I am a newly minted American, barely a year old. If measured in baby progress, I likely would barely be crawling. In US resident years, I was an elementary student. I could walk, go to school to learn even more things beyond the basic read, write and arithmetic about this country. I knew that even as a baby citizen, I had voice through actual civic participation through the voting process and speech. This included my very writings on the Internet walls as well as my speaking across venues. I had the right to participate in public proceedings such as the city council.
In the Philippines, I participated in the ways I knew I could, in the ways, the legacy of American democracy and education system taught me to. I registered to vote as soon as I reached the legal age. I campaigned for the candidates I believed in. I waited in lines, craning my sweaty neck, to see how far or close I was to finally sit down on the chair, shade the circles on the ballot hidden from view by erected folders. I even marched through EDSA both as a five year old, together with my parents and sister, and a nineteen year old college student, allowed to cut class to join the protests against corruption. I also registered as an overseas voter when I moved here. I firmly believed in the power of my voice, though singular and meager against the ocean of millions.
It wasn’t my first visit to city hall, seeking to apply for volunteer work at the animal shelter and the multi-cultural circles. But it was my first time to join a city council meeting.
I was called to go with the fierce desire to bring my screaming into the social media void into action. I wanted the singularity of my voice to be present and heard, an endurance swim against the tides, the raging waves of billions of dollars, the influential and powerful. I believed that American democracy was alive. I now could participate more. I am a citizen and I had a say. I am singular, yet I hoped that my drop in the bucket would cause ripples.
I broke down the lids of an Amazon box to create protest signs. It seemed like that’s what people do. I wielded my Sharpie that I thought of as my sword, its ink bore the ability to slice as a tool also maim as a weapon, and made three -
#CeasefireNOW
Stop Genocide!
#Stopbombs
I drove down 10 miles, 16 kilometers, into the bare city hall parking lot, second guessing whether I did the right thing, whether there would be others who’d show up. There was strength in numbers and I sure hoped there would be. With handwritten signs hooked under my armpit, I marched towards the entrance.
The city council meeting was underway. Including the mayor, there were a total of eight members. But there were 10 seats filled in the concave bench front and center. All, save for one, were caucasians. Our estimated 286,000 strong city is comprised of over 50% white and a quarter Asian, plus a tenth African American and another tenth of others ethnicities.
The young scouts in their brown uniforms, patches sewn on their sleeves and on their breast pockets, blue scarves wrapped under their collars were trying their best to keep still as their parents gripped their hands on their shoulders. Seniors in red and green Christmas garb, slowly trickled in and took seats in the middle section. “Reserved for the Legacy Harmony” a sign taped onto the aisle seats. A lone young man, face clenched, tense, with a black and white keffiyeh around his neck and shoulders sat in the middle of the city hall stadium. His knees bounced up and down against the sheet of paper he held in his hand.
After a few minutes, more people with black and white keffiyehs, also around their necks, draped across shoulders, entered the hall. Hijabis, women with their head and hair covered by personal choice, also started to trickle in. A young woman with her shirt bearing “Free Palestine” and another man with his denim jacket bearing the same words.
I stood on the barrier behind the stadium seats with the bird’s eye view of the entire city hall. The city council’s faces ahead. The back of the audience’s heads towards me. Their screens lit up with group chats - WhatsApp, Telegram, Signal, typing in messages “We are here.” Or “People are staring to come in” real time updates on what was going on in the moment.
A quick calculation in my head on whether I could raise my sign. It didn’t feel like it was time. Is there even a right time? Am I truly free to express what I believed was humanly kind, against war and destruction?
The Mayor took photos with the scouts then the choir after they finished their Christmas carols. Then he spoke a preamble for the public comment portion, where the public is allowed to voice out any concerns of the city. “There are 30 speakers who signed up. But because we have limited time, 30-minutes, we are limiting each speaker to a minute each.”
The first two speakers got onto the podium: One lawyer and one Asian American. Each introduced themselves and declared their local address. I cringed at the idea of doing so in such a public setting that was also broadcast on local TV, over a government dedicated channel. While being the media planner that I am, I should check the actual viewership numbers, nonetheless, sharing that bit of key information which can compromise personal and family safety from a couple of strangers. A handful or more, tens or, at best hundreds, who could easily wield a gun legally in this state, and use it. The Mayor and the meeting secretary reminded them of their limited time, cutting them off in the middle of their speeches.
The organizers regrouped, knowing that it was important to get more powerful, relevant speakers on the podium. “Well, have a handful of speakers with five minutes each.” They declared.
One white neighbor.
One student.
One teacher.
One born here.
One not born here.
One aid worker.
All residents of the city.
Statistics were dropped. 68% of Americans call for a ceasefire and the government, whom we voted, who works for us, is not representing us. Civilians. Women. Children. Grandchildren. We need to be on the right side of history. We must lead. I paid for this, but I don’t want this. Our tax dollars spent for war. We contribute to the welfare of this city. We help the poor, hungry, disenfranchised, homeless.
We are part of this community.
Help us. Help them.
Keep us safe. Keep them safe.
World security is our security.
Our decisions here affect us.
Affect them.
The last speaker rose from the front. One white woman.
The Mayor rapped his gavel. “I am sorry, but we are out of time. But the priority of the city remains to keeping all our residents safe.”
“Call for a ceasefire!” A man from behind yelled. He was standing right beside me. His keffiyeh wrapped around his neck. His phone’s wallpaper peppered with watermelons. His group chats active in conversation. His restless fingers dancing across the screen.
“YES!!!! Ceasefire!” The shrill scream of the white woman rang.
The Mayor’s face transformed in the rude interruption.
The line of hijabs at the front row turned their faces to the audience behind, raising their fingers to their lips. Shush! A call to hold one’s ground and civility in the public institution, despite the overflowing grief and pain. Their palms then faced down, down, down as if to push the tension back into a container.
“How could you celebrate Christmas? Jesus was born in Bethlehem, now he is in rubble and ashes. I am the daughter of a council woman. A Christian! A Pastor’s daughter! PLEASE! Let me speak!” She wailed.
“Bethlehem is in Palestine! Why are we even celebrating Christmas?” Another young white woman in the far end of the stadium yelled out. Her head shaking in dismay.
I didn’t want to cry in such a public place. I held my ground, clutching the carton signs in my hands. But I felt the dampness trail down my cheeks, caught in between the hem of my mask. Here we all were, bodies of all colors, gathered in the name of American democracy, begging to be heard, for safety, security and life, for us and others.
“I’m so sick of words! We want action!” My neighbor screamed. His voice hung heavy after he stormed off, strides big and resolute. His brusque arms pushed through the glass doors and the revolving doors of the city hall building.
The Mayor pounded the gavel in quick succession and said “We’ll go into a recess.”
One by one, people left. The once filled city hall stadium seats was emptied. A somber mood hung over the audience, buzzing in whispers.
“That’s it?” One attendee asked the organizer.
“Yes, we were asked to leave. We’re all supposed to leave.” She responded, calm, collected, resigned yet firm.
I wondered whether she was used to the rejection. Is getting beaten down something one acclimates to? Or is there redemption arc to this? But I then remembered they must have been at it since 2001, the aftermath of September 11. My head swimming with questions as I drove back home, handwritten cardboard protest signs riding shotgun with me.
“What the hell is that gonna change?” My pragmatic husband asked. Unlike myself, he doesn’t believe in the system, never has, never will, cognizant to the political machinations at play. I sat down with his insight. Does the democracy we were taught, that was modeled after the American colonial masters’ ideology, even exist? Do the people even have actual power to change the system? For real?
This reminded me of the Seven of Swords.
In the traditional Rider-Waite Smith deck, a person carrying five swords looks back at the army camp as it attempts to slink away, on his tippy toes, with his loot. Two swords remain staked to the ground, but clearly, he already carried with him majority of the weaponry. His face suspended in a triumphant snigger as if to say, “Look what I got away with.” In the background, miles away, is another camp with foreboding grey clouds over it as if busy with activity. Plans are a brewing in the opposition.
When this card is pulled in a reading, it points to a possible betrayal, whether the querent plotting a scheme or another person within the querent’s circle trying to get away with murder. When one acts alone, cloaked in the darkness, away from prying eyes, believing that one could take as much as one can.
Democracy was a promise touted by this now country of mine. That this was the “better,” more civilized system. That this the way, the truth and the life that the world must emulate. America went to war, continues to do so, in the name of democracy, attacking the “evil” communist empires. That democracy is about the collective power of we, not just me. That the voice of many for the good of all will and must prevail.
But after a decade of being here, learning about “Gerrymandering” and bearing witness to that city council meeting, I am starting to see the cracks in this shining promise called democracy. Is there truth in the true collective power of we when the lines are drawn in favor of a few me’s? Does the voice of many for the good of all truly prevail? Or does the whisper of the interests of a few speak volumes? Are politicians getting away with doing unsavory things behind our backs? Is my husband right to believe that doing something, speaking out, voting will not change anything?
Today is Super Tuesday, or the primaries, the election day that determines who will be the banner candidate of each party. It is the chance for U.S. Citizens to show up at the polls and use the ballot as their voice. It is my first opportunity to officially participate in the democratic process of this country, a duty as a legally able adult American citizen.
Do I believe that my vote matters? To be honest, I am not sure. But I still hope that it does. Despite me knowing eyes wide open that I am simply a drop in the ocean ruled by the machinations of the moon’s gravitational pull and the undercurrents from depths of the gurgling floor.
There’s still time to vote today if you are able to do so. Polling places opened at 7 A.M. and will close at 7 P.M. today. Don’t forget that there’s still the November 6 elections, so mark your calendars. Check your state’s schedule for any early voting later this year.