Showing our Stuff

Students at Park City High discovered first hand what it really means to have the right to free speech when they swarmed the stage Sunday to counter to hateful messages of the Westboro Baptist Church. It felt like a party as everyone showed up, with laughter, chatting, and just a playful mood in the air. While the WBC chanted behind us, we held up signs ranging from the peaceful to the comedic and just nonsensical. And it felt really good. The whole spectrum of students came, from jocks to hippies to preppies, and everyone sang and chanted together, everything form "Defense" to "Hey Jude." We were a team, a community, and it felt very empowering to show it to the world. Cars honked as they drove by, and the sound got drowned out in the ensuing screams and whistles. Under the bright sun we felt like we had made a difference, stood up for something we cared about. The WBC left, heads hanging, but nobody cared. We had drowned out a hateful group with our own light-heartedness, we could see the gears of democracy and free speech turning undereath our feet. The world was ours during that hour.

Then came protest number two. From the start it felt different. The sun was down, it was cold outside. The WBC was back in full force, but half the students had gone home, getting ready for school the next day. The lines for the Sundance films were twice as large now, but we didn't have any support from the cars driving by this time. As we gathered, frosty breath hanging in the air, the mood could not have been more different. There was anger this time, on both sides of the picket lines. Gone were the feelings of playfullness. We were still comrades, but comrades in arms now. We found our ranks swollen with strangers, other festival goers who had come to join, but also to change our protest. This crowd was angry, fired up. Maybe because the different demographics, maybe because the church had dared come back, maybe simply because it was cold out, but this time the blood ran hot. We were facing the protester's this time, giving them all our attention. The signs had swung from playful to aggressive, as had the chants and shouts. The director marched out, followed by a media mob, bright, harsh lights flashing, starkly illuminating the scene. This was when it began to get scary. While nothing happened, the feeling was very definately that of a pre-battle, of a pysch up before the charge. People started pacing, waving the signs wildly, yelling, a frothing mouth would not have seemed out of place. Finally the church left and the protest ended, but the students who attended both got the full lesson: both the power and the responsibility of free speech. We had done something wonderful, something powerful, and we had very nearly lost control of it.