The ironic thing is that the only reason I saw the protesters at all is because I was sneaking out the back way of McDonalds; I was ashamed to be seen taking my child into a place like that. It’s true: I was embarrassed to be seen patronizing a business that supports factory farming, uses high fructose corn syrup, and serves as a distribution center for millions of little plastic toys–you know, the ones that pause momentarily in your child’s toy box on their voyage from Chinese child laborer to American landfill. Not to mention that everything I was purchasing had been shipped hundreds, if not thousands of miles, and that, in order to get the stuff I had sat in the drive-thru for 20 minutes, exhaust idling all the way. Really, I chided myself, all you need to do is toss the wrappers out the window on the way home and you will be the perfect storm of neglectful consumerism. I was so deep, in fact, into my little fit of hippier-than-thou self-loathing that I nearly drove right past the protesters standing out in front of our local Planned Parenthood. I other words, I nearly drove right past one of those pesky teachable moments.
With the beginning of the new school year, and with the promise (threat?) of middle school just around the corner, I’ve been bringing up the subject of bullying a lot. Or rather, the subject of the bully’s greatest asset, The Bystander. At least the word itself is easy to explain: just like a butterfly is something that “flutters by,” a bystander is someone who stands by and does nothing while bullies do their foul work, thereby allowing the bullies to think that what they are doing is defensible, and right. What I tell my kids is this: we don’t have a bullying problem–we have a bystanding problem. If one day everyone in the world decided that they were through bystanding, then the next day would see the sun rise on a much different and better world. Don’t be a bully, I tell them. Don’t be a victim. But above all else, don’t be a bystander. Of course, that’s the easy part; the hard part is then matching my actions to words.
Which is why I almost ignored the small collection of fanatics gathered outside our little clinic. (Although, with their quaint, yet lurid posters–very Norman Rockwell meets Alfred Hitchcock– it would have taken quite a bit of denial to have kept driving). As it turned out, I ended up pulling into the parking lot so fast that I had already parked the car and turned off the ignition before I really thought about what I was going to do, something that did not escape my son, Clyde.
“Mom, what are we doing?”
Ah yes: Clyde; in my haste I had forgotten that he was in the car with me. Suddenly I began to have second thoughts, which soon became third and fourth thoughts as the protesters started yelling at me–yelling at Clyde–as we sat in the car. What was I doing? Was this really something he needed to see? After all, I could always drive home, drop him off, and come back later…or not. It wasn’t like this was really my fight–was it? Then I looked back at Clyde, trustingly waiting for me to make the next move–to do the right thing–and suddenly the decision became clear. I pointed at the protesters thirty feet away.
“See those people, Clyde? Those are bullies, and the people they’re bullying are inside that building–we need to help them.” As I said this I grabbed my wallet to make a donation, and felt good about myself for the first time all morning–that is, until I saw what Clyde was carrying.
“Yeah. But leave the McDonalds bag in the car–nobody needs to see that.”