The Resistance — Karen Rose Green

I dunno, you guys. I’m trying to keep The Resistance faith here, but this Orange New World is pretty rough. When the calendar rolled over to February this year my brain did one of those quick hiccups that happens when you think something slightly wrong and then quickly correct yourself. On February 1st I looked at the date on my phone and thought, “Well, at least we’ve made it through the first month of TrumpOH DEAR GOD NO IT’S ONLY BEEN ELEVEN DAYS THIS FEELS LIKE ETERNITY.”

Since then I’m afraid it’s going to feel that way every single month for the next four years - just resigned acknowledgement of the passage of time followed immediately by blind panic and rage. That said, it’s not like there haven’t been brief rays of sunshine even in the midst of all the travel bans, bathroom orders, and Twitter tirades. I’m not speaking literally, of course, since there is no sunshine in Portland at all, ever. For months it’s just been one giant impenetrable dome of freezing soggy grayness, like living inside a giant cement flavored Slurpee. It’s not exactly the best environment to ward off a creeping sense of existential hopelessness, and yet, at least we’re all in it together. I’ve never hated this town so much for its dismal winter weather and at the same time I’ve never loved it so much for its sense of community and passion for activism. I guess the same goes for everything I’ve done to try to stay afloat post-election, there are two sides to all of it.

Case in point: The Women’s March. The turnout in Portland was AMAZING. Organizers were expecting a crowd of 30,000 and instead we had somewhere around 100,000 people show up. I met up with a group of wonderful, hilarious, and passionate girls to make signs before the march and learned that writing a good protest sign is way harder than I thought. I was still too angry to be witty so instead I went with a nod to consent in light of Trump’s uninvited pussy grabbing ways, but I fear it didn’t come across quite as clear as I’d wanted.

In the end it didn’t matter because it was raining so steadily that my sign smeared into what looked like tie dye art in a matter of minutes. Note for the next protest march: Don’t use washable Crayola markers.

Despite some valid criticisms about the march (see: intersectionality), the event was incredibly uplifting. The sense of camaraderie was palpable and infectious. It was encouraging to see how many people care about creating a world that is compassionate, empathetic, inclusive, and respectful to all. I wish we could do it every weekend because without that visceral reminder that you are not alone in your efforts, it’s easy to sink back down into despair and divisiveness (thanks a lot, social media).

My next act of resistance was not quite as exciting as the march. There were definitely less drum circles and pink pussy hats, but it did involve extricating myself from the soulless, big-oil-supporting, customer-scamming twelve headed monster that is Wells Fargo. After hearing over and over about the bank’s corrupt practices, I finally decided to open an account at a local credit union and sever all ties with an organization that supports running a pipeline full of poison underneath the main water source of an entire community of native people. If you’re looking for a great credit union in the Portland area that gives back to the community instead of actively destroying it, I recommend Advantis.

Advantis: They don’t poison Native Americans.

The whole process of switching my accounts was pretty dull, sort of akin to waiting in line at the DMV for half a day, but in the end at least I had a sense of accomplishment at having done something, however small, for the greater good. Not to mention the fact that when I told my Republican coworker that I’d left Wells Fargo for good her response was basically, “Well, duh. I left those big banks years ago. They caused the housing crash, the bastards.” I’m paraphrasing, but it gave me some small hope that there is at least one issue capable of bridging the partisan divide.

In the midst of all these other one-time acts of resistance, I’ve also been volunteering as a mentor for Girls Inc. of the Pacific Northwest, which has probably been the most challenging and complicated activity so far. Being a mentor means that I teach an hour-long class once a week to a group of fourth and fifth grade girls. The 8-week session I’m currently teaching is called “Allies in Action” and it’s all about teaching girls to get along, respect each other’s feelings, and be inclusive instead of going all Mean Girls on each other.

For the first few weeks of class it felt like we were getting nowhere. To begin with, it had been about five years since I’d been in front of a group of children and I’d forgotten how intensely exhausting and challenging it is. You’re basically expending a day and half worth of mental and physical energy in a matter of a single hour (which is why all teachers everywhere are amazing superheroes and deserve raises, high social prestige, and an extra 16 hours to sleep each day). Anyway, those first few weeks the girls were unclear on the purpose of the class, not too interested in the idea of women’s equality, and beyond bored by the assignments which mostly consisted of writing about their feelings and sharing it with the group. This confused me at first because writing in my journal and talking about feelings is LITERALLY ALL I WANT TO DO EVERYDAY, but then I reminded myself that these girls are ten and they'll get there. Oh, they will definitely get there.

But last week we hit a turning point, not because the girls suddenly realized the value of strong healthy social bonds and lifting up your fellow (wo)man, but mostly because of balloons. The lesson was about standing up for yourself and balloons were there to illustrate the idea of emotional and physical boundaries.

First, each girl filled out their own “Bill of Rights” by completing the following three sentences:

"I have the right to be treated…"

"I want my friends to respect…"

"I will not accept…"

After they finished the sentences, the girls cut out their answers, rolled them up and stuffed them into a balloon which they blew up with their answers inside. Then most of the girls let all the air escape from their balloons and giggled because, duh, it sounds like farts. Then the mean teacher (me) had them blow up their balloons and tie them this time because this class is only 40 minutes long and we need to get to the feelings part, damn it!

Once tied, everyone stood up and started hitting their balloons up into the air, screaming and laughing, trying to dodge desks and chairs while keeping their balloons in the air. If a balloon touched the floor it signified the crossing of a boundary. Everyone would then stop and the owner of the balloon had to pop hers and read her Bill of Rights aloud to the group. In previous classes it had been a struggle to get the class to listen to each other respectfully without interrupting, but there was something about the spectacle and drama of balloon popping that made everyone shut up and pay attention. One soft-spoken Latina girl read her Bill of Rights aloud to the hushed room.

“I have the right to be treated kindly. I want my friends to respect my opinions. I will not accept if someone discriminates against me because of my skin.”

I’m not gonna lie, I teared up a bit and said a silent prayer of gratitude for this one little ray of sunshine in what has otherwise been a really hard, mostly discouraging, sharp, bumpy, dismal gray road.

In conclusion: I still don’t know, you guys. Maybe we’re all doomed and maybe we’re not. Maybe humanity is basically kind and good and maybe we’re all just bundles of fear and self-preservation instincts who will end up devouring each other alive. All I can say is this: Resistance is hard. Keep going. Bring balloons.