Town Meeting

Our neighborhood borders the campus of an abandoned school for troubled teens, and the town negotiated to buy the land from the state and wants to proceed with a proposal to build a sprawling apartment complex. This is a terrible idea for a variety of practical reasons, but politicians and developers can be a slippery bunch, and they are basically unstoppable when they smell money. Last night, we went to a community meeting to discuss the proposed project.

The meeting was rife with characters, Sam, my spouse, among them, with his bedhead, baggy shorts, and novelty T-shirt. I was less flashy, a boho suburban lady in canvas slip-ons and an Indian-print blouse. We were surrounded by men who looked like Rick Moranis and elderly women in hats. The developers seemed cheerful, like executioners you can’t blame or take personally because they just really love their job and the millisecond they are done with this meeting, they are off to the bar next to the Residence Inn to get hammered.

This, I thought, is the state of grassroots democracy. A sham. We express our complaints and concerns on notecards; our questions are answered by non-answers. The shadows have been running things in the shadows.  

It got me thinking about being present at the meeting, and how it didn’t really matter, but this morning, I woke thinking it does matter, even when it doesn’t make a difference.

You go into it knowing your voice is small, your influence non-existent. Money talks, the ship has already sailed, and you are wasting your time. You could be home watching Jeopardy! in your sweatpants, next to your dog. The auditorium will be either too hot or too cold, your seat too hard, and people are going to annoy you. But what matters at all is knowing all of this, still, you show up.