By Benjamin J. Toff

Like so many other students and activists, workers and professionals, I went to New York for the Republican National Convention. I went as a concerned citizen to protest the policies of a political party whose divisive and reckless platform troubles me deeply. And although it was invigorating to participate directly in a democratic process which has become so stilted and stale, I came away from New York with a restless unease about the ability of individuals to effect change in this day and age.

The protests began on an incredibly uplifting note. On Sunday I marched to Madison Square Garden alongside 500,000 people in a procession that lasted hours into the afternoon. The march was entirely peaceful—with the exception of the giant paper dragon that went up in flames. We were united in our rising frustration with the Bush administration and our genuine fear of the consequences of its actions. There was nothing but hope and enthusiasm in the eyes of everyone I saw. Even the police officers lining the streets were exceptionally calm and relaxed (at least that day). It seemed impossible that the Republicans could arrive in New York and delude themselves into believing they were in any sense welcome. The eyes of the world were upon us. And for that fleeting moment Sunday, it felt as though we might actually change the world.

It didn’t take long for my optimism to fade. On Tuesday, the Republican rhetoric took a sharp turn toward the sanctimonious. Former New York Mayor Rudolph Guliani exclaimed in his speech, “Thank God that George Bush is our president.” My jaw dropped when he insisted that Bush’s reelection was somehow intimately tied to properly remembering the thousands who perished three years ago: “We owe that much and more to the loved ones and heroes that we lost on September 11,” he said.

It wasn’t so much the callous way the Republican Party exploited the city of New York as an emotional backdrop for political gain that disturbed me. It wasn’t so much Sen. Zell Miller’s angry proclamation that to dissent from President Bush in this time of war is tantamount to treason that bothered me. It wasn’t even the smilingly dishonest way Bush rewrote his past three years to relate a satisfying portrait of resolute strength and triumph that was upsetting. It was that the Republicans were so damn good at it. The 500,000 of us who had taken to the streets that week could never and would never match the power of the Bush administration’s public relations staff.

On Wednesday of convention week, my friends and I stumbled upon an RNC photo-op at a small park in Chinatown. Republican delegates were working alongside local residents to “clean up” the park, which had been closed temporarily in the aftermath of the Sept. 11 tragedy. They were almost outnumbered by members of the media eager to photograph and report on the morning’s pseudo-event. The “clean up,” as far as we could observe, was a farce, consisting mostly of sweeping and raking the handful of leaves that had gathered and clumped in the grass over the summer.

Still, as part of the G.O.P.’s efforts to showcase their compassionate side, it was a useful spectacle. No matter how silly and insincere it appeared, the photo-op also effectively combined message propagation with real action. Sure, the usefulness of the “clean-up” was probably miniscule, but ultimately there was some positive action at its core. They were helping to clean up a park. And that was more than we could say about ourselves as protesters.

What did we have to show for our week of shouting and marching? We had performed no valuable public service. Marching was too easy; the police and the protests’ sponsors did most of the work anyhow, blocking traffic and setting up the routes. The obvious planning that had gone into these organized events wore on their symbolism. We protestors were apparently not angry enough to match the rowdiness of our Vietnam-era counterparts. Meanwhile, what spontaneous disturbances did crop up often served to alienate voters. Collectively, it was quite possible that we hadn’t convinced a single person to vote any differently.

No. In truth, these protests were not really about convincing people—and they never had been. They were about affirming our own frustrations far more than they had ever been about persuading anyone else to think differently. And that’s okay.

A former teacher recently sent me a Native American short story called “The Return.” It’s about a man who leaves his village for years, only to return and find that the warmth and sharing and openness of his old home has been replaced with jealousy, greed and distrust. In desperation, he wanders the town shouting and asking what has happened to his village. But the people do not hear him. They dismiss him as a crazy old man; children taunt him.

After twenty years, one day a young man approaches him and asks why he bothers to keep shouting: “Can’t you see that nothing has changed. The people still lie and cheat and steal and hate, and for all your shouting and all your tears, you have accomplished nothing.”

The old man replies, “I do not shout my message to change this world. I shout my message so that this world will not change me.”

In that sense, the protests in New York were an unqualified success. I think all of us who went are glad we did and feel strongly that we needed to go as a matter of personal conscience. Years from now, we want to be able to look back and say to our children that when we saw so many things going wrong in our country, we weren’t afraid to speak up.

Still, I can’t help but feel a tinge of sadness and ambivalence. When so many hundreds of thousands of people converged in one place with one common purpose, there ought to have been more to show for it in the end, not just the election of a new president. All the energy we brought to New York could have been—should have been—harnessed for some concrete service in the world.

Instead, I feel conflicted—glad to have protested but mindful that our means of speaking out no longer has a significant impact on the public dialogue. It’s a worry that will likely linger long past November.

Benjamin J. Toff ’05, a social studies concentrator in Winthrop House, is editorial chair of The Crimson.