Nights in Tents

Sitting in the balcony of the Michigan State Legislature had an allure all its own. Especially when compared to the hard work of trying to outrun CPD riot cops on bloody stumps and racking my junk on oversized bike bars. I’d returned to Pagan Place two months earlier, reeling from Occupy NATO and the combat zone-iness of it all. On my flight home, I once again vowed to find safer, easier ways to protest, that didn’t involve travel, tear gas, or tanks. Perhaps it might behoove me to become proficient at writing compelling letters to my elected representatives, from the warmth and comfort of my living room. For a full two weeks I happily immersed myself in domestic projects that may have bored me in the recent past. By the third week, I was gnashing my teeth and sitting on my hands trying to endure the silences that gave me so much time to ponder the great distance we had yet to cover before even coming close to achieving our goals. Unscrupulous lenders had blinked for a brief moment in time, but houses were still being plucked daily out from under desperate families. Big Oil, gas, and coal were still providing us with reams of nightly news footage featuring oil-soaked marine life, flaming faucets, and destroyed riparian ecosystems. Wall Street bankers and corporate CEOs were still reaping outrageous profits while labor unions got crushed under the pressure to accept takeaways in order to placate the “job givers.” And the country’s highest legislative body was still earning its nickname, the “Supreme Koch.”

I lay in bed at night, restless and heartbroken, dreaming of new ways to foment the revolution and restart the momentum we had in September, 2011. Right about that time, an interesting/infuriating story was making the rounds on the mainstream media. In a June session of the legislative House, Michigan Representative, democrat Lisa Brown had taken the floor to voice her opposition to HB5711, a republican-authored bill that would essentially make the cost of abortion prohibitive by imposing so many new regulations on providers, they could no longer practice the procedure. In her concluding remarks she said, “I’m flattered you’re all so interested in my vagina, but no means no.” White, male, republican speaker of the house, Jase Bolger had been so inflamed by her indecorous utterance of the “V” word, that he had exploded into a fit of gavel pounding, declaring Ms. Brown to be “out of order,” whereupon he informed her that she was no longer allowed to speak. The wave of indignation that ensued washed like a tsunami over the bodies and minds of women nationwide, resulting in five thousand angry Lisa Brown supporters descending, like hornets, on the state capitol steps to rebuke the offending men. Though Americans are notorious for their short attention spans, I vowed to attempt to revive the conversation about the “War on Women,” by theatrically disrupting the next legislative session on July 18. To that end, I began working my social network to see if there was any interest in helping me put together a demonstration in Lansing, Michigan for the reconvening of the state Legislature on July 18. A Washington State woman named Diane Jhueck answered the call, which got the ball rolling for a direct action I dubbed, “Twattergate.” To prepare for any eventuality, I procured a used, king-sized bedsheet, which I converted into a giant banner, emblazoned with the enigmatic blood red message, VAGINAS ARE REVOLTING. Diane, who predicted the need, created a website for the occasion, whose address she suggested I paint on the bottom of the sign. Before long we had carved out a plan to assemble a small choir in the balcony of the legislative chamber, which would leap to its feet when the signal was given and erupt into a loud song and dance routine. Our aim was to infuriate and embarrass Speaker of the House Jase Bolger, along with the bill’s author, Bruce Rendon and their other republican colleagues, whom we saw as arrogant, controlling, and out of line, in the censure of Representatives Brown and Byrum. Our choir consisted of ten women from the Lansing area, as well as one man, (our lone Vagangsta), who were all set to launch into the song, “Vagina Yeah Yeah Yeah,” which I had written to the tune of the Beatles song, “She Loves You.” The lyrics were:

Vagina yeah yeah yeah, vagina yeah, yeah yeah, vagina yeah yeah yeah yeah

We think you lost your mind, when you told her what she couldn’t say

It’s her we’re thinking of—it’s why we came to sing today

She said vagina—and you know that can’t be bad

She said vagina—and you know you should be glad—oooh

Vagina yeah yeah yeah, vagina yeah yeah yeah

With a rep like that you know you should be glad

You good ole’ boys are through and you can’t push us around

‘Cause you may have the floor but we’ve got Lisa Brown

She said vagina—and you know that can’t be bad

She said vagina—and you know you should be glad—wooo

CHORUS

We think that you’re absurd, and we think you ought to know

If you can’t say the word, then we think you ought to go

She said vagina—and you know that can’t be bad

She said vagina—and you know you should be glad—wooo

I recruited my friend, PunkBoy, to accompany me to Michigan and livestream the day’s festivities, so that others around the nation could watch our antics. The rehearsal we scheduled the night before went well so we met up the next day on the steps of the Capitol Building for the real thing. Several speeches were already scheduled to take place prior to the beginning of the session, which we hoped would inspire us to deliver a flawless performance. Coincidentally, an antifracking rally was also taking place there at the same time, which I threw myself wholeheartedly into before our special serenade. The leader of the group of sign waving “fracktivists,” gave a sobering description of the frightening consequences that came with hydraulic fracturing of shale gases buried deep beneath the earth’s surface. A cluster of moms, calling themselves “lactivists” held their babies to their bosoms to nurse, while standing next to signs bringing attention to the hostility they felt when trying to breastfeed in public. Planned Parenthood had a booth surrounded by employees and patrons who passed out flyers and engaged in conversation with others. Next up was Representative Barb Byrum, who spoke compellingly about the raw deal women get when men take control of their health care and reproductive rights. I conspicuously displayed my, “Vaginas Are Revolting,” bedsheet, twenty feet in front of her while she spoke, which guaranteed its inclusion on the local nightly newscast. As her speech wound to a close she bade us accompany her to Bolger’s office to deliver the 115,000 signatures she’d gathered from her constituency, demanding an apology from the Michigan Speaker of the House. PunkBoy and I positioned ourselves toward the front of the pack so we could witness, firsthand, his reaction upon receiving the package. Ms. Byrum swung the door open wide to admit us, as a startled aide named Ari, swallowed a gasp and backed into a corner of the office. His mouth remained open as Representative Byrum asked the receptionist if the Speaker was available. “No, I’m sorry, he was called away,” she replied, patronizingly, through the plastic smile glued on her face.

“Is there any chance you could get ahold of him to talk with us?” asked Byrum.

Barb then turned to face us, shrugged her shoulders, and said, “Well, I guess Mr. Bolger is too busy for us today.”

“There you have it,” concluded the Rep. So … thank you all so much for coming, and there’s probably room in the chamber for some of you to sit in on the session if you like.”

PunkBoy and I turned to exit the office, elbowing each other gleefully about the good fortune to have an invitation to the session. We turned to our choir, who comprised a large portion of the audience, and beckoned them to accompany us up to the balcony. We sat in nervous silence as roll was called, followed by a prayer, which raised eyebrows within our ranks. The prayer leader asked us all to bow our heads in silence, as he prayed to the Lord God for wisdom and guidance in performing his legislative duties. “So much for the separation of church and state,” I whispered to PB. “Right,” he agreed, fixing his camera on the scene. The wooden oak bench seats were far from crowded as I scanned our environs for signs of future trouble. A pasty-faced, plump white guy stood in his security guard uniform, with his head bowed next to the entrance behind me on the right. On my left was a handful of cherubic teens, who were sitting together in their Sunday best, in close proximity to some of our members. After the prayer ended, the man at the podium gestured upward to direct the room’s attention to the young people beside us, who, he reported, had been selected to attend the session as a reward for having distinguished themselves in an interstate choral competition.

“Maybe they wanna sing with us,” joked PunkBoy under his breath, as we sat poised for our big debut. An appreciative silence fell over the room as the legislators took time for us to reflect on the kids’ achievements. I spotted Lisa Brown looking radiant in a pink blouse and paisley skirt that gave me the courage to proceed. Nervous grins were still frozen on the youngsters’ faces when we seized the moment. “One, two, three …Vagina yeah yeah yeah.” Our voices carried well, enhanced by the natural reverb the aged wood afforded us. All heads in the room whipped around to stare in astonishment at the spectacle. My breathing became labored with the exertion of projecting my vocals, coupled with the extreme energy expenditure of executing the wild gesticulations that accompanied my singing. They were all contributing factors that served to take their toll on my flagging stamina. After the second chorus I glared imploringly at the security guard, who, by that time was doubled over in hysterics, wiping tears from the corner of his eye. I criticized myself, roundly, for not being in better physical shape, as I tried to will the amused employee to draw his gun and shoot me dead, rather than force me to continue the exhausting performance to its conclusion. The guard’s giggling turned to snorting guffaws as he pounded the balcony railing, struggling to straighten himself up and catch his breath. His unexpected reaction, combined with our animated delivery, created a party atmosphere, which prompted some representatives to go as far as to clap when we finished, while many of the older white men greeted our outburst with shaking heads and scowls of disapproval. Spent, I collapsed onto the bench, waiting in vain for the expulsion that never came.

After resting for a while, we silently communicated with hand signals, and rose as a team to meet outside. Once on the Capitol lawn, we hugged one another and doled out congratulations to each other for our bravery. None of us had expected to get through the whole song, uninterrupted, which contributed to the general merriment we felt. One excited Vaginista pulled me to her and gushed, “Gosh Laura, that was a blast. I had so much fun with you today, and I meant to bring this up to you earlier, but did you ever notice how the phrase, ‘Vaginas are Revolting,’ could maybe be misconstrued by some people.” Her quizzical expression contained not even the slightest hint of playfulness, as it dawned on me that the intentional irony of the double entendre had completely evaded her, so I hid my incredulity and tried to say nothing that would make her feel foolish. Hugs were exchanged before going our separate ways to tell the story to our friends and families. PunkBoy and I drove our rental car back to the nearby home of Yvonne LeFave, who’d graciously volunteered to host us during our stay in Lansing. We tossed back a few beers as she listened, with laughter in her eyes, to our sordid tale. “I just can’t believe Jase didn’t whip out his gavel and pound us out of there,” marveled PunkBoy.

“Me neither,” I concurred. “But he still doesn’t get it. Maybe we should find out where he lives and take our banner to his house tomorrow.”

PunkBoy nodded his approval for the deliciously juvenile prank, and the next day we embarked on our journey to the Speaker’s home on 216 Mansion Street, in the neighboring town of Marshall, Michigan. At first I tried to drape the unwieldy cloth over a bush, but a stiff breeze kept dislodging it from its moorings. There were cars in the driveway, which made us both nervous, and the large picture windows in the living room were adorned with lacy curtains, that appeared to part occasionally as we mulled over our options.

“How about you hang it between the columns on the front porch,” PunkBoy suggested, impishly.

“I don’t know … his neighbors are probably all watching us, and tons of cars are going by. I bet you anything we’re about to get busted,” I worried.

Steeling myself to the risks, I hopped up onto the deck and secured the sheet onto the perfectly spaced supports on the porch. I paused briefly to capture the image on my iphone along with the declaration, “My name is Laura Love, and I just tied that banner [pointing] to Speaker of the House, Jase Bolger,’s actual house! I did that! Vaginas are Revolting! Expect us.” Pleased with myself, I darted back into the driver’s seat of the car, where PunkBoy sat filming the hijinks. “Jeez, whaddya have to do to get arrested in this town!” I squealed mirthfully as we peeled out of the space.