You Say You Want a Revolution

My blessings have made me dull. Deep within this suburban, middle-class, white, forty-something mother lies the heart of a rebel: a reincarnated Panther, a Freedom Fighter, a Women’s Libber, a No Nuker, a Hug your Mother Earth, a Make-Love-Not-War, sign carrying, Capital-marching, rubber bullet dodging activist. Maybe I need something on the outside of me to make me take the action that is burning on the inside of me, but my skin blends with the empowered class of the United States of Mediocrity.

What will it take to light that fire that kindles in my belly? How can I fight for causes when my days are consumed with replenishing the negative interest-earning bank account, with monitoring the expiration date on the carton of pesticide and growth hormone filled milk, with washing the clothes purchased at discount on the backs of Malaysian pre-adolescents, and with financing the war-inspiring fuel for the tank of my made-by-bigwig-lobbyists car?

Maybe I want change without personal sacrifice. I won’t go to jail for a cause like my Birkenstock-wearing foremothers and forefathers. I have a child to raise. A mortgage to pay. Too much to lose. A disenfranchised Floridian, I’ve lost faith in the voice of a vote. I can put some nickels in the Anybody-but-Him fundraising can and change my lamps to those ingenious new light bulbs. Funny way to start a revolution.