Open-Mindedness Stored in a Jar

I live near the birthplace, or so it is claimed, of the Free Speech Movement. At first I was exhilarated to learn that such a place existed. I imagined what it must be like—friendly, open people everywhere who valued inquiry, and who were intelligent enough to deeply analyze ideas based on history’s great insights and writings, and, yes, even on mathematical truths. I imagined the constant buzz of conversation that was rich, learned, deep, patient and civil. However, upon my first visit, I noticed that the proper way to act in the Land of Free Speech was to carry signs and raise one’s voice to astounding levels even if classes were in session. Thus, being rightly educated in the ways of free speech, I often mused about the signs that I would carry, the slogans that I would write, and the many anesthetized minds that I would awaken. I lingered on that last one …wow … all those poor, misled fellow citizens to save. Yes, yes, people should awaken to the truth, and free speech as practiced in the Land of Free Speech would be the way to do it. Of course I knew that many of the people that I wanted to reach with my messages of truth would be at work, but they shouldn’t be. They should stop being so productive, realize how their minds were numbed, and come to listen to me. Yes, then their lives would surely change for the better. Oh, how they would change…(creepy, dream-like music heard playing in the background).

While still fantasizing about how my debut in the bright lights of the protest stage would go, I began to hear low rumblings from afar. Could they possibly be coming from the Land of Free Speech? Rumors had it that a conservative newspaper had been stolen and burned. How could this be happening in the Land of Free Speech? A college lecturer had requested in his course description that conservative minds need not apply. Hmmm, perhaps protesting is not the path to glory that I had thought it would be? Doubt began to creep into my mind. Perhaps I had better watch what I say? No, no, surely things were not, could not be this way. Surely there was no censorship in the Land of Free Speech?! The next day, I happened to meet someone visiting my town from the Land of Free Speech, and they proceeded to tell stories about the stupidity of others, but of the greatness of themselves. Doubt grew. The next day I decided to visit again this Land, and I saw the Learned Students harass a poor working man because he could not figure out their bill fast enough. I heard the Anointed Instructors mocking people like me. I began to be afraid. I hid the cross on my necklace from their critical gazes. A person could not speak freely here. A person’s thoughts were not allowed here. If I carried my placards with their lovely bright paint, I would surely be set upon and all of my hard work would be ripped up. If I spoke, bullhorns would silence me—me, an ordinary citizen who had sought the Land of Free Speech but had stumbled across open-mindedness locked in a jar—transparently revealing and ultimately shattering.