Nope

A very positive expression

Saying no, I once wrote, creates space for better yeses. Inspired by this broken brick I found on the beach, I talked about developing the muscle of naysaying in terms of protecting my free time, navigating dating prospects, basking in the glorious global shut-down of the pandemic, and of course facing the opposite of hope, the ever-triggering Mr. Nope, our President.

Fatigued and despairing, I was resolved to sit this second term out. In an essay called Eremition, I claimed my creativity-bound retreat was more potent protest, as I could write here in the solitary silence, be a better mother, a more present calmer version of my true self. The revolution—I mean the one going on outside, hitting the streets—wasn’t the proper place for a proud introvert like me. My time was better spent at home, in my head.

But, as I’ve written here in recent weeks, I learned from data on overthrowing authoritarianism around the world and from the mentorship of a kind, wise man named Sheldon, that I need to participate, I need to be counted. Being a part of No Kings Day 2.0 seems as essential as voting. In fact, it may be more essential. Because, if our self-proclaimed monarch has his way, we “won’t have to vote again.” Imagine that. I don’t know what’s worse. Forty percent of the population not showing up the last time—because, shrug, what does it matter—or, a very real future possibility: not even having the option.

My mom says a lot of things when I make the mistake on our infrequent phone calls of bringing up my lunatic politics. I don’t do it to poke her. I don’t do it to fight. I don’t enjoy debating with a person who only dispenses talk-radio and Fox News (the original fake news) talking points. When I say mine—34-time felon, lifelong conman, grifter, found liable for sexual abuse, multi-accused of sexual misconduct and pedophilia…and, to try to use her values, genuinely asking her if she would call any of this Christian behavior—she responds frantically, spiraling, “What about Biden? What about the Clintons? What about Hilary?” (Oh for god’s sake, what about Hilary, truly?). She says I too have been brainwashed by the media. That my “hate” of Trump is very hateful and he, so well-meaning, so generous to serve and “help,” doesn’t deserve my anger. She thinks I focus too much on this one man when there’s so much crime in the big scary cities and the world is so treacherous. I know, I say, I’m afraid my kids will be gunned down by a white supremacist rapid-fire maniac in the mall. And she screams “what about the knives?” You mean the mass-stabbing knives our kids have school drills about every month? And I know it’s hopeless. Still I can’t stop trying. Still she’s my mom. Still my kids’ grandma. And someday I think if I can break through the thickly caked glaze of so many decades of indoctrination she could just see my humanity, my intelligence, my heart. How can all democrats be bad (the enemy!), when she has a decent, smart daughter, who is co-raising conscientious, kind daughters, who just so happen to lean liberal enough to want to make sure poor people can feed their children and we have an Earth left to stand on. Maybe—somehow, someday—she can know and respect me, and all of us.

Until then, there’s her perception falling in line with the Right’s idea that these No Kings marches and our venom against the policies of this administration are hateful. On one hand we are mocked for being snowflakes, bleeding hearts, and yet, we’re the supposed terrorists here? We, the ones without guns? The pathetically empathetic? I joke, not entirely unseriously, that were we to have a civil war, it would be one side with their machine guns verses the likes of me trying to access someone’s ear for my only weapon: wet willies.

I was convinced that marching matters and I’m so glad I did, on this beautiful sunny, crisp October Saturday morning. It reminded me how good it feels to be surrounded by people who share your values when this strange life we lead now alone in our homes can be so isolating. Folks who want to take some hours to stand up against the same things you do. What a crowd of graciousness, encouragement and respect. And joy! People helping each other, handing out a little American flag for each of the first 70 or so people. Because yes, it’s our flag too that we honor. They can’t usurp and take away that symbol and what it stands for. It is our patriotism that brings us here. Our love of country. It’s my love of this country that could even drive me away. We consider Canada for our daughter to go to college, not because we hate America but because we see how far from its own ideals it’s fallen. I’m scared we won’t get them back—all the intangible and precious things previous generations have fought so hard for. My daughters likely enter a future where they will have LESS rights and freedoms than their grandmothers.

I had taken my Nope sign out of storage. I had made it for the Women’s March on Washington, January 2017. The B side said “This is for my GIRLS, STAND UP and be HEARD.” After that big pink-hatted march, I hung it in the back of the garage where it aged and dirtied, and even mildewed from a roof leak and rain damage. Years later, some weeks ago, I pulled the grungy canvas off its nails and laundered it, then started painting over the stains of life and age. I am older. I am tired. But I’m still here, and now I am compelled to fight for what’s right again. It’s not liberal vs. conservative anymore, I try to tell my mom. It’s not Dems vs GOP. It’s this one awful man empowered by billionaires and yes-minions to tear things down that we need to stop or else. It’s a matter of right vs. wrong. Or, do we really have to remind them of this foundational question—what would Jesus do? I fight on behalf of those weaker than me, those maligned by racism and fear. I am interested in uplifting the vulnerable, like I do all day at work in local government, helping people, anyone who asks. I fight to welcome our immigrant neighbors’ right to be here. To honor their contributions and presence as valuable. And by “fight” I mean peaceful protest. The very civic duty the Constitution protects for its people.

To the Nope sign, I rip off the E and give it the red crown seen on many signs now. And on the back, I reline the words of dedication to my daughters (once glittery) with stronger black. There’s ever more to fight for now than there was then, what feels like a million years ago. Now we have to be even more emphatic.

In the absence of my girls (they went with their dad to a different, bigger march), I stood next to a constitutional law professor, age 94 in a wheelchair, who also bore the NOPE with a crown on his shirt. Together we smiled for his daughter’s photo, proudly pointing to our matching messages. He read a poem into the microphone.

One life can make a difference. You see it’s up to you.

We pledged allegiance and waved our flags. We arrived in love, and made friends. Cars honked. We all waved our American flags. We thanked the police, who faced no threat that day from or against us. We sung “God Bless America.” Even me, the nihilist naysaying atheist.

And then only a few weeks later we voted the heck out of these polling places in early and regular elections. We voted Dems (and women!) in all over the country, with record, resounding attendance.

Our snowflakes are snowballing.

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