Every Sunday outside the local pie shop in Wynola, members of my Julian-Wynola, community gather, signs in hand, whistles around our necks, hats against the sun or the rain or the wind. We gather in a new kind of ritual born out of an alchemy of desperation and disbelief. It’s our way of staying sane in an unrecognizable, off-the-rails world. The national and international news darkens each week; it weighs so heavy on our minds, creates disturbing confusion about what our country has become.. Frustration builds. Anxiety about loved ones, our military, our immigrant friends, grandchildren, and neighbors keeps us holding our collective breath.
Our Sunday ritual becomes my confession, my cleansing, my come-together with like-minded people. We have grown to be friends through resistance, friends in Good Trouble as we stand along the roadway, signs in hand.
So regularly there, we’ve even become pals with the frog in the bushes next to the Mom’s Pies sign. Each week we watch for the emerging daffodils and hyacinths and tread carefully around the growing buds. We have our favorite spots to stand, even sometimes bring bubbles and music.
We put safety measures in place: stand behind the chalk line, all on one side, not both, a peace-keeper in a bright lime-green vest.
As each person arrives, we read one another’s new signs and compliment the owner for her/his cleverness or compassion. We talk about the weather, about who is sick and who is better, about recent travels. Most of all we share our anguish, our anger and horror at what appears each night on news programs of different kinds.
Most of us cut our emerging wisdom teeth on demonstrations against the Viet Nam War, the tear gas flying, the four dead in Ohio. We supported bus boycotts and marches in Selma. We remark how sad it is that we are still called to action. Or maybe, we muse, that this is just the way it is in a democracy—and everyone chimes in—“if we can keep it.”
Many of us are getting a little long-in-the-tooth and would rather be home watching The Pitt or re-runs of Ted Lasso while drinking a mug of ice-cold Nickel brew. But here we are, gathered, a Sunday ritual.
As we stand, we often get a little giddy. We count the honks and cheers from those in the cars that fly by, ponder the breaking of our stereotypes—motorcyclists who shout they love us, huge trucks with desert toys giving us a beep beep in solidarity.
We have stood in wind, in freezing rain, in sweltering sun, in gorgeous spring weather. One woman brings her walker. We help her to a folding chair and she proudly waves her Ice Out sign. Another person brings her old golden Labrador who sits patiently at his owner’s feet and rolls his eyes at all our cheers and silliness.
Sometimes there are grandchildren; we high-five them and tell them they are learning what “democracy looks like.” More eye rolling, more high-fives.
I admit we’ve done the hokey pokey and turned ourselves around.
Yesterday we shouted, “And it’s 1-2-3-4, What are we fighting for? Don’t ask me, I don’t give a damn! Next stop is now IRAN.”
We count how many stand with us and rejoice if the crowd is bigger than the last. We miss people who can’t be there and are thrilled when someone new comes to join. We buy drinks at Mom’s, take trips to the pie shop bathroom when we have to. We are grateful to the owner for suggesting we gather there.
If only that woman in the red Porsche knew when she flipped me off with her black-gloved hand that we all giggled, made jokes about how her finger must be broken.
But actually, what is she against? Us? Standing in a line with signs? More importantly what does she stand for? Is that black-gloved, red Porsche woman really happy with what our country has become? How’s the price of gas when you fill that thing?
Or is she getting her news from some conspiracy theorist cashing in on Likes on Facebook?
And then our hour is up. I blow my whistle. I am the self-appointed ender of our session. We collect our signs, flags, and water bottles, all gather at the nearby shed—cars and trucks still honking in support—and take the weekly picture of our Julian Warriors.
We chat, pick up trash, and say goodbye. Often we are loathe to leave, the camaraderie is so intoxicating.
I collect donations from our group for the Julian food boxes each week. This group is so generous, I think we are feeding and clothing half our small mountain town.
Most notably, we are happier than when we arrived, so much more hopeful. Hopeful because in this world, there are people who choose to stand out in front of Mom’s Pie Shop every Sunday in Wynola to let the world know just how horrified, embarrassed, crazed, furious and incensed we are about our country’s actions, wars, treatment of our people, about what has become of the things we have always held so dear.
It is those faces along the roadside that I try to think of when I feel bleak. The honks, the waves, the thumbs up, the children in the back seats taking our picture. I know, because we have to, we will keep at it every week until things change, or sadly, until we are forced to stop or die.
Just Carrie 