Miniscule rebellions

As rebels go I am a failure but all my life I've done tiny rebellions.

In high school when everyone wore the "in" white tie bucks, mine zipped. They were hard to fine, but my mother humored me and took me to store after store until we found them.

At university we were supposed to vote by checking candidates. I drew little boats where the checks should be and they threw out my ballot. I still think since I showed my preference and the vote should have counted.

We were expected to take a loyalty oath on mass to say we weren't communists, which is the height of dumb. Would an oath stop a communist from lying? Almost as stupid as the old airline forms that made you check you weren't a communist to enter the US. I raised my hand with all the others and said proudly
"Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder..."

Tired of academic writing, when I had to write on Robert Browning's poem My Last Duchess (see below) I did it as a short story with the duke talking to his shrink. My professor loved it, gave me an A and told me never, never, never try that in graduate school. I suspect that after all the dull papers, mine was a breath of fresh air.

Compared to the rebellions against the war in Vietnam, Occupy, etc. these rebellions are so tiny they don't even go on the rebellion radar, but at least I feel better that I've not given in to mindless conformity.

That's my last duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Frà Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps
"Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint
"Must never hope to reproduce the faint
"Half-flush that dies along her throat": such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart how shall I say? too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men good! but thanked
Somehow I know not how as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech which I have not to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this
"Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
"Or there exceed the mark" and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and make excuse,
E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretense
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!