I live in an idyllic little town on a lake with a charming shopping area that calls itself “the historic gaslight district.” Vintage street lamps, that are actually electrified, line the streets and welcome townies and tourists alike. A charming backdrop to the March 4 Trump rally on March 4, 2017.
It was below freezing last Saturday, but a hardy group of local progressives turned out in opposition to the Trump supporters who set up camp on a busy downtown intersection. The atmosphere was upbeat, on our side, and not surprisingly, angry and bitter across the street. “Get a Job!” they chanted. Puzzled, we looked at each other, mostly retirees and high school students, and wondered what is that all about? Finally, someone clarified that they thought we were paid protesters. Their anger continued to mount when they chanted “USA! USA!” and we responded with…wait for it…”USA! USA!” Waving a “Don’t Tread on Me” flag, a protester shouted, “Where’s your veterans?” Many hands went up on our side. Frustrated, he shouted, “Lock her up!” At that point, many of us just had to chuckle and stopped to enjoy free pizzas delivered by a local pizzeria (you know who you are…we’ll all be frequenting your place in the future). As I enjoyed the cheesy goodness, I chatted with a lady who said she had never thought of protesting or becoming political until Trump took office. She has since joined the Indivisible Chapter in her congressional district and started a postcard writing campaign to her congressman and senators. One of the high school students told me she is motivated by the recent news that the Trump administration reversed protections for transgender students to use the bathroom that corresponds to their gender identity. Her brother is transgender. She waved a rainbow flag and told me she was too young to vote last November, but she can’t wait to vote “this guy out of office.”
Cars and trucks drove past both groups and I think we got an equal share of thumbs up and middle fingers for each side. One car got so involved with honking and fist pumping that he ran a red light and was promptly pursued by a police cruiser that had been parked just behind the pro-Trump group. Shortly after that, a fire truck left the fire station, which was literally just around the corner from us, and rounded the corner, lights flashing, sirens blaring. We waved to the fire truck as it passed us and watched in utter amazement as the driver gave us “the bird.” “Did that guy just flip us off?” the high schooler said. Glancing around me, several people nodded in agreement. Ten minutes later, both sides packed up their signs and flags and headed home. As I walked to my car, parked near the fire station, we talked about the fire truck incident. I decided I’d write a note to the local Public Safety department and let them know what we witnessed. Not expecting a response, I was surprised to receive a detailed reply on Sunday afternoon. Here is a portion of the email:
“After receiving your e-mail I had a conversation about the accusation with the Officer who was on Station Duty at the time of the incident. He stated that as he approached the intersection the officer noted the traffic light was green but there was heavy traffic in all lanes of travel. As he neared the intersection he stated he took his right hand off the steering wheel and reached up to the ceiling for the air horn cable and pulled the cable down to activate the air horn as he was entering the intersection. After activating the air horn he said he put his right hand back on the steering wheel and continued west bound. The officer stated that at no time did he divert his concentration from the safe operation of the fire apparatus in an emergency response to waive or gesture in any way to the protesters that were lining both sides of the intersection.”
He concluded his email with an invitation to me to tour the fire station and “get an up close look at the equipment.” Wow! Haven’t been that excited since I went on a field trip to the Volunteer Fire Department in second grade!
But I digress. Upon reading the email again, it occurred to me that I’d just been gaslighted. I was being told to question what I (and others) had seen. Was my memory fuzzy? No. It wasn’t.
I’d been gaslighted in the gaslight district.