Protesting
ain't easy these days.
I was asked to hold a sign that read "Stop
Rocket Pollution" as we marched against the
militarization of space and the National Missile
Defense System on October 13th. The maker of the sign
explained her objection to air pollution caused by
the exhaust from rockets.
Now, I can't say that smog checks for missiles is the
most pressing beef I have personally when it comes to
the National Missile Defense System. The arms race,
nuclear winter, spending billions of dollars on a pet
project with more holes in it than my gopher-riddled
lawn while billions of people lack food, water,
housing, education, and health care: those are the
things that, for me, come in ahead of the air quality
issue.
But what could I say? I raced frantically to get to
the protest on time, and I was completely unprepared.
I had no sign of my own. So I said what the hell, she
can't just drag the sign behind her like Linus with
his blanket, and I picked up the other end.
That morning, a group of about sixteen of us had met
in Lompoc in the parking lot of the Mervyn's on
"H" Street. This proved to be a fortuitous
location, because I was able to combine my social
activism with the purchase of a handsome pair of
polyester stretch pants, not to mention a bean and
cheese burrito from Taco Bell.
There was another group of protesters nearby. They
appeared to have shown up to protest, well, us. There
were more of them maybe fifty and they vigorously
waved American flags and cheered pro-America slogans.
We crossed to the opposite side of the street so our
banners could be read by cars going the opposite
direction as we walked along Highway 1 to the
entrance of Vandenberg Air Force Base, where we would
meet more protesters for a rally.
The protesters on the opposite side of the street
I'll call them the Anti-Protest Protesters engaged in
some friendly and spirited name-calling. I heard one
mild mannered housewife yell in a guttural battle
cry, "You guys are stupid!" Others held
signs, which, among the usual "United We
Stand" and "God Bless America"
messages, also included profound slogans such as
"We Love Our Missiles" and "Missiles
Solve Problems." I responded by flashing them
the peace sign.
There appeared to be somewhat more support for them.
Although we received our share of friendly honks from
passing cars, their group appeared to rate higher in
popularity on the "honk-o-meter."
Frequently, drivers managed to simultaneously honk in
support of the other group and to give our group the
middle finger in an impressive display of vehicular
élan.
At one point, a blond woman in a pickup truck driving
onto Vandenberg yelled, "Go to
Afghanistan!" I wondered whether Martin Luther
King, Jr. had received this kind of treatment when he
protested the Vietnam War. If so, I'm glad he didn't
take anybody up on the suggestion, or the Vietnamese
would have a three-day weekend on the third Monday in
January, and we Americans would have to work five
days that week.
On October the 13th, Lompoc experienced a bona fide
miracle: it was sunny. And not just sunny. It was
perfectly clear, perfectly cloudless, and beastly
hot. Super hot. Hades hot.
Another example of how badly prepared I was: not only
had I neglected to make a sign of my own, I had
brought only a small bottle of water with me that was
quickly devoured by sixteen thirsty protesters at the
rate of approximately one fluid ounce per person.
When this was gone, we turned to other sources of
hydration, such as gutter water, leaves, and suntan
lotion.
So we hiked and hiked for nine long miles and by the
time we reached the gate of Vandenberg, we were all
completely dehydrated. I had recently read that
drinking urine can keep you alive when you are on the
brink of death, and I reminded our group frequently
of this fact in hopes of lifting their spirits as we
staggered towards the gate. "Remember, we can
always drink our urine!" I cried out
enthusiastically (although I declined to suggest
whose until the situation became truly desperate).
We were met at Vandenberg by the Anti-Protest
Protesters, who had had the good sense to drive there
and looked much better hydrated than we did, so much
so that I briefly considered joining their protest
and giving the finger to my liberal pinko commie
friends, simply so I could get a drink of water.
Luckily someone from our group had a cell phone and
arranged for someone to bring water. Once my thirst
was quenched, I resolved once again to fight the
threat of military Armageddon.
Our group of protesters swelled to match their fifty.
We spent a few more hours standing by the road
holding our signs, listening to speakers, and singing
songs of protest. We closed with a few of my
favorites: Eric Clapton's Cocaine and a lively medley
of N' Sync hits.
I left the protest feeling tired but happy. After the
events of 9/11, my conscience had been telling me
that I was not doing enough for world peace. In
truth, I have been suffering from a prolonged case of
complacency, and this was a step in the right
direction.
It can be a little uncomfortable protesting these
days, though.
I went to a party that evening where my friends
announced that I had been protesting the National
Missile Defense System. The birthday girl's father
was a veteran of every American war since- and
including- the Alamo. He lit into me before I could
make it to the hors d'oeuvres table or, worse yet, to
the wine, and for the rest of the evening he
addressed me as "Bin Laden's friend."
A week later I met some friends for happy hour. Well,
the conversation quickly turned to politics- they had
seen me interviewed on T.V. the day of the protest
and I was an overnight celebrity. In fact, I was
surprised by the number of people who approached me
for weeks afterwards and said they'd seen me on T.V.,
although universally no one could remember what I had
said, or even whether I was for or against the
National Missile Defense System.
Anyway, it was I against four die-hard right-wing
Republicans, and it was anything but a happy hour for
us, the other patrons of the bar, the wait staff, or
the band for that matter.
This is because, at one point, one of my friends
stood up, shaking, scarlet-faced, carotid artery
bulging in an alarming bas-relief from collar to
temple, and yelled at the top of his king-size lungs-
this is true- that if he encountered me on the
street, he would run me over with his pickup truck,
and if he had a gun, he would shoot me in the face
right then and there. Which really hurt my feelings,
because anyone who knows me knows I would much rather
have a good friend drill my skull full of holes and
keep my dismembered remains in a chest freezer than
be run over or shot, which is so clichÈ
these days and, frankly, bo-ring.
But all in all, I'm glad I did it, the whole protest
thing. We need to question authority. We need to
raise our voices and say, Hey! Hey, listen here! It
is not O.K. to carry on like this, to spend billions
and billions of dollars every year on an arms race
that threatens all of humanity with extinction. So
keep on protesting, America!
And if anyone threatens to run you over in a truck,
remind them of what that can do to one's insurance
rates both automotive and general liability and nine
times out of ten they won't do it, simply out of
self-interest if nothing else.
Harrison Heyl
is a writer and bon vivant who shrieks like a preteen
when he's the least bit frightened. He lives in Santa
Barbara with his girlfriend, his blind cat and
approximately 92,000 other people. He can be reached
at hheyl@co.santa-barbara.ca.us.
