I am here today, on this inauguration day, to express opposition to the swearing in of Donald J. Trump. I have tremendous respect for the Office of the President, but it mystified me how a presidential candidate could have the audacity to mock Serge Kovaleski, the New York Times journalist, at a rally. It was shameful, appalling and something that should not be tolerated in 2017.
I am a person with a disability. Trump doesn't understand that disparaging people with disabilities in a public arena resuscitates the stereotype that people who have disabilities are worthless and should not be an active part of our society.
In October, I pondered the following question: would Trump acknowledge me if we were in the same room. I am so different, I am so mystifying to him that he would do everything in his power to get out of the same room I was in. But he doesn't understand we are all created as equals; we all have brains to think and rationalize; we all have eyes to see and perceive; and we all have hearts to love and embrace our differences.
Thank you.”
“Hi Maureen, Have you ever been arrested for doing civil disobedience?” Lewis began in his e-mail to me, dated January 2, 2017.
It only took me 26 minutes to respond. “It’s on my Bucket List to get arrested, Lewis! J” Twenty-six minutes. It just took 26 minutes to agree to be arrested for civil disobedience. Was I crazy? Maybe a little.
I knew I had a hunger to do an act of civil obedience during the years of 2008 and 2012 when the economy was going in a tailspin, and once this happens, states put funding for people with disabilities on the chopping block first. We had rallies at the Rhode Island State House, but I wanted to take it one step further and chain myself to the State House doors. It would have made a bold statement.
Like most Americans, I witnessed, on a daily basis, the spectacle, which was the 2016 Election Year. While, as a family, we were dealing with the decline of our father’s health, the country was witnessing the decline of our country’s civility. These two sad realms consumed my days.
In the beginning, I supported Bernie Sanders. I fed off his invincible energy and supported all his ideas and policies. He was a champion for all Americans, the oppressed and of course, people with disabilities. I voted for Sanders in the Primary because he was the better choice and I felt like he could win the General Election over the Republican Candidate whoever it might have been.
Like most Democrats, from the first time I saw Donald Trump descend down the escalator in Trump Tower to announce his candidacy for president, I believed he was going to be a flash in the pan, fizzling out in weeks. That wasn't the case. The more he spewed insults and disparaged multiple minority groups, the more I expected Trump going down in flames. That didn't happen. When he criticized Senator John McCain for being captured and ‘not a war hero’, I thought he was finished. His popularity rose. When Trump very publically and physically mocked the New York Times reporter, Serge Kovaleski’s disability, I was disgusted down to my core and was all but sure Trump would crash and burn. He survived the many outcries that he didn't have any compassion. When Access Hollywood released Trump’s hot mic 2005 conversation with Billy Bush in which he bragged about the ease he had in luring in women and grabbing their private parts whenever he pleased, I thought that was his ruin. It was not. The Teflon Don rose again.
On July 19, 2016, the Republican Party officially nominated Trump for president. Hillary Clinton would be the Democratic nominee. I threw all my support behind Hillary. Even though Hillary had issues with being viewed as trustworthy, I knew she had years of experience in politics. Trump policies were nonexistent from day one. On the evening of November 8, 2016, eating black bean and bacon soup, and drinking my Kim Crawford white wine, I was glued to NBC’s 2016 Election results. By 9 o’clock, out of wine, I knew it was going to be a long night. By 1:30am on November 9, I was feeling very anxious and I had to turn my television off. I turned it back on seven hours later and realized Hillary and the Democratic Party didn't engineer last second Hail Mary. It was President-elect Teflon Don for the win.
Our father passed away three days before Christmas. His funeral took place on December 30, and we laid him to rest on January 6 at the Massachusetts National Cemetery in Bourne. Dad was a Sargent in the United States Army during the Korean War. I was presented with his burial flag. I was in the most sacred places our country had designated for men and women who fought for our freedom.
After Lewis’ request for me to join the Inauguration Day demonstration, he e-mailed me a number of articles about acts of civil disobedience, past and present day. It was a crash course in civil disobedience. I was very familiar with the Civil Rights Movement and what Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. accomplished during the 1950’s and 1960’s. Lewis sent me an article about the Alabama chapter of the NAACP officials and supporters who staged a number of sit-ins at the mobile offices of Jeff Sessions, Trump’s nominee for Attorney General. A number of protesters were arrested. Civil obedience was alive and kicking in America.
On January 16, so fittingly, Martin Luther King Jr. Day, I rode up to Millis to meet with Lewis to really understand what was going to happen on Friday. My friend, Melanie, was with me, as my friend and as my personal care attendant. Lewis had us come into the back building, where a fire was burning in the stone fireplace. Oh how I loved this space. A grand, wooden table took up a good portion of the small building. It was the same table I sat at to humbly receive the Courage of Conscience Award for Disability Rights in November 2015. Previous recipients of this award included Mother Theresa, Maya Angelou, Muhammad Ali, Mikhail Gorbachv, Jackson Browne, Sting and Trudie Styler to name a few.
Situated on table was the Peace Chain. It was used for a number of demonstrations in the past, and Lewis was calling upon it again. Its length is 18 feet long in twelve sections. Thread-locking metal hooks held all the sections together. It was heavy, but everlasting. The chain would be the legacy to all the people who stood and held it in the name of peace and unbreakable good in the universe.
Attached to each section was a laminated card, which each grievance was printed on it. With the 12 sections of chain, 12 grievances hung. The grievances with the incoming Trump Administration were: civility, gun violence, xenophobia, women, nuclear, religion, immigration, health, capitalism, animals, climate and disabilities. Lewis would begin reading the grievance of civility, and I would read the grievance on disabilities last.
Also upon the table was a two-foot by two-foot sign, showing a photo of Serge Kovaleski on the right, and the disgusting image of Trump physically mocking Serge’s disability, with the caption, “Tell me how this makes America great again?” Perfect.
Soon, Lewis would attach the end of the 18-foot Peace Chain to my left wrist with a handcuff. Well, this is different, and uncomfortable. Athetosis had run through my body my entire life. With the handcuff on, my left wrist was manic with athetosis. I tried to keep my wrist as still as possible. Lewis turned on YouTube on the television over the fireplace, showing me a number of video clips. Father Daniel Berrigan was a Jesuit priest, and became an anti-war activist during the 1960’s. He also became Lewis’ mentor and long time friend until his death last April. I could see the abundant gratitude in Lewis’ gaze he had for Berrigan. Both men set out to make the world a more fair and just place, to have people see beyond our physical and religious differences, and recognize people are created equal. Peace and love should reign.
Before heading over to the Peace Memorial in Sherborn, Lewis had a chance to ask Melanie if I was prepared to go through with being arrested and what attention I may get afterwards. Melanie had known me for 15 years and she assured Lewis I was more than ready for what would transpire on Friday.
We followed Lewis to the Peace Memorial ten minutes away. Lewis parked his green Mini Cooper on the grass in front of the Memorial; we pulled up behind him. I had been to the Memorial a handful of times before, in particular, on December 4, 2015, when the Life Experience School had a prayer vigil for the victims of the San Bernardino shootings. Lewis asked if I prepare a speech. I did. I ended my speech with, “Human life is so precious.”
The Peace Memorial holds the values of many pacifists that people can change the world without violence, without guns, without bombs. Many people coming together, peacefully, for common cause can achieve change. A 9-foot bronze statue of Mahatma Gandhi, perched upon a three foot high brick pier welcomes visitors into the outdoor memorial. It’s all about peace, love and understanding here, people.
Here, we practiced our demonstration. Lewis zip-tied the first chain section to Gandhi’s wrist. One by one, he connected all the chains. With the twelfth section in place, Lewis threaded the chain through and around my arm restraint on my wheelchair to lessen the weight upon my wrist. It was better. On Lewis’ direction, I drove my wheelchair towards North Main Street, but far from the edge. I understood the procedure; I was primed for Friday.
With three days until Inauguration Day, my last task was to shorten my grievance speech to 200 words, a seemingly easy thing to accomplish, but it was difficult. I didn't want to lose any potency behind it. It took me about three hours to where I was happy with what I had written. I transferred my written words to my iPad, so they could be heard out loud on Friday.
On Thursday afternoon, I received a few more e-mails from Lewis. Somehow the stars aligned because he secured a filmmaker from Boston to shadow my every move on Friday. Soon I was receiving e-mail from Thorsten Trimpop, the filmmaker. Thorsten Trimpop (Trimpop. I just loved that name. Trimpop.) He asked to drive to my house the next morning and ride up with us to Sherborn. I agreed and supplied him with the information he needed. I informed Hazel, another friend and personal care attendant. Ironically, after the general election, Hazel asked me what day of the week Inauguration Day fell on. I answered, “Friday.” Hazel and I assumed it would be a normal Friday, going to the nursing home and visiting my Dad. Occasionally, time changes everything.
Inauguration Day 2017 arrived. Some reveled for this day, while others feared it. I awoke at 7 am. Hazel would be coming in at 8 to get me up. I turned on the Today Show and listened to the talking heads give their views. Hazel stopped at McDonald’s to get us Egg McMuffins to eat for breakfast, figuring lunch wouldn't happen. We were ready by 9:40 am; everyone had eaten breakfast, including my Chocolate Lab, Rees. We waited for Thorsten to arrive; ten minutes he parked his black Audi out front. Thorsten, tall and thin, with curly, dark hair, reminded me of a filmmaker. I couldn't quite pinpoint his pronounced European accent but I believed it was Swedish. He introduced himself and was a very genuine guy. Hazel and I asked him how he wanted to proceed, and he was off to grab his equipment from his car. Time was getting close to 10 am and we had to get on the road to Sherborn. We met him outside and Hazel helped him equip me with a wireless microphone. Soon, we were on the road.
The previous night, I tried to envision what the hour ride would be like with a filmmaker in my back seat. Did Thorsten plan to ask me questions? Did he expect me to talk about what was going through my head? All that was going through my head was if I was giving him adequate material to film. The car radio wasn't on, so I didn't worry about being filmed very poorly. Thorsten was silently filming.
We reached Sherborn by 11:15 am. There were already people gathering at the Peace Memorial. The sky was overcast and the temperature was hovering around 40 without wind. I couldn't complain. Lewis had everything set up; the Peace Chain sections were all lined up in order on one of the brick dedication walls adjacent to the Gandhi statue. A stationary pole with the American flag stood tall to remind us all why we were there. As time passed, more and more gathered. The only concern I had was driving over the plastic tarps Lewis put on the ground to keep our wheels clean on our way to the street. I knew what kind of havoc my wheelchair could bring to area rugs. I just wanted to make it to the street when the time came. Hazel brought my concern to Lewis and I rolled over the tarp while he and Hazel stepped on it. Potential problem adverted.
Time to do some mingling. I could see the Sherborn Police gathering off to the left, mobilizing. The Chief entered the Memorial and was meeting and shaking people’s hands. I approached and Lewis introduced me to him. I’m one of the ones you’ll be arresting in a little while. He was very nice. I knew Lewis had very intensive conversations with the Sherborn Police in the last month; they knew exactly what was going to transpire. I don't know if we were throwing a wrench into their day or making it interesting. Whatever it was, no doubt, it would be an unconventional day.
Hazel and I were so overjoyed when our friend, Barbara, appeared on the scene. Barbara, a fellow Rhode Islander and a very outspoken American, came to pledge her support behind the message we were trying to convey. Not five minutes later, I was floored and overjoyed to see my cousin from Indiana there. Jim and his significant other, Jane, were in Boston to visit his daughter, Molly, and her family. Hugs all around. My mind went straight to the love I had for my uncle, Jim’s father, Francis. He must have been looking down upon me from Heaven, cheering, “Go Mo! Go Mo!” Unfortunately Jim, Jane and Molly couldn't stay to witness my imminent arrest due to family duties. They would be with me in spirit.
Melanie wasn't going to miss this for the world. She helped me prepare and she knew what was at the heart of the matter. Her friend, Diane, wasn't going to miss this either. High fives for all.
The clock tolled noon. President-elect Trump was being sworn in as the 45th President of the United States five hundred miles to the south. The beginning of twelve grievances started to be read. Lewis began the chain with civility, and with each reading of a grievance, the Peace Chain grew longer and longer. Everyone held their Smartphones high in the air, recording every moment. I raised my seat up to get a better view. Later I wouldn't go unnoticed.
It was my turn to speak, I noticed I had to start the speech from the beginning, I only had on shot—I had to do it right. I hope people heard it.
Lewis looped the end of the 18-foot Peace Chain twice through my arm restraint; he handcuffed the chain on my left wrist; the wristband I bought for this very purpose was protecting my wrist. I waited for the signal from Lewis to begin to move to the side of the street. Lewis placed the poster on the top of my feet. Lewis and other people stepped on the tarp as I rolled on it. I waited for the others to move into position on the side of the street. When Lewis gave the sign, we rolled or stepped into the street six feet.
A double line of Sherborn Police Officers was four feet in front of us. One spoke up: “this is your first warning to step back out of the street. If you don't comply, you will be arrested.” I remained. Three others remained. It was planned. The same officer spoke. “This is your last warning to step back out of the street. If you don't comply, you will be arrested.” All four of us remained in place. Swiftly, Lewis Randa, Courtland Woods, and William Holcombe were escorted to police cars. One police officer took off the Peace Chain and handcuff from my wrist. I remained in the street until I saw this white, tall van pull up in front of me. They brought in the brand new Ford Transit Mid Roof Handicap Accessible Wheelchair Van to transport me. This must be my ride. The original plan was for a police officer to escort me, in my MV-1, to the Sherborn Police Station while Hazel drove. Somewhere along the lines that idea was scraped.
As police officers opened the back doors, I watched the wheelchair lift unfold and come down. I drove my wheelchair in front of the lift. A female officer tried to push my wheelchair onto the ramp. They didn't understand I had total control of my wheelchair; they didn't know in order to relinquish my control, they would have to disengage it from drive mode. I remained in control. Then the cheers and the chants started—all for me, all for my bravery, all for the unprecedented stand I was taking against mocking people with disabilities. Hearing the cheers was very humbling and moving.
I drove onto the lift, obeying the officers’ requests. As I looked upward, I suddenly realized my seat was still elevated to its highest position. I might have figured I would to duck my head, but then I noticed I had plenty of headroom. I was quite impressed with the Sherborn police officer’s knowledge and capabilities in using the tie-downs, and finding the hooks on my wheelchair to secure me safely. As people were still cheering, I lowered my seat back down.
The short drive to the Sherborn Police Station was uneventful. The female officer drove the transit van around the back of the Sherborn Police Station, and backed up toward the intake entrance. It was my expectation I would be taken inside for booking, but I remained in the van. I was the anomaly in this situation: I was in a power wheelchair, I was semi non-verbal, and I had this weird contraption on my head—my headpointer. Talk about a dangerous weapon.
All my senses were taking everything in, especially my sight and hearing. My innate nature was to be patient, and rightly so, I had to be patient on this day. I didn't know how long this process would take. The male officer asked me if I had my ID on me; I shook my head no. I knew exactly where it was—in my car with Hazel. I might need to rethink where I kept my ID. The male officer continued to ask me if I needed anything, or if I was warm enough. I didn't need anything, again, my nature. I listened to the two officers chat just outside the side entrance to the van. They mentioned he and his fellow officers had a training just that morning how to look upon people with disabilities. I was impressed with these officers.
A handful of times, other Sherborn officers came to check on the officers and me; the plan was after they obtained my information, I would be transferred to Framingham District Court to be arraigned. Another officer entered the van in the hopes he could procure some personal information from me, but being semi non-verbal, it would have been a challenge to so without being creative. I knew how to be creative, but he did not. I had my headpointer on—a definite advantage. All I needed was the alphabet written on a piece of paper. Then I realized the female officer had an iPhone. I had the conductive, fabric tip on my headpointer to operate my iPad. Let me use your iPhone. I didn't dare to try to convey I wanted access to her iPhone; I didn't want to be sent to a psychiatric hospital. Time to rethink my communication options for rare instances such as this.
It probably had been over 30 minutes before Hazel and Thorsten arrived or were allowed to see me. Hazel was my bridge to communicate with the officers. Thorsten was allowed to film, standing outside of the van. Hazel was allowed inside and she removed my headpointer and the wireless microphone Thorsten had me put on that morning.
The officer who had attempted to procure my personal information 15 minutes beforehand, returned. With Hazel’s assistance, I answered all his pertinent questions: my address, my phone number, etc. Then came those standard questions police ask people recently in custody. Lewis told me about these questions: Have I ever been arrested before? Have I ever been suicidal, or recently considered suicide? Have I consumed alcohol or illicit drugs in the last 24 hours? Have I experienced a recent loss/death? This last question threw me for a split second, and the only question I answered ‘yes’ to. I took a step back to do a quick gut check of my thought processes were in check and I wasn't doing this over my father’s passing nearly a month prior. I knew my pure motivation for choosing to be arrested lied with my overwhelming opposition to Donald Trump’s presidency.
Once the officer concluded his questioning, everyone exited the van and the side door was left ajar to keep the heat in. Thorsten asked the officers if he could ride along in the police transport van. They said no. Hazel asked if they could follow the transport van to Framingham. Again, the answer was no. The officers gave Hazel the address to the courthouse; I had my GPS in my MV-1.
Chatter began among the officers that Courtland “Courty” Woods would ride along in the jump seat beside me. About ten minutes later, two other officers escorted out and helped him up into the van. Courty was ambulatory but also had cerebral palsy. Getting into the van, he seemed unsteady on his feet but the officers kept him safe. The male officer who had been with me since my arrest put the seatbelt around Courty; he was secure, and handcuffed. I felt guilty Courty was handcuffed and I wasn't. Soon, the female officer climbed into the driver’s seat, and the male officer, in the passenger seat. Finally, we were on the move! We were on our way to Framingham District Court.
The outside scenes passing by were filtered by the black, open diamond-shape metal mesh covered most of interior of the back, making everything blurry. Courty asked me how I was doing. I responded I was doing okay. I asked him I was doing. Courty replied he was good. This wasn't Courty’s first “rodeo”; he had been arrested before, as I understood it. In 2000, Lewis and a few of his Life Experience School students protested the Massachusetts legislators to change the name of “Massachusetts Department of Mental Retardation” to something more appropriate, abolishing the R-word. Ten years later, Massachusetts changed the name to “Department of Developmental Services”, making Massachusetts one of the last states to do so.
About halfway through the 15-minute drive, Courty started to wince and whimper with annoying pain. The handcuffs were digging into him somehow. Not knowing Courty, I had no idea what his tolerance for pain might be. I felt horrible he was in some sort of pain, and I didn't have handcuffs on at all. I prayed it wouldn’t be too much longer until we reached our next destination. Courty spoke out and voiced his discomfort with the handcuffs. The male officer assured Courty we would be arriving at the courthouse within five minutes. Courty politely thanked the officer. The officer responded with, “You’re welcome.” Hang on Big Guy, hang on.
I listened carefully to the female officer discussing with someone on her cell which entrance to drop us off. When we arrived, she parked outside of the building, where cars were passing by on the right. The officers escorted Courty out first. It was
then I saw his handcuffs had a center extension on them. I felt better. The male officer came back and released me from the seatbelt and the tie-downs. I was in control again. He said it was okay to back up on the lift. I obeyed. The male Sherborn officer then informed me that I was the most cooperative detainee he has ever had. I chuckled. Yeah, “cooperative” is my middle name. Going down on the lift, the male officer was giving the female officer pointers how to operate the lift safely. Backing off the lift, I saw other officers ready to take us in. I followed the “crowd” to the entrance Courty was being brought into by two different officers. I must have startled one or two of them because I was moving, unassisted. My designated courthouse officer quickly grabbed on my wheelchair push bars and attempted to direct me. If I stopped controlling my wheelchair, the officers would had one hell of a time trying to figure out how to disengage my wheelchair out of drive mode. Frankly, I wasn't one hundred percent sure how to do it either, if I could tell them. I drove my wheelchair into the building.
I followed my assigned officer to the elevator nearby. I watched him press the call button; the doors opened and he directed me in. He pressed the button designated “B”. ‘B’ was probably for basement.
“Do you speak English?” asked the officer.
I nodded, “Yes.” But my English is far different sounding. He asked if my interpreter was here. My interpreter? Now, that’s a different title for Hazel. I nodded, “Yes.” Was I speaking Klingon?
The elevator doors opened in front of me. The officer grabbed the push handles and attempted to push my wheelchair forward. I was in control. The basement reminded me of concrete corridors in a school, mustard yellow and gray. It was tough to know where the officer wanted me to go because he was behind my wheelchair. Soon, he realized that trying to direct my wheelchair was futile, so he walked in front of me, moving obstacles out of my way, walking backwards, and signaling me with his hands to follow him. I obeyed, taking in all that surrounded me. There was door opening ahead, hustling and bustling with more officers, their command center, which I entered. The officer directed me to the left. There were two occupied detention cells, with battleship gray steel doors, and concrete block walls. There was a corner outside of the cells that the officer wanted me to park. If I was going to lose my fortitude, it would have happened right there and then. But I did not break. I obeyed the officer and backed up into the corner. Beside me, on the concrete block wall, was a handrail with shackles attached, just in case they had an overcrowding of detainees, I concluded. I was sure the officer was going to attach my wheelchair to a shackle but he did not. I checked on my fortitude again. It was intact even though my heart rate increased some beats per minute. I was constantly checking out my surroundings. It was pretty warm in the detention area as I felt my cheeks get flush.
I was in full view of the command center, with many eyes upon me. Looking across to the opposite side, I saw Lewis and Bill removing their shoes. Officers placed them in a cell, and Lewis was waving to me like he just entered a bouncy house. I might have smiled but I did not share his exuberance in that moment in time. Soon after, some officers and who I assumed to be a detainee liaison officer, entered the small area I was in. One of the officers unlocked the cell door three feet across from me. I watched all of them enter the cell to prepare to take the detainee somewhere else. My heart rate increased a bit more. I had to put faith in the officers, and in God, that I was safe were I sat. My fortitude didn't crumble into a million pieces. I carefully listened to what was being said to the detainee. The liaison officer asked him if he had to pee. The detainee was calm through this process. The three officers led him out without incident. I closed my eyes and breathed again.
Not more than two minutes passed and I was escorted out through a small, L-shaped room and back into the corridor I entered from. Hazel, my “interpreter”, was seated in a chair, as a woman was looking over my paperwork. They were expediting my process. I never thought I would love the word, ‘expedite’ so much as I did on this day. The woman wanted some clarification that I understood what was going on. Hazel explained I had all my wits about me, but my speech was difficult to understand for strangers. The woman began with confirming all my information. She followed up with explaining the process. I would go in front of the judge. Since my offense was disturbing the peace, it didn't warrant me to have a court-appointed attorney. I would plead guilty. It was really a pain in the ass not to have my wallet or my signature stamp on my person. I had Hazel sign the police papers so I could move onto the last phase of this process. With the paper signed, my assigned officer escorted Hazel and me up to the courtroom.
The officer was impressed how I could turn 180 degrees in the tiny elevator. He asked Hazel how long had she been working with me. Thirteen years, she answered. This day definitely stood out among the rest. No one can ever say working with me isn't an adventure.
The elevator doors opened up, and the officer escorted us into the courtroom. It was a bright and open space. I could breathe easily then. The officer had me park my wheelchair next to a bench; Hazel sat down beside me. I didn't notice the officer sat several rows behind us until Hazel pointed out that fact a few minutes later. Where the hell was I going to go? I took in everything in the courtroom: the light wood, panel walls, the square, mission-style, pendant lights, the scattered people within the courtroom.
There were more people working in the courtroom than people waiting to go in front of the judge. Light chatter between the two attorneys and the magistrate could be heard. The court reporter joined in the conversation as well. Two young people entered the courtroom and sat against the outer wall. Spectators? They were college students observing. I overheard the magistrate talking to the students. He explained that 85% of the cases the court sees every day are people who have some type of mental illness. I was aware of this sobering and sad fact. My mind went straight to what former Congressman Patrick Kennedy was trying to achieve presently—awareness and the movement to stop the stigma of mental illness. Something needs to change.
It was a little past 3 o’clock when the magistrate called me up. More concerned about driving towards the right side of the front section of the courtroom, I neglected to notice the judge’s entrance. Judge Jennifer Stark took her position on the bench. When I looked up again, I saw a striking woman with model facial features. I put her age around 40. New at this kind of thing, I drove passed the microphone and had to back up about two feet. Hazel, my “interpreter”, assisted Judge Stark to understand my clumsy speech.
Judge Stark presented the charges. “You have been charged with disturbing the peace.”
Totally guilty. “Yes,” I replied.
“Are you responsible for these charges?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, she said,” Hazel stated.
“I will decriminalized these charges, and order you to pay $150 in fees to the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.”
Yikes!
“When can you pay the fines?” asked Stark.
I fumbled for my answer. “Today,” I answered. Hazel interpreted. I was dismissed, and free. I exited the courtroom without a police escort.
Hazel and I found Thorsten in the hallway. He explained he couldn't bring his camera into the courtroom. As Hazel went to see if she could settle my fees in the office nearby, Thorsten sat on the bench, as we tried to take in all that happened on this day. I got arrested. Yeah, never thought I would do that. Hazel returned and said my paperwork wasn't ready.
Pretty soon Courty emerged from the courtroom in a standard, manual wheelchair. My assumption was the officers thought it might have been safer for him. About ten minutes later, Lewis bounded off the elevator with uninterrupted energy, carrying his brown bag of his possessions. He sat next to Thorsten and began to recap the day. He informed us, with slight humor in his voice, that Courty was nearly held in contempt of court for going off about our newly sworn in president.
“Courty was inches away from spending the night in jail, but he reeled himself back in,” Lewis said.
I was sorry I missed that.
I had no idea where Courty or Bill were as Hazel tried, and tried again to pay my court fees. Note to self: if I ever get arrested again, send me the bill for the court fees in the mail. They didn't have my paperwork yet. Paying the court fees probably took the longest thing to do in the process. It was a damn good thing that Hazel, Thorsten and I didn't leave, because Lewis, Courty nor Bill had transportation back to Sherborn. Did someone overlook this seemingly important step?
Hazel convinced this very nice woman in the payment office to charge my credit card $150 without my paperwork. I squeezed myself into the office to try to speed things along. Finally, the fees were paid!
We all met downstairs where the police brought Courty and me in. I was convinced it wasn't the designated intake entrance for other detainees, probably because it was the only wheelchair accessible entrance. The cool air felt great. Hazel went and got my MV-1. I got in first, and then the four men arranged themselves comfortably on the bench seat. We were a lively bunch as we drove away from the courthouse and headed back to the scene of our crime. Lewis immediately was checking Google to see if the Internet was blowing up with stories about our arrests. MetroWest Daily West and the Dover Sherborn Press covered the story and it was running in affiliate newspapers throughout Boston and beyond we later learned.
Lewis fed Hazel directions on how to Sherborn. Nobody seemed to be ravished from missing food or liquids; we were all still running on adrenaline. I knew once I reached my house, my stomach would beg for food and liquids, and my bladder would be looking for relief. I was fine—all of us were fine.
As we drove, Lewis and Bill started to ask Thorsten about himself, where he was from and where he worked. Thorsten is a native of Germany. Currently he taught at MIT, under a fellowship in the film department. Cool! His latest film, Furusato, is a documentary about a small town in Japan’s nuclear exclusion zone. On and off, Thorsten spent five years filming in this small town where some residents refused to leave. Very brave indeed. He had already won film awards for his documentaries. I never understood why film documentaries weren't more accessible to the general public. It seems nuts to me. Listening to Lewis, Bill and Thorsten’s conversations, I suddenly realized that the events of this day could have influences throughout the world, either a year, or one hundred years from now.
We got back to Memorial Park. The Peace Chain was gone, only a solitary laminated grievance tag remained, tossed to the side of the road by the police officer who arrested me. It said, "Disabilities". Thorsten wanted to shoot some footage of the empty grounds where people, with a shared vision, once stood in protested on January 20, 2017.
I felt it was my duty, as an American, to be arrested. I wanted to take a stand to show my disgust for the reprehensible act of our new president mocking the New York Times journalist, Serge Kovaleski. By mocking Serge, our new president disregarded all people who have disabilities as somehow lesser to people without disabilities. I couldn't let that go. Whether people have a disability or not, we are all created equal. We have come too far for a president of the United States to strip all our progress away from us over a juvenile act of mocking a person with disability. It can't happen ever again.