My professor is a socialist. I’m pretty sure. Every time I leave my history class, I’m disillusioned. With what? With capitalism! With the US foreign policy! With our political system! With… with… I don’t even know!
Last class he asked why there weren’t more protests in Winnipeg, as if there should be protests, as if what we’d learned was certainly more than enough reason to stage a revolt against our government. And some 20 students stared back at him. Some twenty students with neat haircuts, designer clothes and manicured nails.
Why wouldn’t I join a protest?
- First, I’d have to organize it. And that would mean, I’d need a reason.
- A bad feeling about foreign economic policy doesn’t make for a good slogan. For a good slogan, you need to be mad.
- I’m pretty easy going.
- Bringing Marie-Hélène would probably be ill-advised. We’re quite attached… When she’s with her Papa at Grandmama’s and she sees a picture of me, she cries. When I’m not there, they torture her like that… “Even when she cries, she’s so cute” they say.
- What would I wear?
Obviously, that last point disqualifies me. I’m a hopeless case.