The girl as a young activist

Believe it or not, I used to be a hippie. Fact. Ask anyone who knew me in the mid-90s. When I was young, naive, unbattered by the winds of this cruel world, I thought that one small person could affect change if they just tried hard enough.

And then the system crushed that one small person. I fought the law and the law won. The man put me down, man.

It was back in 19diggity2, in what we called the 2nd/3rd grade split (a class half of smart 2nd graders and half of dumb 3rd graders–guess which half I was in), the year I was most rambunctious and full of verve. And vim. And…mouth. It was the one and only year that a teacher wrote “talks too much in class” on my report card. It was the year I chased boys like it was my freakin’ job. It was the year I incited my posse of no-good-niks to try and convince our teacher she had been fired on April Fools Day (we wrote her a card from “the principal” explaining that her services were no longer needed. The prinicpal signed it “Ginny” instead of Mrs. Principal or even Virginia, because I figured we were beyond formalities at this point. Ginny explained that she had some of our teachers’ students illustrate her firing card to soften the blow. Our teacher got us back by trying to convince us that our snacks that day were not, in fact, dog food.)

At the end of the year we got to go on a class day-trip, and our kind teacher–let’s call her Mrs. Pennyfarthing, cuz that sounds pretty funny–let us vote on the destination. The choices were:

1. The Children’s Museum (an awesome educational good time in the big city)
2. Aladdin’s Palace (an arcade in the local mall)
3. Some lame third choice

Now, when 7-9 year olds are let loose in this kind of poll, you can imagine what happened. 1 vote for The Children’s Museum and 29 for Aladdin’s Palace. Guess who that 1 vote for the fun and educational experience was? At this point, Mrs. Pennyfarthing realized that she’d made a huge mistake, and announced we’d be going to The Children’s Museum anyway. The class was riotous with outrage! But, like, a fairly well-behaved “riotous” because this was Catholic school, after all, and God and Santa were always watching.

Authorities: you’ve been put on notice.

I was not upset in the least that we were going on the field trip that I wanted, but the liberal young soul inside me was moved to action at the injustice of it all. I mean, if we were going to the museum no matter what, why the charade of democracy? We lived in long-haired Jesus’s own United States of America, and by God we had rights! By recess I had put together a petition stating that, “Whereas Mrs. Pennyfarthing asked the class to vote between three alternative field trips, and whereas the members of the class were given to understand that the outcome of said vote shall result in the class taking a trip to such a destination as chosen by the majority of ballots, the class demands the terms of the agreement be honored.” Or probably something more like, “We want to go to Aladdin’s Castle.” I dutifully went to all my classmates over recess, from the great monkey bars of liberty to the tall slide of equality and the sad time-out wall of oppression, gaining signatures of friends and foes alike, until everyone had signed the petition. I folded up the petition with an explanatory note, ran inside and placed it on Mrs. Pennyfarthing’s desk. Here I will remind you that I went through all this trouble despite the fact that I didn’t even want to go where the majority ruled. The majority was dumb. The Children’s Museum had dinosaurs and a carousel.

Of course, nothing came of my petition. I don’t think cruel old Pennyfarthing even mentioned it. So much for living in the free world. My little activist soul was crushed: the system had failed me. A few years later in fifth grade many of my peers were horrified to learn that the school’s Great Oak Tree would be ripped out of the ground to make room for the new middle school addition. That tree was legend, man. Shel Silverstein took one look at it and went to work on a great piece of literature (it was probably this Playboy article). Under it was the greatest piece of ground to play on, nevermind that its extreme shade and rising roots had killed all the grass. It shed amazing oak nuts that were…well usually full of maggots and disgusting, to be honest. We still loved it, and sad though I was to see it go, I knew there was nothing to be done. Sure, I priced out some handcuffs from the local party supply store as I envisioned a chain of young, righteous hands encircling the Great Tree’s trunk against a bulldozer (I don’t know why it wasn’t a chainsaw, I was 11, leave me alone), singing that song from Pocahontas or something, but I knew I wouldn’t even try. Nothing would stop that bulldozer with a saw attachment except a large sum of money that would cover a change in the building design.

And what may have become a great leader of movements was quickly deflected, and that small girl pursued a career in business and advertising. For although I couldn’t affect sweeping social change I could affect sweeping purchase choices. You would like a Swiffer. You would like both Swiffer dry and wet cloths, and you will think that brooms are so 20th century. Together, we can buy ourselves a better future! A cleaner future!

Bonus photo from the archives: