Useless Marches, Demonstrations, And Protests - Camaraderie, Solidarity, And Feeling Good About Yourself

Ophelia Marshall had been a solitary child, so much so that her parents worried about her.  Pleased that she was so attentive to her studies, quite religious in a quiet, respectful way, and as dutiful as a daughter could be; they were still concerned that she was becoming a recluse, timid, and hesitant to join others in the outside world. 

She was like Laura in The Glass Menagerie, a frightened young woman who spent more time with her delicate glass figurines than with people.  Laura finally comes out of this self-imposed reclusiveness to entertain a gentleman caller.  She is charmed by him and delighted that her fortunes might be turning around.  A life, a normal life, perhaps did await her. 

She is disappointed, of course, for the gentleman caller is otherwise engaged and joining Laura and her family only out of politeness, and when he leaves, Laura, disconsolate, wounded, and convinced that she has no worth except to her glass menagerie, returns to her room from which she will never leave. 

Ophelia was no Laura, at least not yet, but she was enough of a withdrawn, delicate, and sensitive girl that she might stay as a chrysalis and never emerge as a butterfly. 

Her parents needn't have worried, for Ophelia was only tending her garden, as she put it, a tender shepherdess of her own, special feelings.  She was sure that one day she would no longer need such tenderness and care, so she allowed herself the luxury of fantasy. 

True to her wishes, she began to gain confidence and certainty - the camaraderie of girls, their intimate clustering, and their shared secrets were comforting.  Ophelia knew that her life would not have to be alone, but in the company of women who shared her desires, fears, and ambition. 

The simple, innocent camaraderie that Ophelia had enjoyed at secondary school was a thing of the past at university.  Girls had grown up, matured, and while they still enjoyed female company, it was far less innocent and girly and much more demanding and political.  The young women joined together in solidarity rather than socialness - the innocent bonding had changed to collusive activism.  

The campus was filled with causes, everything from women's rights, to climate change, to the plight of the black man, and Ophelia was urged - dunned, actually, given the zeitgeist of inclusivity on campus - to join in one or more groups for social justice. 

Although Ophelia was not and never had been political - her parents were moderate Republicans, schooled long before the contentious politics of today - she understood that political affiliation and espousal of political values was tantamount to social acceptance.  Alliance For Climate Action, Bitches For Justice, and Gay Pride Forever were just some of the groups which courted her, and she accepted all of them.  Breathing the same heady air as a hundred like-minded women would be exhilarating.  

When asked about the specific purpose of their protests, demonstrators often answer, “To raise awareness”; but by now all issues have been presented, discussed, vetted, debated, and filed.  There is no more useful awareness to be had.

So it all comes down social collectivity – an expression of concern for a common cause which unites thousands into a community of ideas – an identity community with markers, banners, logos, doctrines, and liturgies.  Belonging feels good, feels important, feels useful, and most importantly reflects one’s own goodness.

The protests on campus were but the prelude to real, concerted action; and when a number of climate groups joined forces and headed to the National Mall for what they hoped would be a massive show of support for forcing radical change in energy use.  Ophelia was delighted.  This is what real female solidarity was all about - women's natural sociability, easy intimacy, and special, mature bonding joined with righteous passion was an irresistible force for change. 

The bus trip down to Washington was no different than the school bus shuttling girls from home to St. Mary's Catholic School in Radford - laughing, giggling about boys, virtual shopping for Manolo Blahnik and Armani, bitchy gossip about those girls on the peace train.  It was a joyful jamboree, a happy outing, an excursion that meant something.  The girl next to Ophelia smiled broadly and gave her a big hug. 

Ophelia was home.  This is what she as a timid, withdrawn little girl had  dreamed of and hoped for. The march was for climate sanity, but it could have been for anything.  The cause didn't matter, it was the generosity, emotional energy, and love that did.

Marches on the National Mall are unique phenomena. Although they are shows of popular democracy and free speech, they mean little or nothing to the residents of Washington - an unfortunate majority of whom are poor and isolated in nasty ghettos or managing in shabby middle class neighborhoods.  

Washington residents are used to these demonstrations and pay them little mind.  Washington is a city with its own problems – crime, drugs, dysfunctional families, corruption, and failing schools – and these are issues for the municipal government. Gun violence is endemic in the city, although concentrated in three majority black wards, and the issue is not gun control but police vigilance, community action, and  family responsibility. 

 

Marches for racial equality mean little in these de facto segregated wards where few if any white families live and even fewer risk driving through.  There is racial equality in Ward 8, but the worst, most pernicious kind – a persistent, dangerous, and violent homogeneity with no moderating influences.  No white, successful, middle class models of rectitude and community responsibility.  No entrepreneurial success stories.  No high-performing schools. 

 Yet the joy at these marches and demonstrations is palpable.  Demonstrators are not angry but happy, for they are shouting in unison with their sisters, hugging and kissing in exuberant displays of female solidarity.  Their soprano voices, loud and choral, might never be heard by the men that decide, but that is of no consequence.  It was femininity, femaleness, feminism expressed joyously and with abandon. 

What could be better, Ophelia thought, surrounded by hundreds of her sisters, all raising their voices in unison, validating womanhood and every woman, a great jamboree of togetherness, love, and affection. 

The trip back to school was memorable.  The young women, tired, worn, and hungry were in the best of moods.  Victory was a heady affair, and they had certainly won.  Won what was not the question, for the fact of such political commonality, of so many voices raised in unison creating one great orchestral piece on Washington's front lawn was more than enough. 

Some of the girls fell asleep on each others' shoulders, others were content to relive the event, and some chatted about this or that.  

Ophelia, who had for years longed to come out of her room and be one of the crowd, loved and accepted, had found a fulfillment she never dreamed of, and thanked her stars for such good fortune.