In this time of mass dehumanization, the truth and wisdom and fierce love embodied here is a deep and treasured gift. Thank you, Cristina Breshears. 🙏💜 Molly
“In the same way that your heart feels and your mind thinks,
you are the instrument by which the universe cares.
If you don't, then it doesn't.”
— Brennan Lee Mulligan
If we choose to care, then the universe will care! It feels like the most humane response to despair I’ve ever heard.
My daughter shared this quote with me yesterday as we walked through Laurelhurst Park, and it’s been bouncing around my brain ever since. We were talking about the real flesh and blood deployed troops armored up beyond recognition and the continued thrumming of the Black Hawk helicopters. We were discussing how easy it is to fall into despair at all the lies being spread about our beloved city and wondering what else we can we do?
Here is my small effort.
In a time when despair feels like the only honest response to cruelty, perhaps Portland demonstrates how joyful compassion itself can become an act of rebellion. We become “the instruments by which the universe cares.” We can exhibit the quiet courage of a people who refuse numbness or apathy or compliance.
Portland’s weird and wonderful full-hearted absurdity proves every small act of kindness becomes the warp and weft the moral fabric of our world. A city that dances in front of armored men with weapons will not be conquered.
Authoritarianism feeds on predictability. It expects rage or submission (the two poles that keep its machinery humming along). What it cannot comprehend, what truly frightens it, is joy. When federalized troops descended on Portland (armored, anonymous, and grim) the city answered not with silence or violence but with playful purpose.
The Raging Grannies showed up. A “Puppy Protest” with tails wagging carried signs that read “Sit. Stay. HEAL”. Folks in silly costumes dance. There are donuts – because … it’s Portland.
It looks absurd. It is absurd. And that is the point. Because absurdity is the mirror held up to power to show it its own grotesque reflection. Jest and joy can disarm. (Please see first comment for the protest footage!!)
Jesters were important in royal courts for providing entertainment but also for acting as a licensed critic to mock powerful figures and critique court decisions with humor. They could offer advice to monarchs that others would not dare to give. Their freedom of speech (which we all enjoy under our First Amendment!) allowed them to bring truth to power, sometimes revealing dangerous situations or unpopular policies without fear of punishment.
Since 1921, the White House Correspondents' Dinner has been an annual event. Since 1983, the dinner has included high-profile comedians who roasted the President and others in power, in many ways fulfilling the role of the Court Jester. Perhaps Portland is just the jester for this moment since our sitting President has discontinued this storied event.
It’s the decision to answer cruelty with care and to laugh and sing and dance and even ridicule what is ridiculous. Our joy is dangerous because it cannot be controlled. In the face of tyranny, joy says, you may command my body, but not my spirit. It laughs where fear expects silence. It dances where intimidation expects paralysis.
History shows that Kings and Queens once appreciated the truth and reckoning that their jester provided. But now, every authoritarian fears such exposure. That’s why regimes ban drag shows, censor music and books, police laughter, and mock empathy as weakness. They understand that jest and joy are the cracks in the wall where light of truth gets in; that the moment people start laughing, they stop being afraid.
Portland is demonstrating this truth vividly. The laughter isn’t frivolous; it’s insurgent. It exposes how absurd it is to bring war gear into our living room. It is, in its own way, a sermon: This is our home. This is what humanity looks like, and you cannot take it from us.
And this is where joy becomes truly revolutionary. Our response to becoming a target is a collective promise that we will still make room for laughter and tenderness, compassion and care ... not because things are fine, but because they’re not.
Our joy, our tenderness and love – once shared – multiplies faster than fear can divide.
So yes, joy is dangerous. It’s dangerous to those who mistake cruelty for strength. It’s dangerous to systems that survive by breaking spirits. It’s dangerous because it reminds us that our collective laughter, care, and defiance are what make the universe care again.
Sending in federalized troops and deploying full-riot ICE agents into a civilian city like Portland is, by its nature, a dehumanizing act. It imposes the logic of war onto the space of ordinary life and treats citizens not as participants in a democracy but as potential enemies to be subdued. It replaces dialogue with intimidation and domination. The visual language alone (helmets, shields, anonymous armor) communicates: we do not see you as human; we see you as threat.
Where militarization says “you are faceless,” joy insists “look at our smiles; hear our music.” Where the state enforces order through fear, frivolity reclaims the street through play. Where bureaucracy flattens individuality, creativity explodes into color and noise.
Joy, compassion, and even silliness are not a distraction from the serious work of protest; they are the serious work. They re-humanize public space and everyone in it. They remind both the enforcers and the bystanders that what’s being defended isn’t property or policy, but humanity itself: the right to gather, to feel, to sing, to be ridiculous, and to care about one another.
So, I think joy, jest, and compassion are not only appropriate responses to this attempted dehumanization, but they are also among the most powerful. They restore the very qualities the machinery of control tries to erase. They say: You may bring war to our city, but we will meet you with life.
And maybe that’s the real revolution Portland offers: that the most radical act of resistance in a brutal world is to keep loving it … loudly, joyfully, together.
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