A Protest and A Conversation

        “Mommy, why are the policemen hitting those people?”

         She frowned before answering.  “I don’t know, son. “

         “Why are there so many people out there?”

         “Well, they’re protesting.”

         Now he frowned.  “What’s protesting?”

         She put down the book, and focused on her boy.  “Well, protesting means that you go to someone and say that you don’t like something.”

         He thought about that.  “Like when you tell me to go clean my room and I say I don’t want to?”

         She laughed.  “Well, yes, kind of.”

         “But I always have to clean my room anyway.” He said it with a pout, which she chose to ignore.

         “Well, yes, you do.  But this is different.”

         “How come?”

         “Um, well, when you see this many people out protesting, it means that they feel that there's something wrong with…what somebody is doing.  Like something isn’t right.”

         “Cleaning my room isn’t right!”

         “Ha, ha, ha, young man.  Cleaning your room is right, and it’s different, and I’ll tell you why.  When I ask you to clean your room, even though you might not like it, it’s important because you need to live in a healthy environment.  You need a good, clean place to sleep at night.  But when people are protesting, they feel like whatever they are being told to do or deal with is not a good thing for them.  In fact, they would tell you that it is causing them harm in some way.”

         “Oh.”  He paused, and she could see his little mind churning, mulling over her words.

         “But if something is bothering them, why are the police hurting them?”

         Good question, she thought.  “Well, the police have a job to do, and their job is to keep the peace.  Do you know what that means?”

         He shook his head.

         “It means that they have to make sure everyone is safe during the protest.”

         “So, they beat people up to make sure they’re safe?”

         Now she hesitated, trying to find the right words for her explanation.  “Well, no, not exactly.  If people become violent in a protest—if they start trying to hurt themselves or others—the police’ll come and arrest them so they can’t hurt anyone else.”

         He squinted his eyes in confusion.  “Arrest them or hurt them, Mommy?”  He pointed to an image on the TV screen that was being replayed over and over: a cop beating a woman with his club.  The woman begged the cop to stop his attack, screaming: “I’m not doing anything wrong!  I have rights! We have rights!  Stop! Stop! I’m not doing anything wrong!”

         It was this image that had triggered his initial questions.  As her son watched the horrid scene unfold, his eyes grew large, but whether in shock or in fear, she didn’t know.  Deciding that he had seen enough, she reached for the remote and clicked off the TV.  “They’re supposed to arrest them.  What they’re doing is wrong.”

         He cocked his head to one side to show he didn’t understand.

         She pulled her son to her.  “The people out there, they’re trying to say that they’re not happy with something going on in government, and they have the right to be outside doing so.  But they can’t hurt people in the process, and the police are there to make sure they don’t.  But sometimes, the police don’t always do the right thing, either.  Sometimes they make mistakes, and don’t exactly follow the rules like they’re supposed to.”

         “Do police get in trouble?”  His eyes widened in surprise.

         She didn’t sugarcoat it.  “Yes, honey, sometimes they do.  And you know why?  Because police are people, too.  And like regular people, they just mess up. They’re not supposed to, but it happens.”

         He nodded his understanding.  “So what are those people protesting?”

         “Well, they’re called the 99 percenters.”

         “Who’re they?”

         “They’re a large group of Americans who feel that…well, I guess they feel that they’re down on their luck, among other things, I  guess.  They don’t have a job and I guess…they don’t have a lot of money.”

         “Are we the 99 percent?”

         She looked around their home and saw the fruits of their family’s success:  a modern, spacious home that was not short on comfort, but rather embraced the luxuries of life.  She and her husband worked everyday and both managed to bring home a paycheck that afforded them many opportunities for themselves and the family. They were by no means wealthy, but certainly they were comfortable.

         “Well, no, honey, I don’t think we are.”

         “Are we supposed to be?”

         “Well, me and your dad don’t want to be out of a job, if that’s what you mean.”

         “No, but…..” He scrunched his forehead, looking for the right words.  “Don’t we want to be out there with them?  Isn’t it bad if people don’t have a job and don’t have money?”

         His words, so innocently articulated, struck her with an unbelievable force.  “I….well, yes it is.  It’s bad to be without a job.”  Suddenly she remembered her own lean years, just graduated from college, a hard-earned degree gathering dust on a shelf.  She’d had to return home to live with her parents, almost for two years, scrimping to make ends meet.  It had been frustrating.  She’d wanted to soar, and instead she’d been grounded, her wings clipped before she’d even had a chance to fly.

         She made a quick decision, and stood up.  “You know what, baby?  Would you like to go down and help protest?”

         He jumped with excitement.  “Could we?  I could make a sign.  I saw of the people on TV carrying some!”

         “Yes, you can, and I’ll help you.  You’re right.  We should be out there with the others.”

         “Because everyone needs a job?”

         “Because everyone should have a chance to be as a happy as we are, son.”