Reflection delivered at the Unitarian Universalist Society of San Francisco on October 23, 2016.
The first trouble I remember getting into at school was in
fifth grade. A student teacher was in charge for the week, and each student was
given a daily allotment of blocks. Going to the bathroom now cost three blocks,
a drink of water two, and one to sharpen a pencil. I thought this was unfair,
and quickly used up my allotment with trips to the bathroom and pencil
sharpener, and then boldly walked over to the water fountain. I was told I’d be
eating my lunch in the classroom while my friends went out to the school yard.
I couldn’t tell you today exactly what inspired my protest, and I didn’t win
any classmates over to the cause, but I continued it for the week. The lonely
lunches indoors felt right, for some reason.
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| Dia de las Mujeres, Managua, Nicaragua |
I’ve found myself resisting authority in different ways over
the years since: marching against both Bushes’ wars on Iraq, sitting against
the Sit Lie law, camping out with Occupy San Francisco, en las marchas con mis
companeras y companeros en Nicaragua, and dressing as Afraid the Clown to fly
across country – the TSA were really good natured about the last one, and it
brought a lot of smiles, but it also seems to have gotten me on a watch list.
For many years, I’ve identified as a Fool, who was the one who spoke truth in
the King’s court, regardless of the risk.
Yes, I have been an egalitarian consensus loving . . . fool,
wearing my contempt for authority and hierarchy with pride for years.
Then I became a father. The beginning part was easy – aside
from being stressed and muddle-minded from a lack of sleep – it was all about
caring for and wondering over the beauty of this amazing little being. Then,
they started to move, and it became about: “Don’t grab that electrical wire,
take this toy instead.” “Wait! Don’t crawl headfirst down those stairs!” “Ahhh!
You’re about to run into traffic!” Which kept me on my toes, but I didn’t mind
because they don’t know any better. Somehow, when I first thought “now it seems
like he’s doing it on purpose,” and put my son in his room to calm down, he
realized that he could just walk right out. At that moment, he became the
protester, and I became – the cop?
I tried – still try – to be kind and reasonable: “Buddy, I
need you to stay in your room until you’re ready to not throw things.” “Hell
no! We won’t go!” – Not his exact words, but you get the picture. I began to
see in my actions, and even my thoughts, the behavior and logic of what we
radicals – can I call myself that? – call The State and Its Agents: “I’m
stopping you from doing something you’ll regret later.” “I’m doing this for the
good of the community (or, in this case, the household.)” “I’m confining you
until you agree to behave differently.” “I’m just trying to restrain you, not
to hurt you.” Of course, the stakes are lower in our confrontations, and no one
ends up bruised, let alone with broken bones or a bullet in their back.
As I watch my son resisting authority which must seem to him
arbitrary and at times unreasonable, using the techniques of those with no more
to resist with than their mind and body, I find myself full of questions. Is my
parental authority absolute and legitimate? Are there times when the use of
force is appropriate? Is there a truth I should be listening to in even his
most unreasonable screaming and tantrums? In his hitting?
In calm moments like this, I am grateful for how my son
reflects the world back to me, and keeps me always learning. And, though
sympathetic toward his teachers and other adults, I’m proud to be raising a
resistor, especially in this world where unjust authority needs to be resisted
by those who can.
Perhaps I’ll teach him a song we once sang to cops arresting
protesters:
“You can forbid almost anything, but you can’t forbid me to
think. You can’t forbid my tears to fall, and you can’t close my mouth while I
sing.”
