I’ve done the work. The hard, gritty, photogenically lit work. There are black-and-white photos of me crouching beside rubble in Haiti, sweat on my brow, concern in my eyes—deep concern.I’ve stared into the face of suffering while wearing ethically sourced sunglasses. I’m the kind of guy who’ll take the time to learn your culture and native language before threatening to have you fired. So you’ll understand my confusion when I keep getting sent to the wrong goddamn address for every protest.
It feels like this started a few years ago. When the revolution ignited in Egypt in 2012, I knew I had to be there. History was happening, and I wanted to squint meaningfully into it. I was told the protestors were gathering outside this restaurant called “Moisture Chicken and WIFI” near Tahrir Square—so I went. Alone. I stood there holding a sign like a fucking idiot, looking around for the uprising. A couple of kids wandered over and tried to sell me a bootleg DVD of “Milk.” I passed. Then one of them said, “Didn’t you kidnap Madonna? Like, really beat her up?” Before I could explain that love is complicated and the ‘80s were a very different time, my hands decided they’d speak first. I got the hell out of there immediately after, bloody-knuckled and confused.
Years later, I tried to show solidarity with my union brothers and sisters at SAG-AFTRA. I was told the protest was happening at a vape shop called CloudFärt in Van Nuys. I stood outside for six hours. Alone again. No signs. No chants. This guy leaned out of his car and asked, “Hey man, are you still hitting people or what?” The question was so insensitive, so reductive, so deeply disrespectful, I knew I just had to punch him. Unfortunately, he was not a little girl selling DVDs. I woke up inside a dumpster full of expired nicotine pods and the feeling that maybe, just maybe, I’d been misled again.
And don’t even get me started on Gaza. I haven’t been contacted by either side. Not one word. Not even a “Thanks but no thanks.” And I’ve got really good ideas for both conflict zones that don’t even involve punching, but still, radio silence. I’m Sean Fucking Penn. I’ve been to places. I’ve done things. And somehow, in a moment of global crisis, no one wants me playing humanitarian. What am I, Jon Fucking Voight!?
Okay look, if this is about the punching, I apologize. Sort of. Spiritually. In interviews. With long pauses. That’s how men say sorry — we squint, we brood, we imply. But I guess some people just can’t let go of the past, no matter how many Middle Eastern refugee camps I take selfies in.
Apparently, I’m still “that guy.” Like I’m just walking around with two fucking Oscars and a humanitarian award presented by Mikhail Gorbachev, himself — who, by the way, I almost punched, but he flinched like a pussy, so I didn’t. And that counts. I still got his ass.
So please. I’m telling you this up front. If the next protest isn’t at The Wet Couch in the Castro District, please let me know. Because I swear to God, I will really lose my shit this time.