I'm seeing the world change. I wonder if the '60s felt like this, a similar kind of sweeping tide of impossible politics and public distaste. My parents were not protestors. My dad was too old to go to Vietnam, and my mother was busy with two little kids. Domesticity occupied them. Not that they weren't smart and didn't have opinions, just other obligations took up their time.
Asheville protest, Jan 2017 |
Our freedom to speak and to do it in public with a poster board may look and feel whiny, but I'm glad we have the right to whine. Let's whine with all our hearts.
Last month, at the Asheville Fringe Festival, I heard protest poetry. Art becomes a tool for the political. Weave a few words into a piece, and suddenly the writer becomes an activist, a visionary, a hope-giver. In a larger sense, isn't the art of great people or the great art of unknown people what we remember? A powerful phrase? Or a compelling photograph that changes public opinion? Or a novel that raises the hair on our perspective? An unforgettable speech? Or maybe just a poster.
Protesting is a right. Free speech. Protest with art, poetry, novels, pictures, marching, posters- not by burning and destroying property, or blocking streets- infringing on others rights to own and run a business or to pass on the streets. Your folks protested, in their way, by working to better their lives, from there childhoods, to make it better for you.
ReplyDeleteMy folks stayed informed, like you inferred, yes, so that value transferred to me. We must use our voices in many media to make a difference. Thanks for leaving a comment.
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