Pancakes and Protests

No matter how thin the pancake, there are always two sides.

I waited three hours outside the Greensboro mall in 1988 to shake hands with George H. Bush, wearing a table sign that my Dad had refurbished into what I thought looked like a very cool sandwich board but I think actually resembled an enormous pilgrim's collar. Still, it got his attention and I got a handshake.

My dad served two tours in Vietnam and came home to yellow ribbons and a dutiful wife. I was not raised in a family of protestors or government questioners.

But, when the President of my country fires librarians, takes over art centers, guts federal funding to program I believe in, and demonizes good people, then I decide to take a stand.

I am smiling in this picture, but let it be known: I was terrified. I had never done anything like this before. I was worried my Fox News devotee Mother was rolling in her grave. I was worried that there could be trouble. I doubted my own patriotism, my beliefs. I love and respect so many people that feel so differently from me about things that are happening. And as I carried my rolled up sign to the crowded bridge in Idaho Falls, I was shaking in all sorts of ways. I inwardly paused and marvelled at the bold courage of so many before me who faced police dogs, fire hoses, and terrifying taunts. I was asking very little of myself.

I unfurled my sign and found a spot on the bridge. Then, I don't think I stopped smiling for over an hour.

There were people joining me in that protest that I disagreed with. The "F" word was far too common for my taste. There were people that drove by that gave me a thumbs down that I probably would agree with in many fundamental ways. I was uncomfortable with some of the hateful declarations that peppered the signs around me. I respect the office of the President and I value the work that honest immigrations officers do. But, we must be willing to question what is happening.

There were double sided pancakes all over that bridge. There were angry people that felt threatened and afraid, there were cheerful people that were being disrespectful and rude, there were people I agreed with on the bridge and people I agreed with in the cars.

What kept me smiling was that we were all doing something. We were disagreeing and chanting and laughing and holding up signs and painting our trucks because we all care about our country and we live in a Republic that allows us to disagree in peaceful ways. The MAGA trucks drove by me with certain fingers on full display and I just smiled at them, thinking how wonderful it is that I live in a country where so many people care about what is happening and are willing to show up and be heard.

Certainly I hope the voices that see the world my way get louder and make a difference. But, I see no good in demonizing the differences, in giving in to the divisive language that is spewing from the top levels of our political scene. We have far more in common than we think and the only way change and healing can happen is if we stop seeing those who think differently as an enemy. We only know what we know and all we can do is our best.

My sixteen year old self would probably have been in a MAGA truck, giving a thumbs down to that radical line of protestors on the bridge. My world was more black and white then. I had not yet met hundreds of illegal immigrants that loved me, served me, made me laugh, and told me the horror stories of what they endured for the chance to give their children an education. My sixteen year old self would have said, "Round them up."

My sixteen year old self would not have performed at a PRIDE rally on Saturday. She was convinced that no one could be born gay or queer or anything else. I only knew what I had been taught. I had not told stories or heard stories or met people. I had not seen beyond myself yet.

And now, thankfully, I have. I keep learning, I keep growing, I keep changing. I am so grateful I can. We must allow each other to learn and change. We must allow ourselves to shift, consider, and open. There are lines I hold that are different than the women next to me on that bridge. But, shoulder to shoulder we stood, breathing in the exhaust and cheering at the parade of honking horns and beaming support, trying our best to show up for a country we love.

No matter how thin the pancake, there are always two sides. And anyone who has ever cooked a pancake knows that both sides deserve attention. Change does not necessarily come front chanting. It comes from conversation.