What I learned from getting arrested with Jane Fonda

Like so many women, I grew up internalizing other people’s perceptions and opinions of what it meant to be me. Whatever the world decided it thought of me quickly became what I thought of myself — Allie is shy, Allie is a bookworm, Allie does what she’s told and doesn’t rock the boat. And for a long time, that seemed true. I’m a textbook introvert and small talk has never come easily. I’m usually much more comfortable observing than I am participating. I don’t like surprises and I’m not impulsive so I move very slowly, preparing for a long time before I act on anything. I viewed these qualities as character flaws and described them as such — I carried around words such as shy, withdrawn, and quiet as burdens; further proof that I didn’t fit in, that I wasn’t trying hard enough, that I was inherently broken.

I spent so much of my life feeling constrained by the world and the persona it had assigned to me. Recently, while watching the documentary Jane Fonda in Five Acts, I was struck by Fonda’s own realization that “anyone can change and become fierce.” I wondered, “Could that possibly be true?” And then I thought, “Why not?”

For me, change happens slowly, germinating for seconds, minutes, days, or years before finally bubbling up to the surface — often when I least expect it. It’s only in looking in the rearview mirror do I see that it’s been there all along; nothing happens all at once. But after 34 years and two months with nary a parking ticket on my record (I was pulled over once because my car’s window tint was too dark and let go with a warning), something small but fierce finally surfaced. Last Friday, I got arrested for the first time — with Jane Fonda.

Fonda, a life-long activist, moved to Washington D.C. recently and pledged to get arrested every Friday while protesting the fossil fuel industry and advocating for the Green New Deal. She founded Fire Drill Fridays to help organize and mobilize others. Every Thursday she joins experts and other celebrities to discuss a topic related to climate change, live-streaming these ‘teach-ins’ on social media. On Fridays, following a rally on the Southeast lawn of the Capitol, Fonda and friends march to a predetermined location and engage in a bit of light civil disobedience (blocking a street, for example), for which Fonda has indeed been arrested — four times so far in as many weeks.

I’ve been fascinated by Fonda’s life recently and it’s not hard for me to see why. I’m 34, just a few years older than Fonda was when she began her very public — and sometimes painful — transformation from Barbarella to boots-on-the-ground activist. I’m not the first person to feel an existential need for meaning creep into my life in my 30s, and I’m certainly not the last. But recognizing the need is just the first step — lately I have begun to ask myself: but what can I actually do?

Inspired by Fonda’s refusal to live out her remaining years in the comfortable cocoon of celebrity (she will turn 82 in December, by the way), I booked a train ticket to D.C. for October 31. I had considered dressing up as “Jane Fonda getting arrested” for Halloween, but quickly realized that actually getting arrested with Jane Fonda would be a more constructive use of my time and resources. The focus of the November 1 Fire Drill Friday was “women,” a group that is poised to unfairly bear the brunt of climate-related catastrophes, so it was an easy choice. I recruited a friend to join me, and spent an afternoon painting my very first protest sign (this wasn’t my first protest, but I preferred to have my hands free in the past so I could take photos). On one side I wrote, “Destroy the patriarchy, not the planet,” and the other said “Respect your mother,” with a (poorly drawn) image of the Earth standing in for the ‘O’.

Before I left, my mom said to me, “Don’t get arrested!”

Although getting arrested is central to Fonda’s participation in Fire Drill Fridays, I arrived in D.C. with no clear idea of my own intentions. I figured I’d go to the rally and see how I felt. I’m a meticulous planner by nature, so the fact that I had left our itinerary on Friday completely open may have been the first clue that I was ready to do something out of character — for once in my highly-controlled life, I adopted an open-ended, come-what-may attitude, and it felt perfectly natural.

The rally, which began at 11 a.m., started small, but grew to a sizeable crowd. Fonda — looking resplendent and fierce in her now-iconic sweeping red coat — introduced the speakers, which included Eve Ensler, Rosanna Arquette, Catherine Keener, and Emira Woods. I was moved by Woods’s grace and Ensler’s emotional plea (a hard act to follow, Keener nailed it when it was her turn to speak and she looked back at Ensler and said, “Aw man, I was going to say the same thing”). I had come to D.C. to see Fonda, but in the end, it was the powerful words of two poets — Asali DeVan Ecclesiastes and Sunni Patterson — that shook me to my core.

I decided in the middle of Ecclesiastes’s stirring speech that I had no choice. I had to get arrested.

Around noon, a large crowd marched to the lobby of the nearby Hart Senate Building. While we waited in a long line to go through security, a man in a MAGA hat yelled “Hanoi Jane!” and I marveled at Fonda’s courage. It’s been nearly fifty years since Fonda was photographed on an anti-aircraft gun on a trip through North Vietnam — a momentary lapse of judgment that she says she will forever regret — and in spite of the backlash that followed, she’s still here. A lot of people would have retreated from the public eye, but while Mr. MAGA was yelling his outdated (and woefully) ignorant insults, Fonda was already inside giving an impromptu press conference. She was explaining once again exactly why she had moved to D.C., and revealed that her coat — which by now, belongs in the Smithsonian — was not only the last coat that she had pledged to buy (ever!), but the last piece of clothing, period.

We moved as a group to the building’s atrium and sat on the ground around two banners, one of which read, “Women demand no new fossil fuels.” The Capitol police wasted no time in issuing us warnings, and it wasn’t long before the women (and a few men) were arrested one by one. Because of my sign (seen as an instigating influence), I was arrested fairly early. A policeman leaned down and issued me a final warning: “Would you like to move?” he asked. “Otherwise, just so you know, you’ll be arrested.”

“I’m good,” I replied.

My hands were bound behind my back in plastic cuffs (I didn’t know that you can site a physical impairment and request to have them tied in front) and I was led into a plant-filled entryway. I was searched and all of my personal belongings were placed into a plastic bag labeled with my last name. I was photographed with my arresting officer — certain corners of the internet have been clamoring for an updated mugshot from Fonda (her 1970 one is so iconic that it also belongs in the Smithsonian), but I’m not sure where these photos end up. The only tangible proof of my arrest is an 8.5” x 11” arrest report, that plastic bag, and a temporarily black thumb.

We waited while the others were similarly processed; Catherine Keener and Rosanna Arquette asked my name and we chatted like old friends. Keener, a first-time arrestee who knew enough to request that her hands be tied in front, obliged when my friend asked her to scratch an eyebrow itch. We discussed the need for catchier protest chants (let’s be honest, some of them are duds), and then we were led outside into awaiting paddy wagons. Not much scares me, but I’m extremely claustrophobic and I wasn’t too thrilled to be shut into the back of a divided van. Luckily my seat mates were two incredibly kind women who chatted with me and encouraged me to breathe.

The ride was short, and when we arrived at the holding facility — more warehouse than prison — our plastic cuffs were replaced by black zip tie cuffs (everyone’s hands were tied in front and we were told the cuffs are reusable). We were again sorted by arresting officer and told to remain in our assigned seats. Fonda, one of the last to be arrested, was seated two rows and about ten feet away from me. Keener and my friend ended up right behind me.

My first experience with the criminal justice system was eye-opening in a lot of ways, and I’m embarrassed to admit how little I knew (and still don’t know) about my own rights as an American citizen. Getting arrested once by no means makes me an expert, but everyone needs to start somewhere. I was the second-youngest person in the group (the youngest was 30).

The biggest mistake I made was not having the required $50 in cash to pay my bail. Because it was my first offense, I was eligible for what is called a “post and forfeit.” After answering a few questions and paying $50, I would be free to go without any further charges. I had $20 and was assured by several women that it wouldn’t be difficult to crowdsource the remaining $30, but I was mortified. My friend told me later that Keener, who had $100 in cash, had offered to help — “Catherine Keener paid my bail” would have been a good headline — but before I could accept her offer, Codepink’s Jodie Evans generously offered to make up the difference. I vowed to pay it forward as soon as I could and felt embarrassed at both my ignorance and privilege.

Very seldom does one have the choice to be arrested in this country; I thought I knew what I was getting into and yet still didn’t have the requisite cash — what hope was there for the people less fortunate than I, less prepared, less, well, white? 45 people got arrested alongside me and I know that most of them (generous, caring, socially-conscious, middle-class women) would have gladly loaned me the remaining $30. I’m embarrassed and uncomfortable with the knowledge that I have a safety net that so many go through life without, but the first step to changing a mind — or a society — is admitting that there’s a problem. And the existence of cash bail is a huge problem. It’s not just a minor inconvenience — it’s inconceivably inhumane, and disproportionately affects the most vulnerable segments of our population.

This was Fonda’s fourth arrest in a month and she had been warned that she may have to spend the night in custody. She was processed and confirmed this was true by clasping her hands together and tilting her head, miming “sleep.” When it appeared as though she was being escorted out, we began to cheer. “Calm down, I’m just going to take a leak!” she said, laughing.

Fonda did, indeed, end up spending the night in a D.C. holding cell (among the cockroaches, eating a baloney-and-cheese sandwich for dinner and using her coat as a mattress), so she remained seated stoically as the other protestors — including her daughters Vanessa Vadim and Mary “Lulu” Williams — were all processed and released.

“I love you mom! Be good tonight!” Vadim yelled as she walked out the door.

Throughout the entire process, I was consistently surprised at how gently and respectfully we were treated — but I am also acutely aware that’s not always the case. Getting arrested on purpose might seem extreme, but it was an easy decision once it became obvious just how little risk was involved with an 81-year-old, white, celebrity at the helm. I may not be a celebrity or elderly, but I am very, very white and in America especially, that makes all the difference. I risk almost nothing putting my body on the line and with that realization came the urgent need to do just that — for our planet, for the people who cannot (for various reasons) do the same. What’s the point of privilege if you don’t at least try to use it for something constructive? The scales will never balance if those of us with weight — be it wealth, education, race, etc. — don’t actively try to redistribute our good fortune.

Fonda has been accused of “performative activism,” but she knows exactly what she’s doing. She can’t change the fact that she was born to a famous father, but she can (and does) use that fame to call attention to the injustices and inequalities from which she benefits. We may not all be rich or famous, but every single person that has any advantage also has choice. In fact, choice in itself is a privilege and going forward, I choose to at least try — and use whatever privilege I have going forward to amplify the voices of those who are not as fortunate.

The reasons that compelled me to buy that ticket to D.C. no longer matter. What matters is that I decided that only I have the authority to write my narrative. It is up to me from now on how I define myself and what I choose to do with the time and resources I have. Fonda said she realized that if she could change, anyone could and I now know that to be true. There’s nothing more powerful than choosing to be fierce, to stand up for those who can’t, to put your body on the line in whatever way you can. And if you think you might get arrested, don’t forget your bail money.