Lately, I wear my protest like a badge.
I wear it on my jean jacket, on my light winter coat and on my thick down coat. Sometimes I wear it doubly so that when I remove one layer, I am still protesting.
I wear it during daylight and when it’s dark.
I wear it to the gym, to the office, and to order coffee.
I wear it when I play music.
In November, I wore it alongside my poppy.
And Christmas shopping in December.
People either glance at it or they don’t. There are double takes, quick looks, aversion.
I have worn it out and about my neighbourhood: visiting clients, walking the dogs, doing errands.
I put it on knowing it is controversial. Knowing the majority disagrees.
Mindful of my discomfort, I push the marble down my throat and swallow it.
Only one other person out here wears the anti-Loi 21 pin. Unlike me, he is fearless.
Only one person out here has asked me about its significance. She, a 94 year old Auschwitz survivor.
Out here in suburbia, protest is a lonely affair. It is complacent. It is indifferent. It is silent.