Bewilderment

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THE PEOPLE HAVE A RIGHT TO ASSEMBLE PEACEFULLY.

So my son informed me. Still, we read over the sections of the municipal code. We learned how the Constitution was one thing and the local powers of enforcement were another. That alone was enough civics lesson to show why legal public demonstration was never going to threaten the status quo.

Wow. They don’t make it easy, do they? What if something really bad happens and a bunch of people want to protest, like, that same night?

“Good question, Robbie.” One that was getting better with each passing month. I wanted to tell him that democracy had a way of working out, however ugly things got. But my son had this thing about honesty.

He spent three days on his poster. When he finished, it was a thing of beauty, halfway between an illuminated manuscript and a page from The Adventures of Tintin. His palette was simple, the lines clean, and the vibrant animals large enough to see from far away. Not bad, for a child who struggled with grasping the minds of others. He also prepared an illustrated handout of twenty-three species threatened or endangered in the state of Wisconsin, including the Canada lynx, gray wolf, piping plover, and Karner blue butterfly. What else, Dad? What else?

“Do you want to add a little message for the legislators?”

What do you mean?

“To say what actions you want them to take?”

His puzzled look turned to distress. If his own father was so blindly stupid, what hope was there for the world? I just want to stop the killing.

I knew it was asking for trouble, but I let his slogan ride. help me. i’m dying. Who knew what might move a stranger? After months of neural feedback, his empathy was surpassing mine. He and I would learn together how to enter the world that his mother had lived in like a native.

Dad? When will everyone be there?

“Who?”

The governor and the senators and the assembly people. Maybe those Supreme Court guys? I want as many of them as possible to see me.

“Weekday mornings, probably. But you can’t miss any more school.”

Inga doesn’t even go to school anymore. She says why bother to study how to live in a future that—

“I’m familiar with Inga’s ideas about education.”

We made a deal with Dr. Lipman and his teacher, Kayla Bishop. Robin would keep up on his homework, and he’d do an oral report on his experiences at the Capitol when he got back to school the next day.

He dressed up. He wanted to wear the blazer he’d worn to his mother’s funeral, but after two years, putting it on was like squeezing a butterfly back into the chrysalis. I made him wear layers; any kind of weather could blow in over the lake that time of year. He wore an oxford shirt, a clip-on tie, slacks with a crease, a sweater vest, a windbreaker, and boy’s dress shoes that shone from long polishing.

How do I look?

He looked like a tiny god. “Commanding.”

I want them to take me seriously.

I drove him downtown to the narrow isthmus between the lakes, where the Capitol sat like the center of a compass rose. Robin rode in the back seat, holding his poster on its foam-board handle across his lap. The act required his full attention. At the Capitol, a guard showed him where he could stand, off to the side of the south wing stairs leading to the senate. Relegation to the periphery of the steps upset him.

Can’t I stand up by the doors so people see me on their way inside?

The guard’s No left him grim but resolute. We headed to the area of confinement. Robin looked around, surprised at the sedate midmorning. Government employees drifted up the steps in dribs and drabs. A group of schoolchildren listened to their docent before touring the corridors of power. A block away on Main and Carroll, desperate pedestrians prowled the shops for caffeine and calories, picking their way through the many homeless people of all races. People who looked like elected officials but were probably lobbyists walked past, intent on the voices pressed to their ears.

The stillness confused Robin. Nobody else is protesting anything? Everyone in the state is perfectly happy with everything just the way it is?

He’d based his idea of this place on video clips of his mother. He wanted drama and showdown and righteous calls for justice from concerned citizens. Instead, he got America.

I took my place alongside him. He erupted. His free hand slashed the air. Dad! What do you think you’re doing?

“Doubling the size of your protest group.”

No. Freaking. Way. Go stand over there.

I walked thirty feet down the pavement. He waved me farther off.

Over there. Far enough that no one thinks you’re with me.

He was right. The two of us standing together would look like an adult put-up job. But a nine-year-old standing alone with a sign reading help me i’m dying might be something you’d want to stop and talk over.

I relocated, as far off as I was comfortable going. We didn’t need a well-meaning passerby calling Dane County Human Services. Satisfied, Robin picked up his painted sign and held it in the air. Then the two of us settled into the trenches of Earthly politics.