Where Is The Outrage?
Hands Off The Children
Before we start, I feel the need to say: I don’t disparage anyone who wants to exercise their voice. In fact, it’s mandatory—for all. But here’s another perspective. One worth thinking deeply about.
The sun-drenched protests in Southern California. The smug slogans. The painted signs and camera-ready indignation.
We all need a villain. A bad guy. And Trump is amazing at playing the role. Whether he is or isn’t doesn’t even matter at this point. The dye has been cast.
“We’re just exercising our First Amendment rights,” they say, sipping iced oat milk lattes and basking in the California rays.
Is the political theatre on full display here the equivalent of what had to be done during the Vietnam War and Civil Rights Era—or do we just long for the nostalgia of when protesting made a difference?
My next thought, as I judge the “others,” is:
Where were you when it actually mattered?
Where were you when mothers were banned from social media for grieving the death of their child—within 24 hours of receiving a vaccine?
When their raw pain was flagged as “misinformation”?
When their truth was labeled “dangerous”?
When their accounts were deleted, their communities exiled?
Where were you when thousands of us were shut down for simply asking that our bodily sovereignty be respected during COVID—and were told to pound sand?
(By the way, can you see the twisted narrative behind needing permission to have your body respected?)
You were silent.
You folded.
So before you invoke your First Amendment rights, here’s the truth:
We all get them. Or nobody does.
A memory floats to the surface.
It was during the first three years of the Fog and the War—my battle with mercury. Somehow, I got out of the house and down to Pershing Square to meet the others for a protest.
Don’t know how I arrived—couldn’t drive without crashing into guard rails and retaining walls.
But this felt important.
We were so mad. Why? I don’t remember. But it was our right to be angry. So we exercised it.
I didn’t join the others for lunch—after all, I could only digest three foods.
The eye rolls. Hushed tones: I know. When is she going to snap out of it?
I swayed in the blazing sun, turned around, and found myself lost in a maze of hip Angelenos.
Those years are a blur of confusion and pain.
Mercury and fog.
Why didn’t I protest for myself back then?
Why didn’t I show up to the doctor’s offices with signs—Hey me, over here, I’m worth fighting for!
That’s how the First Amendment works.
It isn’t conditional.
It doesn’t exclude the ones who fall through the cracks.
But these days, it belongs to the vaccinated.
The Zoomers.
The ones on the “right side” of NPR.
Like me, back then…
We were surrounded by tents and encampments—the usual environmental dressing of any urban SoCal protest.
They mumbled and muttered as we passed with our signs and pissed-off faces.
What did we say? So sad. The mental health crisis.
Or could it be… no one listens to their inconvenient stories?
So while the in-crowd (the one I used to be part of) was busy protesting rights some of us never had this weekend—here’s what’s actually happening:
A global pedophile network—Kidflix—was just taken down after operating in the shadows for years.
91,000+ videos of child abuse.
Three new videos uploaded every hour.
Users rewarded in cryptocurrency tokens for uploading more material.
Two million users across 35 countries.
Nearly 1,400 suspects.
This is real.
Ignoring it doesn’t change anything for the kids.
This is happening.
You wipe the sweat off your brow after holding those signs for hours,
and kick back at Crossroads in Hollywood for some killer vegan grub and a glass of wine.
But you said nothing about the children.
Nothing about the parents who cry themselves to sleep.
Doesn’t it make you angry?
Sometimes I think censorship exists so people can still stay sane enough to buy things.
After all, if everyone knew the truth, we might find ourselves all rocking one another back and forth wearing crash helmets—and the current stock market dip would look like a fairy tale.
And for the record, I’m not registered with either political party.
I’m not here to blindly defend the current administration.
But I am feeling wave after wave of unexpected relief that—for the first time in years—
It feels like my health, my injury,
my reality
might actually matter to someone in D.C.
The privilege of never knowing how few First Amendment rights you’ve had.
Isn’t it swell.
Red Rage, Mixed Media on Canvas 2021
https://www.wylldwood.com/
https://michellekatzart.com/
P.S. In the next few days, I’ll be launching my Voice Reclamation Series and opening the waitlist for my upcoming program:
Reclaim Your Voice: Write Your Way to Health — a 6-module online writing journey designed for anyone who has struggled with the mental, emotional, or physical effects of silencing their voice, intuition, or spiritual gifts.