I went to watch my government make history.
But first I got semicolons.
By invitation, I spent a couple of late March afternoons at the Capitol watching the waning days of the 90th Arkansas General Assembly.
Seeing one’s legislators at work is a privilege, something every citizen should do at least once, sort of like going to Graceland or Vegas — it may get tacky, it may get loud, but you can always say you went.
Late in the week I decided I’d go on Monday — then Indiana’s governor signed THAT bill and all eyes turned to Arkansas as the House prepared to vote on amendments to similar legislation.
As folks met, organized protests and rallied throughout the weekend, my expectations of what I’d see changed considerably. Instead of a lot of shuffling of paper I was now anticipating white-hot debate, close votes and plenty of political maneuvering.
But first, there was the matter of punctuation.
The glossy halls and marble columns of our Capitol building are beautiful and sobering. With the eyes of past governors watching me from the portraits lining the walls, I felt something of the weight of civic responsibility legislators take when, regardless of party, they raise their hands and are sworn in.
I learned that our representatives, rather than relying on the more private elevator, often take the stairs to the chamber for just that reason, to be humbled by the experience of climbing the stairs, in full view of visitors — and in this case demonstrators lining both sides — on their way to do the state’s business.
Business my first day included revisiting certain bills to correct language or even faulty punctuation — a semicolon in one case — to ensure the intent of the laws wasn’t misconstrued.
I agree. That semicolon is a pesky menace. It’s the boll weevil of punctuation; I’m not sure everyone knows how to use it.
I was heartened to see lawmakers admit errors and misunderstandings when bills were first written and heard. It made me wish someone had paid such close attention to that rogue comma in our Second Amendment.
I was also touched to see the chamber wasn’t necessarily polarized, that representatives could work collegially, with humor. After a representative half-heartedly defended a compromise piece of legislation — “no one really likes it but it’s time to move on” was the thrust of his comments — the House Speaker got a laugh by noting the rep had “oversold” the bill.
I learned male house members aren’t recognized from the floor unless they are wearing a jacket and tie. Given some of the jacket and tie combinations, I wondered if they should maybe revisit that rule, and if my comments are snarky I don’t want to be right.
Hey, I’m a voter, a taxpayer and I read GQ.
I noted each vote is preceded by the clang of a bell that sounds like those used in boxing or wrestling. That’s because, I was told, the bell is the kind used for just that purpose.
It turned out to be foreshadowing, because on Day Two of my visit the minutiae and paper pushing were replaced by the expected, heated debate over Arkansas’ version of THAT bill.
Motions were made and voted down, personalities surfaced, maybe even some grudges bubbled up.
What might have been stirring, movie moment speeches against THAT bill were hobbled by points of order from the floor, and the parliamentary moves were then turned against the bill’s defender during his closing remarks.
In the end the votes weren’t close. All three amendments passed and the count indicated veto proof majorities. The governor, and the state, were left to grapple with the aftermath.
As it turned out, the situation was in flux and changes were to be considered, but for now, the work was done.
Outside the chamber the media had replaced the demonstrators as representatives gave their takes on what had happened.
“We should be able to work together,” said one. “Our state is too small and our needs are too great.”
I took the stairs and headed for the exit, noting window displays of Arkansas’ historical artifacts lining the long hallway. Among the antique pistols and autographed blues guitars were routine items: an old bottle of “hair promoter,” a train conductor’s cap.
“Nothing is permanent,” the aged and frayed items seemed to say. “Yet everything is.”
They were small things with potential to carry great meaning, like a semicolon maybe, or a protest sign whose owner couldn’t be more angry with his government right now, yet who showed up because he still has faith his government works.