The Power We Have
Its eerily quiet in the eye of the storm. At least, thatās what I thought this grey Thursday morning, as I entered the polling station to be greeted by two friendly ladies and an empty community hall, scattered with Hot-Yoga leaflets and the throat-catching scent of 100 year old dust. It felt the same last time. It felt the same the time before that. Months of drunken debate and 1am declarations of uncertain certainty. Weeks of abandoned tweets for fear of post-tweet tweet regret. Days of shaking off the creeping sense of doom by loudly exclaiming āthe youth could swing it. They mightā.
But they might not.
I have grown unhappily familiar with that all consuming feeling of defeatism. I feel it every time I turn on the news and listen to them talk about a divided country I never voted for. A government that doesnāt reflect my values. As long as I have had the privilege of voting, the vote has never gone the way I voted. I like to think I have built my views around my beliefs. Iām not reductive enough to think they arenāt likely influenced by the friends I surround myself with. The music I listen to (The 1975ās āLove It If We Made Itā battle cry hasnāt left my soul for months) and then the algorithms my Facebook feels appropriate to brain wash me with. I try to step away from it, distance myself emotionally so it doesnāt consume me or leave me dry sobbing into tomorrowās copy of the Guardian.
But then I remember why itās so rooted in us to care.
But then I remember why we always should.
I listened to Bob Dylan on my 3 minute walk to the polling station this morning. I listened to him āsingā (does he sing? Or does he just make you listen?) that the Times They Are aāChanging. Those drawly words echoed through me, almost 50 years later. Timeless, he blew some wind (*rolls drums quietly) carrying hope into my morning. When the youth wanted change in the 60ās, it started with Rock and Roll in the 50ās. And there wasnāt Facebook back then. No funny yet mildly aggressive memes to get your point across. No. They had music. They had words. And because of them and their vision of a different world, their music and their words and their protest created that change.
So, Bob Dylanās song gave me hope.
Then, I refreshed my Facebook feed. In between folk posting pictures outside their polling station with their flat whites awkwardly placed in the frame (is this a political statement? Iām confused) and the BBC Political Correspondent telling me at 9am Labours chances were screwed (is this allowed? I donāt think so Laura) was a photo of a woman who also demanded change. Emmeline Pankhurst. I studied the Suffragettes at GCSE. My history teacher was sure I was bound for imminent failure (feel a bit silly for chasing me down the corridor for that coursework now, Mr Jackson?). What no one at the time realised (or cared about.. probably) was I had engrossed myself in the Womenās Suffrage. Maybe because, as a woman, they donāt tell you what it means to be a woman until youāve grown the boobs and made the mistakes. 15 is quite old, to know that until 100 years ago, you were āless than manā. I wanted to be an actRESS. I was a waitRESS. How are we to know where that āessā derives from unless you know to look for it? I looked for it. I read everything I could find and I gave Peter Jackson the shock of his life with an A* in the bag (brag). I read more because I felt it. I understood it somewhere in my soul. Those little things in everyday life that are engrained in society to make women have to work harder to get further made sense. So I respected Emmeline Pankhurst. Commended Emily Davison for throwing herself under the Kings Horse and decided I would always vote. And I always did. Because they died and fought and suffered so that we could.
So that Facebook picture gave me courage.
And then I cast my vote. I crossed a box and smiled at the lady at the table as it slipped into the mix. I thought about all of the different stories that lead to those crosses. I felt the doom wash away, because in one way, at least for today, it was over. As I walked out I crossed paths with someone else, her brow furrowed and determined and a Morrisonās bag stretched precariously around her groceries. Iāll never know what change she wants. But then, isnāt that what we will all always have in common? We all want something to change.
I sat on the bus, everywhere I looked newspapers covering faces. Headlines damning both sides and moguls biases barely disguised with new-age propaganda. Itās so hard not to be angry. The power these people have to change all of our minds. The power to manipulate and manoeuvre and Murdoch your way to the highest high castle. I looked at my phone and refreshed my feed again. A video Iāve watched 1,000 times, demanded be played at far to many parties and the first time I saw it; ugly cried to alone in a mouldy flat above a McDonalds in Liverpool. For the one thousand and first time, I pressed play.
āYou, the people have the power - the power to create machines. The power to create happiness! You, the people, have the power to make this life free and beautiful, to make this life a wonderful adventure. Then - in the name of democracy - let us use that power - let us all unite. Let us fight for a new world - a decent world that will give men a chance to work - that will give youth a future and old age a security.ā ā Charlie Chaplin
When we tick that box, in that booth, in those community halls, we have the exact same amount of power as those men in high castles. In that moment alone, nothing separates us. And it absolutely terrifies them.
So, Charlie Chaplin gave me power. Well, he didnāt give me it. Just reminded me we have it. We. The people.













