Walking stories

Note to self: Put up or shut up

January 24, 2025

Along my dog-walking route, the subjects of neighborhood small talk have changed. “How’ve you been?” and “Did you have a good weekend?” have been replaced. “Did you hear what he did today?” isn’t always the exact wording of the replacement phrase, but it’s the exact point, whether expressed gesturally (a grunt, a nod to a newspaper on a doorstep and finally, a rolling of the eyes) or specifically (“and they’re planning to pick up and deport millions of people”).

I live in San Francisco in the Haight. There’s little disagreement. We have voted left, we have worn pussy hats, we have signed petitions and we have put signs in our windows. Even the younger among us are mindful of what was once called The Movement; that together we are stronger than we would be alone. But in between agreement expressed in dog-walking small talk, while admonishing Greenberg not to bark and to drop whatever he’s picked up from the sidewalk, I am deep into an argument with myself.

Fingers are pointed; guilt is assigned. When I’m sitting in front of my computer, social media chimes in on the conversation, suggesting this and nagging about that with untiring insistence. .

On one hand, my screens are brimming with DIY directions for maintaining one’s equanimity by turning off the worrying and despair, suggesting that peace-loving citizens take deep breaths (four years is a long time to hold one’s breath) and consciously replace images of impoverished immigrants with images of flowers and puppies and other natural wonders.

On the other, social media is saturated with memes, cartoons, essays, political slogans and (well-deserved) homages to the brave Bishop Mariann Budde, who looked the President in the eye and dared call for mercy, kindness and respect. Thus speaking out at a formal occasion, when propriety might have dictated ignoring the intentions and actions of the new president, took guts. Sure, I’m with her. Sure, it’s easy to express that. An on-line re-tweet and endorsement amounts to a high-five with fellow progressives.

But it’s not enough. I think about that as I walk through the city. I used to tell people who asked about my job was that being a journalist was having a passport to whatever was going on in town. What a wonderful privilege. Less frequently expressed was the privilege of not having to put my money where my mouth was. In literal terms, that meant I wasn’t allow to donate to friends running for office, to charities I was writing about. In figurative terms, it meant that I was an observer and not a participant. I couldn’t join demonstrations, carry signs, plaster a political sticker on my car bumper. That’s all changed now. I am free to participate, an to say what I think. And it seems that’s not only my privilege, but also is a duty.

I pass a construction site, where builders are hammering, pouring concrete, dragging beams across the sidewalk. It’s a national holiday, and I’m wondering who those workers are. If they have a union, which would guarantee them the day off, I’d be surprised. I don’t know where they came from, only that they are here every day, working hard, presumably to support themselves and their families.

So, if an ICE truck were to pull up and question each of them, intending to identify the undocumented, pull them off the job and push them out of the country, what would I do?

I saw something on the net today about ICE arresting someone at a discount department store in the suburbs. It was on an individual’s post, and I don’t know if the report was accurate. But what if I were standing in line at the self check-out counter, sunscreen and mouthwash in my red plastic basket, waiting to pay. And what if ICE came into the store and attempted to remove the person standing in line behind me, with moisturizer and toothpaste in her own red plastic basket?

Would I turn away, or would I express disapproval by making my nastiest face at the government agents, or would I literally physically jump into action? Would I take hold of her arm, in hopes of using myself as an anchor? Would I risk arrest? Face to face, would I demand that an ICE officer think about how and why his family came to America?

I can imagine being hauled away by authorities at some kind of protest demonstration, where like-minded others are being arrested, too. But the truth I’m facing - with dismay – is that if I were on my own, flouting authority would be much harder as a solo act than it would be as a group performance.

My eyes have filled with tears at hearing/watching/reading noble stories about the guts of those who in historic times of peril dared provided hiding places to the hunted, who risked their own families to save the families of others running to evade authorities. But this is here and now;, it would be a lie to say I am sure I would act similarly heroically.

Civil disobedience is something I was raised to respect and admire. But in wondering if I have the personal courage to take action, I find myself tormented. I have difficulty wrapping my mind around a scenario. In what I imagine is the worse possible case, in the short run, I’d wind up being hauled off to the hoosegow. (Pause right here while I tuck an extra reel of dental floss into my purse.)

In the only-a-little-bit-longer run, my “permanent record” would bear eternal evidence of that “crime.” Just writing about that possibility makes me feel pompous, over-dramatic. The true “permanent record,” of course, is not in any kind of data kept by authorities. It is what’s etched into my own conscience, self-important as that may sound.

It’s easy to “speak out” on social media, to hit that LIKE button in an attempt to say “Amen” and express solidarity with friends and allies who think alike. I know I have done all I can in the voting booth.

But what will I do if, literally, push comes to shove, and it happens right in front of me? I am writing these words in a public forum more or less as a challenge to myself. If I look the other way, if I fail to take any action in a crisis situation, then I will be ashamed.