Sunday, October 03, 2004
Field Notes
"If you go to one demonstration and then go home, that's something, but the people in power can live with that. What they can't live with is sustained pressure that keeps building, organizations that keep doing things, people that keep learning lessons from last time and doing it better the next time."
--Noam Chomsky, What Uncle Sam Really Wants (p. 98)
Sustained pressure, indeed. First one drop of water, then ten, then a hundred, a thousand, hundreds of thousands, millions…and the steel door gives way. From August to November, what with harvests and expos and festivals, a fair of some sort a week within a hundred mile radius. I love it. And then there’s the Oktoberfests, farther afield… yikes!
There aren’t really any big stories to tell from the latest visit to the latest fair. But there is pressure, building and building, and I feel it, and sometimes it’s in the small stories. We’ve got to do it better this time. Sketches:
--An old Native American vet, wearing his very best old uniform, with ribbons and medals, is leaning on a cane at the livestock exhibit after the parade. I spot a Kerry-Edwards button on his lapel. Wish I had a camera. He looks like he’s carved out of mahogany. I can’t imagine anyone debating him. They would wither as soon as he opened his mouth.
--Two kids at the Dem table, and unlike the old folks who are usually at these tables, they’re working the crowd. “Would you like to register?” “We have candy over here.” They’re out in front of the table. I felt ashamed of my own recent table behavior. “How old are you?” I ask. “Can you vote?” “No,” the girl says happily, “I’m only sixteen and my brother’s thirteen. But our dad is running for state legislator, and he’s gone to get some food, so we’re taking over.” Indeed.
--A woman walking through the little midway with a huge Bush-Cheney poster, shaking it and shouting “whoooooo-eee!” and doing some weird dance. Everyone was getting out of her way. Nobody seemed enthused by this cheerleader. Most seemed annoyed, others frightened. One woman said, “Go home!” I suggested calling the cops to one of the carnies. “She might be mentally unbalanced, you know.”
--I gave away all of my Top 10 Lies sheets. And I sold all of my veggies. Well, okay. If you got one, you got the other. A package deal.
--I saw a guy I hadn’t seen in a couple of years. He said I looked a lot older. I told him it was Bushco, aging me ten tears for every one. He said something offhand, but it stuck. Said his parents, married for fifty years, weren’t speaking because his dad was rabidly pro-Bush and his mom was rabidly anti-Bush. “Kind of sad,” he said. “I thought he was a uniter.” He’s right. I haven’t seen this kind of division in a long time—parents against each other, kids against parents, neighbors against neighbors, siblings, friends, falling victim to Bushco’s kulturkampf.
But some things are worth fighting for. Pressure, pressure! As gentle, aromatic and constant as the cooker on the stove…arrggghh! until it whistles. Yes, this regime is done, to a turn.
--Noam Chomsky, What Uncle Sam Really Wants (p. 98)
Sustained pressure, indeed. First one drop of water, then ten, then a hundred, a thousand, hundreds of thousands, millions…and the steel door gives way. From August to November, what with harvests and expos and festivals, a fair of some sort a week within a hundred mile radius. I love it. And then there’s the Oktoberfests, farther afield… yikes!
There aren’t really any big stories to tell from the latest visit to the latest fair. But there is pressure, building and building, and I feel it, and sometimes it’s in the small stories. We’ve got to do it better this time. Sketches:
--An old Native American vet, wearing his very best old uniform, with ribbons and medals, is leaning on a cane at the livestock exhibit after the parade. I spot a Kerry-Edwards button on his lapel. Wish I had a camera. He looks like he’s carved out of mahogany. I can’t imagine anyone debating him. They would wither as soon as he opened his mouth.
--Two kids at the Dem table, and unlike the old folks who are usually at these tables, they’re working the crowd. “Would you like to register?” “We have candy over here.” They’re out in front of the table. I felt ashamed of my own recent table behavior. “How old are you?” I ask. “Can you vote?” “No,” the girl says happily, “I’m only sixteen and my brother’s thirteen. But our dad is running for state legislator, and he’s gone to get some food, so we’re taking over.” Indeed.
--A woman walking through the little midway with a huge Bush-Cheney poster, shaking it and shouting “whoooooo-eee!” and doing some weird dance. Everyone was getting out of her way. Nobody seemed enthused by this cheerleader. Most seemed annoyed, others frightened. One woman said, “Go home!” I suggested calling the cops to one of the carnies. “She might be mentally unbalanced, you know.”
--I gave away all of my Top 10 Lies sheets. And I sold all of my veggies. Well, okay. If you got one, you got the other. A package deal.
--I saw a guy I hadn’t seen in a couple of years. He said I looked a lot older. I told him it was Bushco, aging me ten tears for every one. He said something offhand, but it stuck. Said his parents, married for fifty years, weren’t speaking because his dad was rabidly pro-Bush and his mom was rabidly anti-Bush. “Kind of sad,” he said. “I thought he was a uniter.” He’s right. I haven’t seen this kind of division in a long time—parents against each other, kids against parents, neighbors against neighbors, siblings, friends, falling victim to Bushco’s kulturkampf.
But some things are worth fighting for. Pressure, pressure! As gentle, aromatic and constant as the cooker on the stove…arrggghh! until it whistles. Yes, this regime is done, to a turn.
