A Lonely Campaign

When they turn the pages of history

When these days have passed long ago

Will they read of us with sadness

For the seeds that we let grow?

We turned our gaze

From the castles in the distance

Eyes cast down

On the path of least resistance

-A Farewell to Kings, Rush (1977)

5:27 p.m. on a Wednesday afternoon in August. It’s 95 degrees out, but the concrete street corner of the busiest intersection in the city feels considerably warmer. It’s the height of rush hour and cars buzz busily by from all points of the compass. Bob stands alone on the corner. He is tall and appears to be in his sixties, but he looks youthful for his age so it’s hard to tell. He wears baggy shorts, a white t-shirt, HOKA running shoes, a sun hat, and sunglasses. Over his head, he hoists a hand-made poster scrawled with the message “No ICE!” The opposite side of his sign proclaims, “No Kings!” in carefully printed black marker. An American flag adorns the upper left-hand corner of both sides of the placard. For the past 2 months, Bob has been standing on this street corner every day from 5:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m. He intends to continue his lonely campaign until Election Day.  

When you remember that this country is the offspring of a bloody revolution against overbearing and unaccountable monarchs, Bob’s message feels benign. It’s the type of utterance, like “Don’t torture puppies!,” that one might imagine most everyone favors, particularly when coupled with Bob’s restrained delivery. There is no impeding of traffic. No shouting, no banging of cowbells, no loud music, no in-your-face aggressiveness. Instead, Bob’s approach is Kaepernickesque: simple, quiet, and respectful. And yet, he’s been the recipient of vitriol and venom. He’s been given the finger more times than he can count. He’s been called a “n***er lover” despite his objectively race-neutral message. He’s been told to “get a job” even though he’s retired from a long and successful career as a financial adviser. He’s been directed to “go back to Mexico” despite the fact he’s a citizen and his outward appearance gives no hint that he is anything other than an American. But the twin diseases of ignorance and amnesia are pervasive in contemporary American society. So is general nastiness. Thus, the illogical insults, and even threats, continue. 

Bob remains undeterred. He’s even a bit buoyed that his efforts are beginning to pay dividends. When he first stepped up to the corner and held his sign aloft, he was largely ignored. From the thousands of cars that streamed past, he would perhaps get 30 supportive honks an hour. 60 days in and the honks have increased to around 130 in that same time span. And the middle finger salutes are not as common as they once were. Bob figures the current honk-to-finger ratio has declined to around 40:1. Folks now stop to talk and take his picture too. Sometimes they bring Bob cold drinks to help him get through his shift. 

Despite the protestor stereotype, Bob is neither a reactionary nor an ideologue. To the contrary, he is quite reasonable and level-headed. He is also highly educated, articulate, and possesses a good understanding of American history. He knows why hundreds of thousands of World War II soldiers lie prostrate in military graves across the nation. He remembers that concentration camps were operated on American soil to imprison Japanese Americans for the crime of being Japanese Americans. He’s read about the Geheime Staatspolizeil and he sees the parallels with ICE and its deputized goons. 

That is his Red Bull, his raison d’etre. It’s what drives him to do what he does. In 60 minute increments, he’s trying to shake us from our collective lethargy. To slow our slide into authoritarianism. To disrupt our flirtation with fascism. Because he doesn’t want his grandchildren or yours to live in a society where the blueness of blood determines leadership and rights derive from fealty. He doesn’t want us to forget the errors of the past. He doesn’t want to see the progress we have made stymied and reversed. And when our history is finally written, he doesn’t want to be remembered for standing idly by, eyes cast down, while the seeds of our destruction grew unchecked.