The Honking Report
On some Saturdays my partner, Myra, and I spend an hour at the anti-Maga protest outside the Tesla dealership in San Francisco.
What's evolved is quite magical.
We stand on O'Farrell Street holding our signs that encourage honking. On any given cycle of the traffic light, two to ten drivers will honk. Some then have to stop at the red light.
Myra and I have different approaches.
She goes up to cars stopped at the light and offers the driver a "Make America Human" pin.
I approach drivers and say, “Thanks for honking!" When they open their window, I say: "These are crazy times we’re living in. What keeps you sane?”
Some highlights from this week's conversations with honkers...
Black woman in her 40s.
She points a finger up. “My Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. He’s in charge.” She pauses, smiles. “And then, seeing you all out here – I know you’re angels he’s sent.”
Shirtless Asian man, late 20s or early 30s.
“Training.”
What are you training for?
“Soccer!”
The light turns green and he’s gone.
Filipino man in his 50s or 60s.
He says: “This is too much. This has to end.”
I say: “We are many. We are powerful. And we will eventually win. But what I want to know is, When is eventually? And will I live to see it?”
“Oh, you will. We will.”
White guy in his 40s.
“Fuck that guy!” (Trump)
“What keeps you going?”
“My family and my passions.”
Long-haired tattooed, white man late 30s, maybe 40s, unkempt, cheerful, scraggly beard.
“I don’t know.” (Pause) “Marijuana!”
Young woman in her 20s, bright eyed, Asian.
“Reading the food section and the politics section.”
I ask, “In what order?”
“The politics section first. Then the food section as a reward!”
White man driving a Mini Cooper. Early forties. Loud, fun, an extrovert.
“Hair! Doing people’s hair! I’m a hairdresser. Making people look good! At least what I think is good.” We laugh. We high-five.
A couple, white, in their 40s or 50s.
The man says: “Ignoring the news. Don’t give him any more mind share.”
A 40something white woman in a baseball cap.
“Dancing. And my kids. And donating to Democrats.”
White woman about 40.
“Friends and family. Reading 1440.” She explains that “1440” is a news site.
A white man, my age, doesn’t honk. Rolls his window all the way down. He is ruddy-faced and loud. “No Kings?” (He’s referring to my "Honk for No Kings" sign.) “What about the Democrats all clapping for King Charles when he spoke to Congress? Why did they clap for a king?”
Hostility oozes out of him. Grievance.
“I don’t know,” I say. “You tell me.”
“You’re a traitor!” he informs me. A snake spitting his venom.
“Have a blessed day!” I say.
“You have a blessed day!” he spits back.
*
I left the demonstration thinking about three of my interlocutors:
The born-again Black woman.
The loud gay hairdresser.
The aggrieved Maga man with his gotcha talking point.
If I were to put these characters onstage, or in a movie, I would be accused of stereotyping. Correctly accused. And yet there they were, each in their car, each playing their part. With complete commitment. Full embodiment. No self-consciousness. No self-doubt. Pitch perfect.
But what if I put them onstage, not in their cars, but in the same room? What would they have to say to one other?
*
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