I stand with a cop in the shade of a tree, leaning against the little fence bounding the disabled access walk, watching the Confederate lady and friend unfurling their pieces of American Heritage.
I stand with a cop in the shade of a tree, leaning against the little fence bounding the disabled access walk, watching the Confederate lady and friend unfurling their pieces of American Heritage.
"Well, Danial, it looks like the socialists have finally noticed what she's doing."
I follow his gaze across to the young radicals. They are standing, watching. Wonder if they'll say anything.
But I have misjudged them. They merely turn their backs and go on with their conversations around their literature table. I had actually thought they might get upset! Sometimes my ignorance surprises me. I repeat: they merely turn their backs and go on with their more important business.
Still, I say to the officer, "Maybe she's obviously such a lady that they don't know how to handle her actions."
He laughs. "You are strange, Danial. They just don't give a damn."
Then his radio squawks on his belt. The next group is marching in. Be here in forty minutes. "Guess you'll have to wait until they get here before you sign them in... wait a minute..." his radio squawks again. There's another parade out there in the midday heat. He lifts the radio to his lips, "Roger, this is the speech site... is that other group also coming here?"
"Negative," the radio voice buzzes, "but they'll be passing by your front gates almost the same time as the Choice group is arriving. Stand by to handle traffic out front.""Roger. Standing by." The radio goes silent. Officer hangs it back on his belt. Looks at me, "Well, we're finally starting to get some action around here."
"About damn time!" I growl.
And I realize something disturbing. There is a little devil inside me. I have actually been so bored that I wanted the Socialists to get upset by the Confederate flags. Mmmm, the dark side of the host shows itself. To cover my anger at my evil wishes, I say, "One of my mom's friends is marching with the Choice group. I have to be sure to get a picture for her."
He nods. "They're church people, aren't they? The ones coming in at 12:50?""Yeah. Religious Coalition for Reproductive Choice."
"Hmmm. Should be a mellow group." But he sounds worried, suddenly. Glances around the lot, then back at me, "We might, however, be getting some counter-demonstrators following them."
A shadow falls across my thoughts, tangled up with my own fell wish to see something exciting happen, even if it's rough. "You mean... Operation Rescue?"
"Yeah. Them.""You haven't heard anything?"
"No. They don't tell us. Just go out and attack places." He frowns, turns, looks around the site again, letting his eye fall on a man with a tall banner. The REPENT protester is actually drawing more of a crowd around him than the Confederate lady. Someone is videotaping someone trying to argue with him. "That one, for example, standing there, just waiting. He might be only the first."
I begin to worry a little. The officer smiles, gestures his head back at the tent. "So, while things are still quiet, I'm going to go sit down for a while."
I follow him back. Behind us, the Southern lady is quietly talking about men who lost their jobs for wearing a little lapel pin with a Confederate flag embossed on it.
The tent is much more comfortable than the burning sun. I'm quite glad he wanted to come back here. Besides, it gives me a chance to catch up on my writing of today. It's still strange, however, writing about our conversation a few minutes ago, writing in present tense as if it were happening right as I wrote. But....
What is time, anyway? Only one thing you know for sure, that you are reading this now, hearing the words within your mind. For me, it is the same. I am writing in the presence of now, plucking the words from my mind, and scribbling them down in letters. In this sacred moment of selfish drivel, I drool my indulgences onto paper, and for me, it is now. This is the way it always it, we live forever in the eternal moment. I am. You are. I was reading, you are writing. You are reading, I was writing. I am reading, you were writing. I am writing, you will be reading. What does it matter?
It matters nothing whether I say is, or was, or shall be. You are, I am, here. Without this, without you, nothing communicates, nothing speaks, nothing hears.
Except that I write and tell you what I see, then you can read. Except that you make sense of it all, and say what I am, then I was writing something.
It does not matter if I say I see, I saw, you see, he (the host) sees, they see, she sees... well, no, I am not she. I am still he. I haven't made that walk yet. Although I slip from he to I to you, I still keep myself male. I wonder, sitting here indulging myself, if I have the nerve to write to you that I am a woman? Danielle.
Hmmmm. That will wait until tonight, perhaps. When the LGBT (Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender) march comes walking down the streets to their evening rally. Then, perhaps, I might transform. Or not. I think, however, that....
"Hey?""Oh! Hello." I look up. A tall, dark man, with a couple kids following him.
"Sorry to interupt... your work?"
"No, no. This is what I am here for. To answer questions. What can I do for you?"
"Umm... how can I get some time to speak?"
"Errr... well, the permits for times are all taken."
"I need a permit? For free speech?"
"Uh... actually, to use the stage and the microphones."
"Oh. When did these permits get handed out? And who decided who got one?"
"The application period was a little over a month ago. It was first come, first serve, until all sixty-five times were signed up for."
"Oh." He looks disappointed. The kids, too. "Isn't there any way...?"
"Well... if you can get one of the groups to give you time...."
He looks at the stage. As if by stroke of fate, the Confederate lady is just now ending her speech.
"Is she done?"
"Well, it does look like she is stopping before her time is up."
"So I can just go down there and start speaking?" He is suddenly happy again.
"Uh... don't ask me. I'ld have to say no. Go ask her. If she says yes, that's all that matters."
He turns and runs toward the stage, the kids jogging after him.
The cop in the tent laughs. "Look at that... run...." but he stops. "Did you write down what I just said?"
"Yeah, well, most of it. But that's all right. You're black."
"Damn straight I am."
"You can say that word. I can't. I won't even write it down."
"You trying to be politically correct?"
"Not me. I'm too egotistical to be politically correct."
"Heh heh heh - you're an artist, all right - with the ego."
"Just the same - I didn't write the word."
He shrugs. "It's your funeral."
Anyhow, it came to pass that an African-American preacher who works at the University of California, Davis, got up and began to deliver a flaming invective against racism and American society, and delivered it through the courtesy of the Southern lady who had finished her speech about Confederate flags and historical heritage. It also came to pass that the host made up most of the conversation with the cop, but not with the preacher and kids.
Meanwhile, two marches continued their approach, both walking separate routes toward the gates of Concentration Camp Free Speech. One would pass by, one would enter. I was getting excited thinking about it.
The minister's words echoed across the parking lot. His kids sat in the shade under a tree.
AND NOW, THE GOVERNOR AND THE REPUBLICANS DARE TO CALL PROPOSITION 209 THE CIVIL RIGHTS INITIATIVE?!
I expanded from present tense, waiting the arrival of the Religious Coalition for Reproductive Choice, and the moment when two parades would actually cross each other's paths before our caged gates. You will hear the rattle of chain link fence, if you listen very carefully, and behind that, the sounds of distant chanting. They have marched, they are coming, they will soon be here.
Or settle back into the "Table" of Contents.
