Wide Awake Now, page 13
I thought I had the Boston Tea Party all figured out…for about an hour, until I went back to my room and did some searching on the internet. There, the real story unfolded—the unfair tax on tea, the ship parking itself in Boston Harbor, the colonists meeting to protest, then sending a group of men under cover of night to throw all the tea overboard. The details were fantastic—like how Samuel Adams and Paul Revere and the hundreds of other men darkened themselves with coal and dressed themselves as Mohicans before descending on the ship—because why would a bunch of white guys pass up a chance to throw the blame on someone else for their own misdeeds? What could be more American than that? A lot of the revolutionaries returned in their own boats the next morning to sink any of the tea that had been thrown overboard but hadn’t been ruined yet. Nobody died, nobody was hurt. The British didn’t even put up a fight. It was a great story.
For our class project that week, I made an elaborate diorama of the Tea Party, decorating an old model ship with angry colonists and placing it in a shoebox. I bordered the outside of the box with tea bags that had colonial slogans written on them, like We’re brewing some trouble! and We’re Putting Your Tea on Ice! and We’re having a party and taxes aren’t invited! Mrs. Coolidge was very impressed, and explained how the Boston Tea Party worked in no small part because the women and men in America were willing to give up something they truly loved—tea—in order to make the point that they couldn’t be asked for money if they weren’t going to have any say in how their colony was run. Personally, I couldn’t understand what was so great about tea—I’d had some iced tea before, and unless you added a lot of sugar it tasted like sucking a tree. But I figured there weren’t that many other drinks to choose from in 1773, so maybe tea was more attractive then.
For Halloween that year, I went as a member of the Boston Tea Party. Not dressed as a Mohican, but when anyone asked me about my costume, I brought up the inaccuracy and commented on the ridiculous wrongness of what Revere and the others had done. Instead of a candy bag I carried a big plastic ship. Whenever someone gave me a piece of candy, I dumped a tea bag from the ship and left it on their porch. I’d written thank you on each one.
I don’t know exactly when my obsession with the Boston Tea Party ebbed back into an interest, and then a vague curiosity. Probably some other historical event came along and displaced it. Still, I kept the diorama on a shelf in my closet. I didn’t even notice it there—it was as much a part of the room as the wallpaper or the stuffed animals that still perched on the top of my bookcase. One day early in our relationship, Jimmy came over and pulled it out, studying the sepia-toned tea bags and the colonists’ dusty disguises.
“What’s this?” he asked. So I told him about my obsession.
“I love it,” he said when I was through. “The Boston Tea Party is so foundational. It’s enterprising, it’s righteous, and—most of all—it’s excessive. I mean—you’ve seen paintings of Paul Revere, right? I’m sorry, but no amount of coalface was going to make him look like a Mohican. Or the rest of them. You have to ask yourself: What exactly were they thinking, dressing up like Mohicans and whooping their way down to the ships? I mean, do you think for a second that the British traders on the ships were fooled? If anything, they probably thought, Whoa—these Massachusetts men are a little out of their minds, thinkin’ they’re native. I’d better stay out of their way. And of course, now when people talk about the Tea Party, they don’t seem to remember the way our Founding Fathers felt the need to pathologize and demonize and ultimately exterminate Indigenous people in order to get their freedom.”
It made me think about it a little more. How I thought the Tea Party was a pretty good stunt, and I couldn’t argue with the end result of independence…but like so many parts of our history, the bravery and courage of the revolutionaries were tarnished by their need to reaffirm their own superiority even as they gave lip service to freedom.
Jimmy and I both wondered aloud what the modern-day equivalent of the Boston Tea Party would be. Refuse to pay the fuel tax until we stopped having wars to get more fuel? Delete all social media apps from our phones so their revenue model would sink? Treat all bathrooms as unisex until gender restrictions on bathrooms were a thing of the past?
“I wish there was a thing called the Stupid Tax,” Jimmy said, “which paid for all the stupid things our government does. We could just refuse to pay the Stupid Tax and let our money go to everything else.”
“Yeah, but then what would we get to throw overboard?” I’d replied.
Now, standing in the middle of hundreds of thousands of people in Topeka, Kansas, I realized that maybe I’d put a little too much emphasis on the overboard part. I’d always thought the most revolutionary act of the Tea Party was hauling the crates of tea to the side of the ship and pushing them into the harbor. But really, the true revolution happened away from the docks. It happened in that first meeting place, where the colonists got together and realized something had to be done. And before that, when the people decided they could go without the thing they loved as a matter of principle.
Here I was, standing in the arms of someone I loved, having him whisper to me Let’s throw some tea overboard. It was hard to imagine what Paul Revere would make of us—it was likely he’d get on his horse as fast as he could and ride in the opposite direction. But I liked to think he’d understand exactly what we were doing. This time we weren’t going to wear a disguise to blame someone else. We were simply ourselves. Unmasked. Unarmed.
Ready.
* * *
—
“My fellow Americans,” a prominent senator cheered, “I present to you the next Vice President of the United States…Alice Martinez.”
eighteen
We all knew Alice Martinez’s story—her rise from poverty; her mixed heritage; her abusive ex-husband; her tenacity as the mayor of Jacksonville and her tenure as a senator from Florida. We were all familiar with Alice Martinez’s appearance—her straight black hair, always an inch north of her shoulders; the color of her skin, the white of her smile; the fierce intelligence of her eyes, which she refused to tone down even when consultants told her she was coming across as too smart, too unapproachable. But even if we’d heard her story and seen her face hundreds of times, there was still something electrifying about having her step onto the stage to address us directly. From where we were standing, I would have needed to zoom in two hundred percent to distinguish her from any of the other people standing on the stage. But still, it meant something to be sharing the same space with her, no matter how big. It meant something to share the same time and place, to know that even if she couldn’t look into each of our eyes, there was an energy to us that she could use, just as there was an energy in her that made us stand strong.
She greeted us, then applauded us—the sound of her two hands clapping reverberated like a quick marching beat through the speakers strewn around us. Then she talked to us about the challenge of Kansas, and how the governor’s accusations were falling apart like a paper lie in an ocean of truth.
* * *
—
“I’m telling you this—our opponents are trying to play this game as it’s always been played—in the back rooms, in the darkness, while they try to make their power as absolute as possible, disregarding the will of the people. They spread lies and misinformation. They try to use time to their advantage. And mostly, by the power vested in them by their investments, they try to use money and intimidation against us.
“Well, I will not be intimidated. I have been through enough in this life to know that you can’t just sit there and take it, no matter how scary it is to defend yourself. The cruelest weapon of the abuser is denial. Telling you that it’s all in your mind. Telling you they know the truth and you don’t. Telling you what happened didn’t actually happen. You’re making it up. You’re wrong. You’re not to be believed. They want you in the dark, because when you’re in the dark, they have more power. They can get away with more. They’re in control.
“Well, if they want to force the darkness, we are going to shine a light. You know how this works. Sometimes it feels like all you have is a single, small flashlight to fight back with. But that’s where others come in. One flashlight can’t take on such darkness. Two flashlights can’t. But imagine thousands of flashlights shining on the same place. Imagine millions of flashlights. Because that is what we are. Here, and in every state capitol in this nation. From Juneau and Honolulu to Tallahassee and Atlanta, the warm, bright light of truth is streaming into Topeka, and there is no place for the makers of deceptions and untruths to hide. Our light will not falter, because it emanates from our conscience, and our sense of right, and our knowledge of what needs to be done. We will not waver, we will not dim, and we will not turn away until justice is restored and this attempt to thwart an election is defeated.
“I thank you for being here. And I thank you for standing strong. It is now my pleasure to introduce the popularly and electorally elected next President of the United States of America…Abraham Stein!”
* * *
—
How do you describe the sound of a million people cheering at once? It was as if the air became so saturated with our voices that we were breathing sound. If I’d taken every conversation I’d ever had, every cheer I’d ever raised, every song I’d ever heard, and played them all at once, it would have sounded something like the crescendo of goodwill now being released. As Stein walked onto the stage, we could not stop clapping, yelling, whooping. Gus put two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly. Virgil’s eyes grew teary. Janna and Mandy sang out. Sue hollered joyfully and Elwood ululated. Jimmy held me tighter and let me clap and cheer for both of us. It was something beyond a standing ovation. It was a living ovation.
* * *
—
“I thank you all for coming here and joining me to stand up for truth, justice, and democracy. I am told there are now over a million of you here in Topeka, with more arriving even as I speak. There are seven million more of you in front of the capitols of every state in this nation, and countless more watching this all over the United States and around the world. Your reaction has been swift, sincere, and strong. Your faith, like mine, remains resolute.
“Whenever democracy is threatened, all the beliefs and understandings behind it are also threatened. Whenever a truth is challenged, the value of all truths is challenged. Abraham Lincoln knew this. He knew that the Civil War tested whether our nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, could long endure. And in the Gettysburg Address, he articulated the hope, the desire, the mission that brings us all here today: ‘Government of the people, by the people, and for the people shall not perish from the earth.’
“Let me repeat that: ‘Government of the people, by the people, and for the people shall not perish from the earth.’ I stand here before you of the people, by the people, and for the people. I stand here not only to protect the votes of each and every one of you who voted for me, but also to protect the country of each and every one of you who didn’t. This election was decided beyond a doubt four days ago. Thus we must stand up against the people who want to create doubt, instill fear, and subvert our democratic process.
“We will not be tricked. We will not be silenced. And we will not be moved. I will stay here until the truth prevails. I ask you, too, to keep protesting until this election comes to its full and fair conclusion. We do not ask, as Lincoln did, for a ‘new birth of freedom.’ Instead, we ask for the preservation of the freedoms we have long held dear, and for the affirmation of a nation that offers its citizens fairness, kindness, and truth. Let us join together until this challenge has passed. And then let us stay together to celebrate the promised land of life, liberty, and equality.”
* * *
—
Everyone started cheering again, even louder than before.
The chant started. Only part of the cheer at first, then—as more and more people caught on—becoming the cheer itself.
We will not be moved.
We will not be moved.
We will not be moved.
Stein, Martinez, and their families were all onstage now, saying the words along with us. The screens set up in the crowds showed other people across the country saying it, too. It was like the power of prayer, hearing everyone say the same words at the same time and giving them the weight of meaning.
We will not be moved.
I had no idea how long it would take. I had no idea how it would work. But I knew instantly that I would stay until the very end. I would stay until truth prevailed.
Jimmy’s voice was right next to mine. I wanted to kiss him, so I did. To add to the thereness of the moment. To say we would not be moved.
nineteen
Eventually, the chanting stopped. Eventually, a group of folk and soul singers took the stage, starting with “This Land Is Your Land” and pulling us through a medley that emphasized the patriotism we all felt, the patriotism of freedom and real equality. After a few songs, particles of the crowd began to retreat back to their cars, homes, or hotel rooms. The rest of us started to think about settling in.
I don’t think anybody in our group had thought about staying beyond the rally. We were unprepared for Stein’s request; it no longer seemed practical to commute back and forth from where we’d been planning to stay in Lawrence.
The governor of Kansas, however, wasn’t as surprised by Stein’s move. No more than ten minutes after our chanting had stopped, he announced that the crowd had to disperse, since the permit to be on public land had expired when the rally ended.
Stein’s response: We’re staying.
The governor’s response to that: Don’t make me send in the cops.
To which Stein said: Just be sure to arrest me first. We’ll be sure there are lots and lots and lots of cameras around so the world can see it.
The governor backed down, at least for now. We figured he was already feeling enough heat as election officials undermined his claims. Throwing Stein in jail would be the stupidest thing he could do.
So that obstacle was overcome.
Hundreds of toilet cubes were brought to the park—Stein must have rented every porta-potty in Kansas and Missouri. Rooms were procured for the sick and the elderly. Food distribution began.
And then there was the green.
During the rally, I’d seen them here or there—green flags and green banners, wordless and bright. As the sun dipped into the horizon, more of them started to appear, glowing in the dark. Vigilant in their vigil. Keeping watch over us all.
I didn’t know who was handing them out until a kid came over to us with an armful, weighed down but proudly marching around, letting us take as many as we wanted for the night and possible days ahead.
As Virgil gathered us around, the sky still had some remnants of light in it, and the green material had yet to fully illuminate itself.
“A decision has to be made,” he said. “You’re all going to have to be honest with me, since we’re in new territory here. None of you signed on to do this for as long as it takes—you were expecting to be home late tomorrow or, at the very latest, early the next day. Some of you have school. Others have jobs. We only have one bus, so we have to make this decision very carefully. We don’t know how long this will go, or what’s going to happen. For all we know, the governor might call in the National Guard to get us all out of here. Or some of the Decents, those fine people we saw with their hateful signs earlier, might take it in their own heads to make us leave. We have sleeping bags and some food in the bus, but we don’t have showers or that many toilets or any of what you might call the creature comforts. We’re not going to be partying like it’s 1999—this is serious business. And if any one of you needs or wants to go, then we’ll head back home and protest in Trenton instead. Now, what are people thinking?”
I couldn’t imagine leaving. Not now, not from this. It would be like leaving the center of the universe. It would be abandoning a chance at being part of something big.
But I also remembered the promises I’d made to my parents. And I still had that fear that someone would come in shooting, or with a bomb. Just to show us who had real power in our country.
Nobody wanted to speak first—because nobody wanted to intimidate anyone who wanted to leave.
Finally, it was Elwood who said, “Well, we have to stay, don’t we?”
Everyone else immediately chimed in. Virgil called Sara, who polled the other people from the bus.
“We have to stay,” Jimmy murmured to me. I wondered if he sensed me wavering. Or maybe he just assumed I’d waver, because that was what I usually did.
Still, when the time came and I was asked, I said I wanted to stay.
In the end, it was unanimous: We were staying.
Calls were made to parents. Mine were not happy, to say the least. But they also realized there was no way to make me come back.
Jimmy’s parents were thrilled. As we both knew they would be.
Suddenly, I realized what our decision meant: Tomorrow was Jimmy’s birthday, and it was going to be spent here, in Topeka. I wondered if he thought I’d forgotten, since I hadn’t mentioned it all day. I decided not to bring it up, and to think of some way to surprise him.
