THE PENNY PUB
Confessions of an Armchair Activist, a Wannabe Rabble-Rouser
A lack of authenticity — and fear — always held me back
I want to have my Angela Davis moment.
I crave the chance to march behind a Harvey Milk. I long to vehemently support gun-control activist David Hogg, to participate in Occupy Wall Street (remember that?).
I dream to stand in solidarity with the Native Americans blocking the police-state tanks and backhoes digging for another pipeline through their sacred land.
Movies like She Said inspire me to bring down bullies like Harvey Weinstein. I nod and vigorously applaud Erin Brockovich for sticking it to the man; I throw up my fist in solidarity with whistleblowers at Boeing, with Karen Silkwood, Snowden, Daniel Ellsberg, and Chelsea Manning.
The only problem?
It’s all from the safety of my armchair — a dream, a fantasy in my mind.
Despite so many daily thoughts on the injustices of this world, I’ve never participated in an active protest or a march. Never.
George Floyd? Nope, I was afraid of Covid and stayed home. The Women’s March with the pink hats? I missed it and didn’t participate.
