"That's right, Nazi boy!" (I remark that the Greek chorus-like chanting of "Peaceful Protest" at around 2:37 by the hitherto silent and unseen female attendees of the event reminds me of an insight garnered recently from an astute blogger on the web, whose name unfortunately escapes me, that the chanting of these words, so routine in such circumstances, is in no way meant as an attempt to pacify the crowd, but rather as a hypnotic exhortation to the media and to viewers of the video as to how they are to report the event).
Last spring, when we were still in the early stages of the Presidential primaries, and when Red and I still lived in Portland, she had the idea of scheduling an evening out in conjunction with a visit to a book signing for author whom she had read, and who had just then released a new nonfiction book about building a successful business as an entrepreneur.
At the time Donald Trump had won his first primaries, but he was considered mostly still an object of humor more than a serious threat to win the nomination by most in the media. Nevertheless there already had been an ugly incident in a building at Portland State in which a meeting of Trump supporters in a classroom had been violently interrupted by a Leftists who could not abide such a thing transpiring on "their" campus.
The book signing, for which advance tickets were required, was to be held on the premises of an apparel boutique in downtown Portland, the character of which might be easily described by that adjective trendy, which everyone seems to recognize in meaning but which elusive to the point that few have ever nailed down a permanent definition.
We arrived ahead of the schedule time waited but a few minutes in the line outside on the dark rain-soaked sidewalk in order to have our tickets scanned, which allowed us to enter. The ample crowd was already visible inside through the large glass windows of the apparel boutique. I didn't relish the idea of spending time squeezed into the awkward space, but I was up for the challenge.
I didn't know the author, and thus would not have recognized him. Red pointed him out to me, easily locatable by the attendees around his personage in the corner of the shop next to the booth where the alcoholic refreshments (one free glass of wine per event ticket) was to be dispensed. The dispensation of this liquid commodity had not yet commenced as well, since such things are choreographed in conjunction with the author's speech in a formula well time-tested through the recent eras of Internet promotions. The female bartender was just still setting up for her task, and was forced to repeat the same disappointing announcement to thirsty attendees every twenty seconds or so.
While waiting for the events to begin, and having nothing else to do within the claustrophobic space of the boutique, we chose to peruse the wares on sale, which consisted in a large part of a line of proprietary shirts, caps, and accessories, all of them dark in hue and many emblazoned with words in the same brazen sans-serif typeface declaring the owner of the item to be any one of various categories of social justice warrior, e.g FEMINIST.
Red picked up a cap with this last word across the front and held it up to me. "Just what you need," she said, in a playful neutral tone that concealed the slyness of the inside joke to me.
Her success at the neutralness of her delivery was evinced by the immediate injection into our conversation from a young black woman next to us whose eagerness gave evidence of her being the proprietress of the owner or perhaps even the designer of the clothing line.
"Yes, it would look great on you" she said, with that blend of purely capitalistic sales alacrity and leftist feel-goodness which is the lifeblood of the New Portland. "It's a popular item."
I even tried it on for a moment. Red got a big kick out of seeing it on my head. But I decided to pass on buying it.
After the wine was finally dispersed, we quickly sidled up to get our share of the refreshment in the form of one plastic glass each. Knowing full well of my tendency towards clumsiness in such situations, especially within a crowded shop, and wishing in no way to be the cause of an incident in which the liquid in the glasses were to come into contact with the precious items within the shop, I directed Red to stand with me in the corner where my arms might be free of random jostling.
It was not long before others of similar introverted nature found themselves in the same corner of the shop, in a quiet eddy amidst in the noise, and we engaged in pleasant conversation with a few of them as they came and went.
Among the people we spoke with was a young white woman, apparently just out of college. She asked what we did for a living, and we gave our replies.
"I write software," I said with over-earnest eagerness, which of course prompted no follow-up interest on her part.
"I'm a naturopathic physician," said Red, which of course prompted several subsequent questions from the young woman.
When it came time for her to respond in kind, she described her work as being the coordinator of a government-funded program to re-bio-engineer the landscape of local businesses for better resource usage using crews consisting primarily of Somali immigrants.
I remarked how matter-of-factly this description rolled out of her mouth. There was not a hint of boasting about the prestige of such an occupation on the scale of social justice. She said it was if everyone else in the world had a similar job, or at least everyone she knew.
It was a pleasant evening, all in all. We eventually got our signed books and heard the author speak for a few moments, although we bailed fairly quickly to keep our dinner reservations, and to escape the crowd.
But before we left, as we still stood in the corner sipping our wine, I remarked in a low whisper to Red that I wondered what the reaction would be among those to whom we spoke, if I were to casually announce that I was a Donald Trump supporter.
As I have mentioned, Trump was still far from the nomination, but Red agreed with me that the conservation would take a sudden chilly turn.
I opined that were to have mentioned such a thing to woman who attempted to get me to buy the FEMINIST hat, that it might well play out like this: she would turn silent and walk away, and then a few moments later I would be accosted by a hitherto unseen large burly male who would quietly tell me, "Sir, you are making people here uncomfortable. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
Thinking about this event from the ancient days of a year ago, and watching the video above (taken at the Portland Airport just two days ago) makes me wistful for that old Portland, now vanished into the pages of history. It was so civil back then.
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