Ruth Spencer on how the choice of a political projectile can make an activist a hero or a villain
When an activist was charged with throwing tomato juice at Posie Parker recently it was just the latest in a long national tradition of meaningful flings. There’s an art to the political projectile – done right, throwing an eloquent object can make an activist a folk hero, capturing the popular imagination and winning support for their cause. Done wrong, it could get you into trouble. So, what makes an iconic projectile?
It’s all in the combination of a good metaphor, good aim, good timing and a sympathetic position. A little humour definitely helps. Consider Egg Boy. Melbourne teen Will Connolly took exception to Australian Senator Fraser Anning blaming Muslims for the Christchurch mosque terror attack, so he hopped on his bike and headed down to a public appearance the next day. Poker-faced and casually filming the action on his phone, he smashed an egg on to Anning’s head. The moment was caught on TV cameras, but so were the two nasty punches Anning landed on Connolly before his entourage tackled the teen to the floor.
Egg Boy had played it perfectly. His deadpan delivery was textbook cool. His choice of projectile was easy to conceal and messy beyond all reason. It immediately evokes phrases like “the yolk is on you” and “egg on his face”. Given that Connolly was in part defending New Zealand’s honour, we can add “You egg” to the implied insults.
Not every protester has been lucky enough to rise to the public popularity of Egg Boy, but there have been some beautiful attempts in the history of New Zealand protests. When People Before Profits’ Malcolm France chose a cream-filled lamington to attack Act candidate John Boscawen in 2009, it was because the supermarket had run out of custard pies. A happy accident, because while a custard pie is the province of clowns and ridicule – you can already hear the womp-womp of the trombone – a lamington speaks humbly of the backbone of New Zealand, or wholesomeness and good, honest folk.
Boscawen, to his credit, continued speaking with the lamington on his head. Wrenching a kind of terrible dignity from the jaws of coconutty defeat in his impromptu cream-filled fascinator, he was the opposite of Anning. He undermined the full impact of the attack with his Olympic-level emotional regulation. There were no winners on the day except the supermarket, but the lamington becomes a strong local contender for ideal protest projectile.
Another homegrown product is dung, specifically the horse manure thrown at John Banks in 2014 by Castislav Bracanov. At first glance, a great choice: round and easy to heft in your hand like an organic tennis ball. The only critique would be the choice of animal: bull excrement would be a more easily readable metaphor, especially as a cowpat would fly like a frisbee. Unfortunately, Bracanov decided to water down his manure, just making things unpleasant for everyone, particularly himself.
Speaking of tennis, Te Papa has a collection of tennis balls thrown at journalists during the recent Parliament protests. Fortunately for both the museum and the journalists that no horses were present. When the protestors began tearing up pavers from the footpath though, the destruction of public property and the very real risk of serious casualties erased any chance of popular acclaim. Like kids whose game has turned to tantrums, they should have taken their balls and gone home, except that Te Papa had confiscated them.
This wouldn’t be a list of popular missiles if it didn’t touch on our most fondly remembered projectile, the Flying Dildo of 2016. Activist Josie Butler hurled a large rubber sex toy at National MP Steven Joyce on Waitangi Day. It bounced off his face in that unique wobbly way that rubber bounces, especially in slow motion which is how we all watched it. And rewound it. And watched it again. A perfect throw, aim and velocity uniting in glorious impact. It wasn’t hard enough in either sense to hurt; Butler had chosen the “squeaky” toy dildo from Peaches & Cream especially for its harmlessness. She practised throwing it at her flatmates, training which proved invaluable on the day but probably came up a lot at flat meetings.
The dildo’s viral success as a pop-culture moment slightly obscured its excellent symbolism. Registered nurse Butler was protesting the Trans-Pacific Partnership agreement and the defunding of mental health services including rape crisis. She shouted, “That’s for raping our sovereignty!” as she threw the dildo. The metaphor could not be clearer. Delightfully, she says of throwing protest objects, it felt “fantastic” and, “I recommend it to everybody.”
So where does tomato juice rate in the pantheon of Thrown Objects? While it hasn’t the immediately obvious humour of dung or dildoes, it works on many levels. It has some classic elements, referencing the red paint thrown on fur coats in the 80s, while remaining non-toxic, washable, locally produced, and vegan. Just as red paint references spilled blood, it represents the actual physical harm done to trans people as a result of intolerance. It has a solid association with centuries of traditional shaming methods: a modern, conveniently packaged way to pelt someone with rotten tomatoes, especially as those bottled juices can turn quickly on a warm day. Posie Parker was metaphorically put in the stocks. While those nuances might be lost in the excitement, and while even mild assault is never to be condoned, everyone can appreciate the humiliating effectiveness of a decent mess. It was the tomato juice heard around the world.
New York Times: Our are devices distancing us from real connections?