Activism: two stories

“Don’t let the system beat you down!”

My daughter and her team of Lego Robotics friends looked confusedly at the older gentleman who called out the earnest advice as they left the building. Then with the fickle attention span of most 10-year-olds, turned around and went on to chase each other in the parking lot.

As part of their Lego project, the kids had testified in front of the Washington County commissioners and were petitioning to get the county to start composting food waste. After a presentation at the Cedar Mill CPO, this gentleman had seen merit in their activism – ahem – perhaps more than the kids did.

The 10-year-olds in their cuteness and enthusiasm and research (forced on them by their coaches), seemed to have ignited a small spark. Several adults seem to want to see this happen, want to help the Epic Pineapples (team name), and have circulated the online petition which now has over a 1000 signatures.

So is that all it takes sometimes? To simply start a little spark and let it catch on through the imagination of others? The gentleman at the CPO who said he’s been wanting to do this for years, friends and other adults circulating the petition, are all interested in making this happen.

Even if the ten-year-olds may not completely understand the scope of their citizen participation and activism and impact, others do and will possibly help them carry it forward.   

Is it easier to be inspired by the not-yet-beaten-down-by-the-system enthusiasm of these kids? Is it easier to join in the energy and enthusiasm of those not beaten down by the system?

Will they someday, understand their civic participation and the impact it holds?

Will they not get beaten down by the system?

***

I never started a petition as a kid. I did however stand five years and three feet tall under the second floor window of an elderly lady, shouting out to her, asking her to return my kitten.

I did however collect a few neighborhood kids to rally forces, when she refused to return the cat.

“Apte Ajiiii…,” we shouted from downstairs (Apte - her last name, aji - grandma in Marathi).

Several faces peered out of several windows of the apartment complex.

“Give back the kitten…” we yelled.

Several faces disappeared, not wanting to get involved. But Apte Aji stayed. And she stayed put in her stance that she had found a stray on the street.

Now in her defense, the kitten wandered about the large yard and alleys, and came in and out of the house as she pleased – quite like her owner – moi. For both of us had reasonably unsupervised parenting – by the standards of today.  

When the boy next-door saw me wandering about, calling out to the cat, he told me that their cook had seen Apte Aji pick the kitten from outside our gate. Now this was reliable intelligence for the two detectives and we set off to set things straight.

But the woman refused to return the cat to its rightful owner.

We were determined. We continued to create a ruckus outside her building.

Apte Aji was determined. The kitten was hers and it was staying with her.

In a day or two, the other kids lost interest in creating a commotion outside an old lady’s home, and moved on to better things. The boy next door left (he was only visiting his grandma, my neighbor).

I refused to give up and spent several afternoons inside and outside the lady’s yard. I may have lived in my house, but all my attention was on the house down the street.

I circled her house, hid in her yard, sat on her neighbor’s fence…  I had the image of my kitty jumping out of the window, or wandering about, as I knew she liked to… Of course, I would be right there, to rescue her from the evil clutches of the villain in my story.  

It didn’t happen.

I saw that the summer was slipping away, and eventually I moved on to other things. But I had that same strange feeling inside each time I passed Apte aji’s house. Of sadness, of injustice, of defeat, of failed activism.   

My cat was happy in her new home. That traitor. Sometimes she paid us a visit in the manner of dignified royalty visiting the commoners. And despite my delight at seeing her, as I put out a bowl of milk for her, I had that same strange feeling inside. Of sadness, of injustice, of defeat, of failed activism.