On showing up…

I almost didn’t go.

There is always a reason not to go. The dishes. The weather. The certainty that someone more qualified will speak.

I’d been following the story for weeks. Cambridge, Ontario city council was moving to reverse a tax related to the ION light rail. It was a decision I felt was wrong and even anti-democratic, and more than that, felt it was a step backward for a city I love and chose.

I was frustrated in the way you talk to every person you run into and make sure you aren’t the only one. Frustrated enough to write a letter to the editor of our local online news. But frustration at home, on my couch, in my head, is one thing. Walking into a council chamber and saying it out loud is another.

In the past I haven’t done this. Maybe in Texas I was too afraid to, being seen and loud there felt dangerous. I also carry just enough imposter syndrome and politeness to second-guess myself a lot. And maybe I sometimes wonder if making noise is really my place.

But I read the agenda. I read it again. I drafted something. I rewrote it. I signed up. They gave me five minutes. So I went.

The nerves were real. There’s something about the formality of it; the dais, the name placards, the microphones. It makes you feel like you’ve wandered into a room where everyone else knows the rules. I didn’t know the rules. I just knew what I wanted to say.

I sat a few rows back. The chairs that expected beige of civic spaces. The air a little cold. The faint hum of lights. Someone coughs. Someone whispers, “What item are we on?,” papers shuffling.

As I sat there listening to all the other items on the agenda. Hearing people I only knew by name before, even people I expected to disagree with, well it was evident they are just people too. Sitting there in their chairs, shuffling their papers, occasionally checking their phones like the rest of us.

And the ones whose positions had frustrated me from a distance, they weren’t scary. They were local. They cared passionately about our town. They were tired. They made points on different topics I even agreed with.

I found myself, more than once, nodding. Not at everything. But at more than I expected. Someone I’d written off entirely said something about council pay that I couldn’t argue with. My disagreement on other topics didn’t disappear, but it did feel more complicated, which is probably closer to the truth for all people. It is much easier to argue with a caricature than with a tired person trying their best, who also loves this town.

When my turn came I walked to the microphone and read what I’d prepared. My voice wasn’t as steady as I’d hoped it would be. But I talked about democratic process. About how reversing course now wasn’t just a policy question, it was a question about whether we respect the outcomes of the processes we say we believe in. Democracy doesn’t require unanimous agreement, I said. It requires respect for the outcome.

I retook my seat. Listened to more people share their thoughts on things in our town. Buildings going in, heritage concerns, driveway lengths, a long overdue revision to building permits. I watched councillors take votes, and professional staff bring expertise.

Online, it is easy to believe the people in power are faceless. In person, you notice who forgot their water bottle. Who rubs their temples. The way they laugh, the way they care. Who is exhausted by the late hour.

I didn’t know if my words would change a single vote. I went in prepared to lose, that they would pass the motion. With assumptions of my own. Assumptions about my capabilities, my place, my expertise, my belonging. But I was surprised, the motion was narrowly defeated by a vote of 5 to 4.

I think in this world we can feel our voices don’t matter, and the change we need can feel unbearably slow. There are so many opinions out there, and governance can feel like it is for experts not average people. Add to that, our systems can feel enormous, the feeling that I am a data point and not a person with tangible problems that need addressing.

But as I was leaving, I thought about that vote. I thought about what it might mean to a council member who already agrees with my perspective. Who is already carrying the research, asking the hard questions, pushing back in a room that doesn’t always want to be pushed. If even one person cares enough to show up in person, to go to that trouble on a weeknight, maybe it lands differently than an email.

Maybe it says: you’re not imagining it. Someone else sees this too. Just like all my conversations with my neighbours told me.

The load of civic leadership can be heavy, and I wonder if part of what we do when we show up isn’t persuasion at all. It’s solidarity. Quiet, unglamorous, microphone-at-city-hall solidarity.

Showing up may not always change outcomes. But it can change scale. It shrinks the distance between you and the decisions that shape your life.

I think I’ll go back.