I climb aboard a charter bus at 2 a.m. on Saturday morning,
the taste of curious cautiousness filling the air around me.
I drift into a cramped slumber. When I awaken, I am in the
middle of San Francisco, where the Day of Action will begin;
it will be the largest protest of my generation.
I had never been in a protest. The only visual images I had
were snapshots of the sixties created for me by my post-hippie
parents. The Day of Action, attracting more than 80,000 demonstrators,
began as a cry to stop the war in Iraq and ended with renewed
faith in the power of protest to reclaim democracy. Before
the protest, I had been unable to identify personally with
this overused word: democracy. What I knew of it was learned
by rote as I was pushed through Florida public schools: Government
by and for the people. But what did these words mean? On Saturday,
I felt that I had not only witnessed democracy; I had reclaimed
it and made it mine.
Never before had I seen, firsthand, action on the part of
my fellow citizens to voice anger, opinion, and dissent. This
past summer I had, in effect, attempted to lobby for Temporary
Assistance for Needy Families (TANF) reauthorization and Convention
on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination (CEDAW)
on Capitol Hill. But instead of offering empowerment, that
experience awakened in me a dormant fear that our government
is really neither by the people nor representative of them.
This fear was born after the realization that, upon walking
into my representative’s office, I would speak not to
my representative but to my representative’s aide’s
aide. My inner acknowledgement that none of my carefully prepared
words would ever reach the ears of my elected representative
did little to evoke the sense of national pride I had expected
to feel after my cameo appearance as an active citizen.
I experienced a similar disappointment the day I turned 18
and became a registered voter. In my eyes this meaningful
declaration meant that my opinion would finally be heard.
Later that year, I voted in the presidential election. This
act, instead of affirming my belief in the strength of my
libertine character, discouraged me from continued involvement.
As a Ralph Nader supporter in the state of Florida, my vote
had “taken away” a vote for Gore. My decision was
called “naïve” and “fatally idealistic”
on several occasions by teachers, friends, and family. After
Bush “won” the election (as a result of the ineptitude
of a system that purports to serve us fairly) I began to carry
the weight of the Republican victory on my shoulders. What
went wrong? As an informed voter, I had researched and voted
for the candidate that I deemed most worthy, most representative
of my beliefs. Yet this idealistic decision sent me on a spiral
of guilt for the next two years; each time I read the newspaper
I am reminded of how inarticulate and unintelligent Mr. Bush
really is. In retrospect, I see in that moment the conception
of my blatant idealism.
I was exonerated from this guilt in San Francisco. I felt
that familiar sense of idealism creep back into my body as
I drifted among the masses and clouds of protest signs: “We
are not here to watch history, we are here to change history,”
“One voice for peace,” “Don’t let 9/11
make murderers out of us.” I felt as though I had returned
home with the other 79,999 young protesters, to share a common
impassioned bond.
Upon my return a professor asked what I believed I had accomplished
in attending the protest. It was difficult for me to answer
because I fear the protests won’t really have much effect
on the decisions of the Bush administration. After reflecting
for several minutes, I decided that the importance of this
protest lay not in the ends but in the means. For the first
time in my life, I lived democracy: Through my ears, through
my eyes, through my nose and through my sore walking legs.
Protesting empowered Sierra, the individual.
When I read newspapers now, the stories can no longer exist
in 2-D. The issues they discuss have taken on a three-dimensional
form because I recognize now that I am part of every problem
in my inaction, that I can be part of every solution in my
action. Despite the Bush’s ignorance and that of the
mass media (which, incidentally, did not deign to cover the
San Francisco protest in print), protesting does effect change
because it gives voice to a cause. People who are upset can
show that they desire change and demonstrators inform people
about issues they wouldn’t otherwise recognize. And it
is our duty, as citizens of a democracy, to know the issues
and to form opinions.
A few days ago, I was an anti-war demonstrator. As I stood
among thousands of my cohorts, chanting antiwar messages at
the top of my lungs, I became un-numbed, and, with wide open,
inquisitive eyes, I experienced this thing I claim as my democracy.
Read a newspaper, ask questions, and demand greater accountability
of our government. It’s our right and our duty.
