Apple Juice Activism
The other day I was reading an article about the 20th anniversary of the Challenger space shuttle disaster when I saw another headline that Alaska had resumed aerial wolf hunts.
The last time I recall both items being in the news, I was in third grade. My teacher, Mr. Boone, was the sort of fellow who gave John Denver a run for his hayseed money, but he was kind and dreamy and kept all sorts of animals in the classroom. He also offered us the option of skipping the social hell of lunchtime in favor of allowing us to eat our pbj's (or pbp's in my case) in the classroom while he strummed ‘70s singer-songwriter standards by JD, Cat Stevens and…um, Shel Silverstein.
As an adult, I question the prestige of playing guitar to a captive audience of budding primary school misfits/misanthropes, but hey, we dug it.
So, word got around that Alaska was killing wolves by air and being that our roll call roster included crunchy granola-munchers christened Trinity (3), Chastity (2), Smiley, Breezy, Karma and Abba, we circulated a petition and wrote letters to the governor of Alaska.
In my letter I invoked a mockery of the dewy-eyed tourist ditty at the time. Sadly, like so much chalk dust, time has erased the lyrics illustrating my scathingly brilliant young wit. However, I do still remember the words to the original:
Ahem.
Alaska is the story/That my father told/Of swift rivers running/With salmon and gold/Alaska is so many things/I have never known/Alaska is the warming sun/Calling me home/Alaaaaaskaaaaaaa
We felt like our efforts made some difference when the state bowed to public pressure and ceased shooting wolves from airplanes.
Three years later I would rail against injustice of another sort: Fashion blunders.
This Moment of Activism™ occurred in a different city, but the glow of victory against the mean ol' puppykillers lingered on.
My school’s dress code required that students wear socks with their Flojos (sort of like a rubbery Jesus sandal.) Oddly enough, thongs were kosher without socks but not Flojos.
Back then I wasn't exactly a bastion of fashion, (though I did have something of a juvenile New Wave thing going with lots of black and white and painstakingly checkered fingernails) but the combination of sock-and-sandal was enough to offend the sensibilities of even the most tender fashionista. Besides, it was California. It was hot. Sandals were supposed to keep you cool. The socks looked bad and completely thwarted any notion of podiatric ventilation.
Steeled by a round of dinner table encouragement from the family, I circulated a petition through all six grades and presented it to the principal while he was eating lunch in the teacher’s lounge. My friends and I then retreated outside to await the decision.
Word came in the form of the bewildered principal’s secretary exiting the lounge and seeing the hushed, assembled throng.
She informed us that our princi-pal took one look at our efforts and tossed it in the trash.
“It’s policy” she shrugged and said, averting her eyes from our dejected, cherubic faces.
Several months later we exacted our revenge by sabotaging the school's talent show through the cunning use of Def Leppard's Pour Some Sugar on Me.
The first boyfriend of my sixth grade year was the one-armed drummer. I was the keyboardist. (The second boyfriend of my sixth grade year was so wowed by my performance that he promptly began wooing me later that day. Ah, cover band groupies...)
I know there wasn't a keyboardist, silly.
There also weren't back-up dancers--But there should have been.
Def Leppard coulda been stars, if only they’d had back-up dancers.
Currently spinning:
The Pipettes ~ Dirty Mind
The last time I recall both items being in the news, I was in third grade. My teacher, Mr. Boone, was the sort of fellow who gave John Denver a run for his hayseed money, but he was kind and dreamy and kept all sorts of animals in the classroom. He also offered us the option of skipping the social hell of lunchtime in favor of allowing us to eat our pbj's (or pbp's in my case) in the classroom while he strummed ‘70s singer-songwriter standards by JD, Cat Stevens and…um, Shel Silverstein.
As an adult, I question the prestige of playing guitar to a captive audience of budding primary school misfits/misanthropes, but hey, we dug it.
So, word got around that Alaska was killing wolves by air and being that our roll call roster included crunchy granola-munchers christened Trinity (3), Chastity (2), Smiley, Breezy, Karma and Abba, we circulated a petition and wrote letters to the governor of Alaska.
In my letter I invoked a mockery of the dewy-eyed tourist ditty at the time. Sadly, like so much chalk dust, time has erased the lyrics illustrating my scathingly brilliant young wit. However, I do still remember the words to the original:
Ahem.
Alaska is the story/That my father told/Of swift rivers running/With salmon and gold/Alaska is so many things/I have never known/Alaska is the warming sun/Calling me home/Alaaaaaskaaaaaaa
We felt like our efforts made some difference when the state bowed to public pressure and ceased shooting wolves from airplanes.
Three years later I would rail against injustice of another sort: Fashion blunders.
This Moment of Activism™ occurred in a different city, but the glow of victory against the mean ol' puppykillers lingered on.
My school’s dress code required that students wear socks with their Flojos (sort of like a rubbery Jesus sandal.) Oddly enough, thongs were kosher without socks but not Flojos.
Back then I wasn't exactly a bastion of fashion, (though I did have something of a juvenile New Wave thing going with lots of black and white and painstakingly checkered fingernails) but the combination of sock-and-sandal was enough to offend the sensibilities of even the most tender fashionista. Besides, it was California. It was hot. Sandals were supposed to keep you cool. The socks looked bad and completely thwarted any notion of podiatric ventilation.
Steeled by a round of dinner table encouragement from the family, I circulated a petition through all six grades and presented it to the principal while he was eating lunch in the teacher’s lounge. My friends and I then retreated outside to await the decision.
Word came in the form of the bewildered principal’s secretary exiting the lounge and seeing the hushed, assembled throng.
She informed us that our princi-pal took one look at our efforts and tossed it in the trash.
“It’s policy” she shrugged and said, averting her eyes from our dejected, cherubic faces.
Several months later we exacted our revenge by sabotaging the school's talent show through the cunning use of Def Leppard's Pour Some Sugar on Me.
The first boyfriend of my sixth grade year was the one-armed drummer. I was the keyboardist. (The second boyfriend of my sixth grade year was so wowed by my performance that he promptly began wooing me later that day. Ah, cover band groupies...)
I know there wasn't a keyboardist, silly.
There also weren't back-up dancers--But there should have been.
Def Leppard coulda been stars, if only they’d had back-up dancers.
Currently spinning:
The Pipettes ~ Dirty Mind
posted by locus sigilli at 8:44 AM
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