Wide Awake Read online

  I looked over to Elwood, who also seemed a little uneasy in the sudden press of bodies. I found myself rallying to lean over to him and say it would be okay, that everybody would settle soon enough.

  As I was talking to him, I felt a body press against me from behind. Then the arms came wrapping around me again—the bracelet on one wrist, the watch on the other. I leaned back against Jimmy’s chest, felt his breath against my ear, felt his unshaved chin gripple my neck. I tried to relax. I couldn’t—not fully. But I tried.

  “Ready?” he asked. Then, in a knowing whisper, he added, “Let’s throw some tea overboard.”

  When I was a kid, I was obsessed with the Boston Tea Party. We didn’t live near Boston, but that didn’t matter. From the moment Ms. Coolidge first mentioned it in my third-grade class, I was hooked.

  We were talking about the causes of the American Revolution, and Ms. Coolidge was typing them out on the class screen.

  Taxation Without Representation.

  The Boston Tea Party.

  The Coercive Acts.

  The Boston Massacre.

  …and so forth. I know the word massacre is the one that should have told my eight-year-old-boy mind to perk up, but it was the phrase tea party that truly lit up my thoughts. I imagined it as a sort of birthday party where tea was served, and wondered how it had led to a big war. Had someone important not been invited? Was the host not happy with his presents?

  When I got home, I decided to act it out with my stuffed animals. The British officers were penguins, the American revolutionaries were dogs. They were all getting together to celebrate Betsy Ross’s birthday, and she had decided to serve her special tea. (Betsy was played by Spotty, a beagle; I knew by then that I was a little too old to be referring to stuffed animals by their first names, but since I’d already given them their names when I was younger, I didn’t see how I could suddenly stop using them now.) The party started with utmost civility, with everyone speaking in very clipped British accents. But then King George spilled some of his tea onto Thomas Jefferson. TJ leaped up, yelling that he’d been burned. Other British soldiers, thinking they had to follow their king, started to pour their cups of tea on the colonists. Ben Franklin had tea poured in his eye, and Paul Revere’s tail was dunked in a very large (i.e., adult-size) teacup. Betsy Ross went off to cry in a corner—she hadn’t even had a chance to open her presents!—while George Washington (played by a terrier named Terry) charged in and started throwing tea back on the British. Since they were penguins, they were particularly scalded by this attack—and suddenly the whole tide of the revolution had turned.

  I thought I had the Boston Tea Party all pieced together…for about an hour, until I went back to my room and downloaded the night’s homework docs. There, the real story unfolded—the unfair tax on tea, the ship parking itself in Boston Harbor, the colonists meeting to protest, then sending a group of men under cover of night to throw all the tea overboard. The details were fantastic—how Samuel Adams and Paul Revere and the hundreds of other men darkened themselves with coal and dressed themselves as Mohicans before descending on the ship, and how a lot of them returned in their own boats the next morning to sink any of the tea that had been thrown overboard but hadn’t been ruined yet. Nobody died, nobody was hurt—the British didn’t even put up a fight. It was a great story.

  For our class project that week, I made an elaborate diorama of the Tea Party, decorating an old model ship with angry colonists and placing it in a shoe box. I bordered the outside of the box with tea bags that had colonial slogans written on them, like We’re brewing some trouble! and We’re Putting Your Tea on Ice! and We’re having a party and taxes aren’t invited! Ms. Coolidge was very impressed and explained how the Boston Tea Party worked in no small part because the women and men in America were willing to give up something they truly loved—tea—in order to make the point that they couldn’t be asked for money if they weren’t going to have any say in how their colony was run. Personally, I couldn’t understand what was so great about tea—I’d had some iced tea before, and unless you added a lot of sugar it tasted like sucking a tree. But I figured there weren’t that many other drinks to choose from in 1773, so maybe tea was more appealing then.

  For Halloween that year, I went as a member of the Boston Tea Party. Specifically, I went as Paul Revere—dressed as a Mohican, of course. My mother wouldn’t let me paint my face with coal (or anything else), but I did get to carry a plastic tomahawk. Instead of a candy bag, I carried a big plastic ship. Whenever someone gave me a piece of candy, I dumped a tea bag from the ship and left it on their porch. I’d written thank you on each one.

  I don’t know exactly when my obsession with the Boston Tea Party ebbed back into an interest, and then a vague curiosity. Probably some other historical event came along and displaced it. Still, I kept the diorama on a shelf in my closet. I didn’t even notice it there—it was as much a part of the room as the wallpaper or the stuffed animals that still perched on the top of my bookcase. One day Jimmy came over and pulled it out, studying the sepia-toned tea bags and the colonists’ dusty disguises.

  “What’s this?” he asked. So I told him about my obsession.

  “I love it,” he said when I was through. “The Boston Tea Party is so completely American.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “It’s enterprising, it’s protest, it’s righteous, and—most of all—it’s more than a little bit ridiculous.”

  My third-grade self was offended, so I spoke up and said, “It’s not ridiculous. It helped lead to our independence.”

  “Yes,” Jimmy said, putting the diorama back on the shelf and picking up my old baseball glove from next to it. “It definitely helped lead to our independence. But it was also ridiculous. I mean—you’ve seen paintings of Paul Revere, right? I’m sorry, but no amount of face paint was going to make him look like a Mohican. Or the rest of them. You have to ask yourself—what exactly were they thinking, dressing up like Mohicans and whooping their way down to the ships? I mean, do you think for a second that the British traders on the ships were fooled? If anything, they probably thought, Whoa—these Massachusetts men are a little crazy, thinkin’ they’re Indians. I’d better stay out of their way.”

  I had to admit that it did seem a little ridiculous. But that didn’t make it any less important or brave.

  I told Jimmy this, and told him how I still thought the Tea Party was a pretty great idea. We both wondered aloud what the modern-day equivalent of the Boston Tea Party would be. Refuse to pay the fuel tax until we stopped having wars to get more fuel? Hijack a satellite and start beaming the truth onto screens? It didn’t seem enough to go into the local chainmart and start throwing its inventory into the nearest river.

  “I wish there was a thing called the Stupid Tax,” Jimmy said, “which paid for all the stupid things our government does. We could just refuse to pay the Stupid Tax and let our money go to everything else.”

  “Yeah, but then what would we get to throw overboard?” I’d replied.

  Now, standing in the middle of hundreds of thousands of people in Topeka, Kansas, I realized that maybe I’d put a little too much emphasis on the overboard part. I’d always thought the most revolutionary acts of the Tea Party were the sneaking and the disguising and the hauling the crates of tea to the side of the ship and pushing them into the harbor. These were the dramatic points, the parts of the story that made it a good, lively story. But really, the true revolution happened away from the docks. It happened in that first meeting place, where the colonists got together and realized something had to be done. And before that, when the people decided they could go without the thing they loved as a matter of principle.

  Here I was, standing in the arms of someone I loved, having him whisper to me, Let’s throw some tea overboard. It was hard to imagine what Paul Revere would make of us—it was possible that he’d get on his horse as fast as he could and ride in the opposite direction. But I liked to think he’d under
stand exactly what we were doing. This time we weren’t going to wear a disguise, and we’d left our tomahawks and muskets at home. We were simply ourselves. Unmasked. Unarmed.

  Ready.

  “My fellow Americans,” a prominent senator cheered, “I present to you the next Vice President of the United States…Alice Martinez.”

  eighteen

  We all knew Alice Martinez’s story—her rise from poverty; her mixed heritage; her abusive ex-husband; her tenacity as the mayor of Jacksonville and her tenure as a senator from Florida. We were all familiar with Alice Martinez’s appearance—her straight black hair, always an inch north of her shoulders; the color of her skin, the white of her smile; the fierce intelligence of her eyes, which she refused to tone down even when consultants told her she was coming across as too smart, too unapproachable. But even if we’d heard her story and seen her face hundreds of times, there was still something electrifying about having her step onto the stage to address us directly. From where we were standing, I would have needed to zoom in two hundred percent in order to distinguish her from any of the other people standing on the stage. But still—it meant something to be sharing the same space with her, no matter how big. It meant something to share the same time and place, to know that even if she couldn’t look into each of our eyes, there was an energy to us that she could use—just as there was an energy in her that made us stand strong.

  She greeted us, then applauded us—the sound of her two hands clapping reverberated like a quick marching beat through the speakers strewn around us. Then she talked to us about the challenge of Kansas, and how the governor’s accusations were falling apart like a paper lie in an ocean of truth.

  “I’m telling you this: Our opponents are trying to play this game as it’s always been played—in the back rooms, in the darkness, while they try to make their power as absolute as possible, disregarding the will of the people. They spread lies and misinformation. They try to use time to their advantage. And mostly, by the power vested in them by their investments, they try to use money and intimidation against us.

  “Well, I will not be intimidated. I have been through enough in this life to know that you can’t just sit there and take it, no matter how scary it is to defend yourself. If they want to hide in the darkness, we are going to shine a light. You know how this works. Sometimes it feels like all you have is a single, small flashlight to fight back with. But that’s where others come in. One flashlight can’t take on such darkness. Two flashlights can’t. But imagine thousands of flashlights shining on the same place. Imagine millions of flashlights. Because that is what we are. Here, and at every state capitol in this nation. From Juneau and Honolulu to Tallahassee and Augusta, the warm, bright light of truth is streaming into Topeka, and there is no place for the makers of deceptions and untruths to hide. Our light will not falter, because it emanates from our conscience, and our sense of right, and our knowledge of what needs to be done. We will not waiver, we will not dim, and we will not turn away until justice is restored and this attempt to thwart an election is defeated.

  “I thank you for being here. And I thank you for staying here. It is now my pleasure to introduce the popularly and electorally elected next President of the United States of America…Abraham Stein!”

  How do you describe the sound of a million people cheering at once? It was as if the air became so saturated with our voices that we were breathing sound. If I’d taken every conversation I’d ever had—every cheer I’d ever raised—every song I’d ever heard—and played them all at once, it would have sounded something like the crescendo of goodwill that was now being released. As Stein walked onto the stage, we could not stop clapping, yelling, whooping. Gus put two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly. Virgil’s eyes grew teary. Janna and Mandy sang out. Sue hollered joyfully and Elwood ululated. Jimmy held me tighter and let me clap and cheer for both of us. It was something beyond a standing ovation—it was a living ovation.

  “I thank you all for coming here and joining me to stand up for truth, justice, and democracy. I am told there are now over a million of you here in Topeka, with more arriving even as I speak. There are four million more of you in front of the capitols of every state in this nation, and countless more watching this all over the United States and around the world. Your reaction has been swift, sincere, and strong. Your faith, like mine, remains resolute.

  “Whenever democracy is threatened, all of the beliefs and understandings behind it are also threatened. Whenever a truth is challenged, the value of all truths is challenged. Abraham Lincoln knew this. He knew that the Civil War tested whether our nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, could long endure. And in the Gettysburg Address he articulated the hope, the desire, the mission that brings us all here today: Government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

  “Let me repeat that again: Government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth. I stand here before you of the people, by the people, and for the people. I stand here not only to protect the votes of each and every one of you who voted for me, but also to protect the country of each and every one of you who didn’t. This election was decided beyond a doubt five days ago. Thus we must stand up against the people who want to create doubt, instill fear, and subvert our democratic process.

  “We will not be tricked. We will not be silenced. And we will not be moved. I will stay here until the truth prevails. I ask you, too, to keep protesting until this election comes to its full and fair conclusion. We do not ask, as Lincoln did, for a new birth of freedom. Instead, we ask for the preservation of the freedoms we have long held dear, and for the affirmation of a nation that offers its citizens fairness, kindness, and truth. Let us join together until this challenge has passed. And then let us stay together to celebrate the glory of life, liberty, and equality.”

  Everyone started cheering again, even louder than before.

  The chant started. Only part of the cheer at first, then—as more and more people caught on—becoming the cheer itself.

  “We will not be moved.

  We will not be moved.

  We will not be moved.”

  Stein, Martinez, and their families were all onstage now, saying the words along with us. On our screens, we could see other people across the country saying it, too. It was like the power of prayer, hearing everyone say the same words at the same time and giving them the weight of meaning.

  “We will not be moved.”

  I had no idea how long it would take. I had no idea how it would work. But I knew instantly that I would stay until the very end. I would stay until truth prevailed.

  Jimmy’s voice was right next to mine. I wanted to kiss him, so I did. To add to the thereness of the moment. To say we would not be moved.

  nineteen

  Eventually, the chanting stopped. Eventually, a group of folk-singers and soul singers took the stage, starting with “This Land Is Your Land” and pulling us through a medley that emphasized the patriotism we all felt, the patriotism of freedom. Eventually, particles of the crowd began their own retreat. The rest of us started to think about settling in.

  I don’t think anybody in our group had thought about staying beyond the rally. We were unprepared for Stein’s request. The governor of Kansas, however, wasn’t as surprised. No more than ten minutes after our chanting had stopped, he announced that the crowd had to disperse, since the permit to be on public land had expired when the rally ended.

  Stein’s response: “We’re staying.”

  The governor’s response to that: “I’ll send in the cops.”

  To which Stein said: “Just be sure you arrest me first. We’ll be sure there are lots and lots and lots of cameras around so the world can see it.”

  Picturing this (and no doubt consulting with his party strategists), the governor backed down. He was already feeling enough heat as election officials undermined his claims. Throwing Stein in jail would be the
stupidest thing he could do.

  So that obstacle was overcome.

  Stein had been prepared, too. Hundreds of toilet cubes were brought to the park. Hotel rooms were procured for the sick and the elderly. Food distribution began.

  And then there was the green.

  During the rally, I’d seen them here or there—green flags and green banners, wordless and bright. As the sun dipped into the horizon, more of them started to appear, glowing in the dark. Vigilant in their vigil. Keeping watch over us all.

  I didn’t know who was handing them out until a kid came over to us with an armful, weighed down but proudly marching around, letting us take as many as we wanted for the night and possible days ahead.

  As Virgil gathered us around, the sky still had some remnants of light in it, and the green material had yet to fully illuminate itself.

  “A decision has to be made,” he said. “You’re all going to have to be honest with me, since we’re in new territory here. None of you signed on to this for as long as it takes—you all were expecting to be home late tomorrow or, at the very latest, early Tuesday. Some of you have school. Others of you have jobs. Some of you have just joined us and may have places you need to be. We only have one bus, so we have to make this decision very carefully. We don’t know how long this will go or what’s going to happen. For all we know, the President might send in the National Guard tomorrow to get us all out of here. Or some of the Decent locals might take it in their own heads to make us leave. We have sleeping bags and some food in the bus, but we don’t have showers or that many toilets or any of what you’d call the creature comforts. We’re not going to be partying like it’s 1999—this is serious business. And if any one of you needs or wants to go, then we’ll head back home and protest in Trenton instead. Now, what are people thinking?”