so and so, what's your name?" Maybe we've all forgotten how. Maybe that's another reason to stand on a sidewalk with other people for just one hour.

Eventually, we also drifted off. Rick walked towards home; I started to make my way to meet a friend for a previously planned walk. As I was leaving, I noticed that the young Latina was still there. Still by herself, and still no one talked to her. I stood near her for a little while, trying to think of something to say to engage her and make her feel like it mattered that she showed up. Eventually, I figured out a way in:

"Excuse me? Hi, I'm curious: We are kind of new to town, and I'm wondering if people gather here often like this?"

With a sweet smile and a kind face, she turned and said hesitantly, "I think they're here every...Friday?" 

I actually knew this already. And I'm not really new to town. But I wanted to talk to her. I nodded and said: "Oh, OK, got it. And today, because of what happened yesterday?" 

She nodded quietly. 

"Have you been to these before? Is this about how many people usually come?" I said, trying to keep the conversation going. 

With a shrug and again, that sweet smile, she responded: "This is my first time."

"Oh, that's great," I said. "It feels important to be here, doesn't it?" 

She nodded.

And with that, I felt like maybe trying to keep the conversation going could get weird. So I just said: "Well, I hope to see you here next time too; have a good rest of your day." She smiled and said "you too," and I walked in the other direction.

Being there felt tiny in the face of what's happening in Minneapolis. We did our awkward part. We got flipped off and fumigated. Children got restless and hungry. And then we all went back to the rest of our lives.

I can't make sense of any of this, and I can't say we made a difference out there with our sign. But it was one small attempt to claim a little space for humanity and put our feet in it. Does that still matter these days? God, I hope so.

Another thing that happened this weekend? Trump hosted a bunch of billionaires at the White House to watch the Amazon-produced documentary about his immigrant wife. When we were both home from the protest, we canceled our Amazon Prime account.

The Joy of Talking to a Ram at Dusk

"I don't use my free will enough." 

So said my daughter, as our car sped through the golden hour light of a wintry wine county evening. The bright green fields, the gnarled vines stretching in rows both wild and rigid, the cows and mustard mingling quietly...the scene was mesmerizing. We alternated between silent awe in response to our surroundings and chattery exclamations of "look!" and "wow" and "I can't believe we live here!"

She asked if we could pull over to say hello to some animals. She's 19, but has never lost her childhood glee over seeing animals on the side of the road. Horses, cows, sheep, heron, dogs, goats, red-tailed hawks, red-winged blackbirds... salamanders. I think the creatures speak to her, actually. 

So when we passed two sheep in a field bordered by a white fence, she wanted to stop and talk. I found a place to turn around, drove back, and let her out. Giddy, she said "Do you think they'll come to me?" She did not wait for a response. Thanks to the recent and dramatic rains, climbing up to the fence line was a muddy affair. Undeterred, she scrambled up, and was rewarded at the top by one of the sheep ambling over to meet her.

The sky was growing purply and dark, slivers of light still on the western horizon. I stayed in the car, because it was cold outside and because I don't share her spunk. She—of course—conversed with the sheep for way longer than I had expected. Really, I should have been ready for that; I've known her for 19 years and she is not me. 

We were there for so long that we captured the attention of the farmer and her daughter. In the growing darkness, we saw them walking down their long driveway to investigate this car parked in their driveway and this girl talking to their animals. 

Instinctively, I got nervous. Was the farmer suspicious of us? Would she be mad? Tell us to get the hell off her property? I wanted to drive away before they reached the gate. But then, I figured that would be embarrassingly immature, so I stayed where I was and rolled down the window. 

In the half darkness, the farmer called out: "Is everyone OK?" She wasn't suspicious, she was care-taking. 

What followed was the loveliest interaction between us and the mom and daughter who owned the farm and the sheep, who turned out to not be sheep at all. They were rams. The mom told us that more than a few people had crashed into her fence, or ended up in some kind of pickle there at the end of her driveway. She has gotten used to checking on cars and seeing if anyone needed assistance. Tallulah asked if the rams had names. And of course they did: Rammy Davis Junior and Little Guy. Perfect names! Her daughter, all of 5 years or so, piped up: "I named them!" We told her she had done an excellent job. 

It was the kind of conversation — the pleasant kind — that is all too rare these days, so rare that my first impulse had been to turn and run away from it. It felt downright old-fashioned to be out on a country road making conversation with strangers, smiling and laughing. I wished we were neighbors, or that we could be friends. I imagined their warm and inviting kitchen and almost wanted to arrange a playdate for...our two daughters? Those days are long behind me. But these two did remind me of us, of me and my daughter, from 15 years ago. Me, taking care and her, naming things and loving animals. 

As we drove away, my daughter expressed her great satisfaction that we had taken the time to stop. That's what prompted her to say "I don't use my free will enough," by which she meant she doesn't always pursue the things that interest her, doesn't always take the time to step outside of routine or expectation.

I think she does, though. Because of her, I have stopped the car in the middle of the night on an empty country road, so we could listen to the frogs and owls and crickets, and look at the stars. Because of her, I have met more salamanders than one woman deserves. Because of her, we met Rammy Davis Junior. 

She is a good reminder, in this new year, to use our free will to do the things we want to do, to seize the moment and follow those impulses that lead us towards animals, stars, mud, farms, and whatever else calls to us from beyond our screens and limits.

There is joy in talking to a ram at dusk.