Fake Drugs

The family vacation was to D.C. last week and it was a whirlwind. Walked through cherry blossoms on a perfect breezy day and felt as though there was nothing better on Earth than the weather and the company that day. Went to the Lincoln Memorial, The Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial, The Thomas Jefferson Memorial, The Vietnam Memorial, The African-American American Civil War sculpture outside the Memorial. Saw Tucker Carlson talking on an iPhone in a wrinkly suit. Had after kids bedtime drinks twice with my brother.

There’s a fake drug we take as parents of young kids. A sense that life is too overwhelming as a parent to still be involved in the messy work of protest, of civic engagement, of anything non-recreational, revenue generating or parental. That fake drug is bolstered by a reality. Raising children is inarguably exhausting in regards to time and also emotionally exhausting on a different level. The fake drugs make you believe that it’s frivolous to keep on making new music. The fake drugs let you feel like it’s either the work of your seventy something year old dad or a teenager in Sweden to save the world, you’re busy. Any measure of soul searching will turn up counter-examples to this drug; heroes and ordinary folks lost to history juggled a lot more than I’ve ever juggled and still found time to push for a cause. For centuries profoundly disenfranchised people have fought. As I was struggling through some of this with my friend and colleague Pavielle also mentioned an angle I hadn’t considered. . .what will this teach my kids? When our kids see their parents involved in protest and activism what will they see? What will they be inspired to do?

Protesting is dangerous at many levels and it can be tacky as well. First off, someone might beat the shit out of you and that someone might be a state actor. People have died for the freedoms we enjoy. It can be tacky cause you have to perform your views in a way that feels so un-nuanced. I have never felt 100% chanting “the people united will never be divided” or “Black lives, they matter.” I agree wholeheartedly with these sentiments, with these slogans. But I feel like a dipshit chanting them. Why? I think part of it is related to being a cool musician. I grew up thinking musicians should act cool. If you’re at the protest it’s to play a song and inspire the masses. Or if you’re at the protest you play the back, you shake hands and everyone is just so overjoyed that you left your genius laboratory for a scant few hours to hang with the lowly masses. I want to shake off this attitude. There is little value in SEAN MCFUCKINGPHERSON being there. There’s just value in being there, in my kids being there. No soloist, just choir. But my head struggles. And I get goldilocks on the whole affair. Can you please schedule a protest at a time where my kids won’t miss bath time, Sunday school, guitar lessons, circus class and please also avoid any nationally televised Timberwolves games. Thanks! Yes, the People United Will Never Be Divided unless its Wolves/Warriors on ESPN. That’s what I’ll chant.

I’m telling you all this because I think you might understand it. We want a protest that doesn’t block highways. A protest that MetroTransit knows about in advance and can send more train cars. We want an easy protest. And sure! Why not. If it can all be gained with easy protests why not make it easy? If there is no counter-response, wonderful. Grab your Sharpie, make one sign, let Elon take the down the essence of the message and he’ll start acting on it tomorrow.

I’m telling you I’m telling you this because I bet you understand that part and this next part. There is always a counter-response. Not everyone wants what I want. My fellow countrymen like where we are headed. There are responses and counter-responses and protest is part of that. I’ve been to, I bet, fifteen protests in my adult life. Every time I’ve felt something. Every time I’ve done something more after the protest. I’ve been fueled to donate, to email, to volunteer or to read. I’ve been fueled to go to more protests.

While my family was in DC we ran into Lizz Winstead. She’s a comic genius. She laid the groundwork and was the first director/leader type for the Daily Show. I interviewed her on the Current a number of times. She was walking around the capitol with her colleague Moji. Lizz was out for a big protest; reproductive rights and more issues. Standing in front of the Supreme Court to see someone who created one of the most distinguished programs of our time out there pushing for shit she believes will help the world. A joy to see her, to be reminded of someone who has restructured their life and career to prioritize protesting over comedy. I’m inspired. I’m humbled. I’m struggling to say the right thing. Lizz you inspire me and you remind me that I could do more.

My brother, who is very skilled at seeing things from 10,000 feet above was maligning the ambition of our country and the bankruptcy of our moment. Are we aspiring to something better? Are we curving the moral arc of the universe? Which direction? Are we heading into something worse? Are we all focusing on ourselves while collectively letting the world go to worse than shit? To cruelty, to disgrace, to denial of the merit of fellow humans. Steve helps me see the National Mall and the Capitol from a vantage point I can’t muster in myself. I see the grounds, the humans, the strollers, the photos, the solemnity. I don’t see the bankrupt, not while I’m there. I see my kids. I see the other kids.

We got home on Thursday. My professional life moves into days of fundraising. Asking folks to part with their money to support Jazz88. I can do the work wholeheartedly, I believe in Jazz88’s present and I believe even more in what’s next in our story. But it is exhausting and it is overwhelming. I am good at fundraising but that does not me it is easy for me. It is exhausting and it is intense. But a look at my schedule and it says nothing will stand in the way of bringing my daughters to the protest after guitar lessons on Saturday. The Hands Off! protest starts at noon, we won’t get there til 2. My wife Rachel will meet us there. I want to take the Light Rail in. I want to see the people carrying their signs and going home. I want my daughters to know that people do this. It’s one of the most important things people do.

There is a never released documentary about the Twin Cities Hip-Hop scene from maybe 2002 (called Elements of Style) that interviews graffiti writer YEN34. YEN34 says part of why he writes is to show people that there are folks who don’t go out to party and dance on Saturday nights. There are people who climb into train-yards, onto billboards and under bridges just to write their name. I want my daughters to see that not everybody goes to circus class, watches YouTube and makes slow cooker meals. There are people who are fighting. There are people who are fighting back. There is a role we have in this world beyond being a consumer, learner and lover. We have responsibilities baked into us to push for things to be better. Some of those people are on this train. My little sign says “FREE SPEECH IS FOR ALL.” If you asked me four months who the right to free speech applied to in our country I might’ve thought it was just citizens. I was wrong. Blissfully wrong. Hearing about the extralegal attempted deportation of Mahmoud Khalil disgusts me. He’s got a partner at home who I think is DEEP into a pregnancy. He has all the right paperwork to be here. He has the right paperwork to be here forever. He didn’t get snatched up on a technicality of any sort. No misdemeanor to support the pretext of ushering someone out of our country who had vocally opposed Israel’s actions in Gaza. No pretext. Just raw state power silencing a voice that has a right to be here. Just state power ruining the last couple months of a family getting ready to usher a new life into this world and into this country. And the man is guilty of nothing, but he is tainted for protesting. It sickens me. My eight year old S. looks at my sign and takes the Sharpie and she writes on her sign JUSTICE IS FOR ALL. I did not cry then. I am crying now typing this to you. She is exploring her mind and soul. She is finding her message.

She is finding her way. We are on the light rail we are making our way to the protest. The trains going the other way are packed. Absolutely fucking packed. I’m nervous we will miss it all. We don’t.

Mayor Melvin Carter is speaking and there is a sea of people. More people than I’ve seen on our capitol grounds in my life. I actually can’t see the Mayor. I am looking at the signs. I am looking at the people. My heart is full of optimism. I am seeing resistance in person. The wind is blowing. Rachel is coming. My 4 year old N. is on my shoulders.

At some point in the early 90s MTV put a tremendous amount of stand up comedy on their channel. I don’t think any of them were famous. But Steve and I watched so much comedy. A comedian made the joke that men just think about sex all the time. The only time they can think about anything else is for the thirty seconds after they cum. He acted out an orgasm and then quickly got serious voice and said “okay I have to get groceries, pay taxes, make dinner, get a doctor’s appointment” and then moments later the comedian returned to thinking about how to get laid again.

That’s how it felt as I walked out of the protest and into the parking lot of the old Sears. Suddenly my brain is momentarily not thinking about the stains of our country, the ugliness of our moment, the distinct possibility that the bad guys will keep winning, that the resistance will lose, that we will live out our years in a country descending deeper into cruelty with my countrymen cheering it on, thinking they won cause others lost worse. But for a moment I didn’t feel that way. Today, typing this, I question the fullness of this feeling. Did I earn it? Did I do enough? Does S. think that one Sharpie and the back of a cardboard box keeps justice as a key feature of our life? But I didn’t feel that then. Cold spring air hitting parts of my face that had been too hot. I felt lightened. I felt unburdened. I felt like we could do bath time that night and go to bed and feel good. Feel whole tonight. Feel optimistic tonight. I don’t think this drug was fake. It did wear off. And it should. And I will recharge it. But it felt a lot better than the fake drug of parental paralysis.