THE parade
It seems to be twice as hot & muggy as yesterday. We are up early, making more flyers, updated numbers – 2465 – and posters. We decide to carry the “Troops Home NOW” banner. We are all determined to spread peace today.
Jan has picked us up & will give us a ride to the beginning of the parade. Normally we walk but it must be 300 degrees & we’re carrying a hundred extra pounds in moisture. And we’re late.
I can’t allow my attention to focus on the parade – young, young boys in uniforms, children, a little older boys in ‘play’ military uniforms, every sort of ugly weapon casually slung over another males’ shoulder not to mention the ones on a zillion wheels.
We have marched up 5th St & met the parade as it veered down Constitution. The crowd is palpably hostile; several begin ranting when they realize we’re standing for peace.
A newsperson wants to take our picture – he’s talking on his phone & tells his editor he wants to take a picture of the anti-american protestors. I tell him we are anti-war, we want no more memorials ever, we want our troops home now. He assures me he knows what we want. He takes our picture but doesn’t do an interview…
Toby is holding her preferred ‘real face of war’, the U.S. soldier with the bloody baby. She gets into an intense conversation with several by-standers. The rest of us head on down the parade route. I hand out numbers to the by-standers who will take them.
Not many folks are taking numbers today. I ask every single person standing or sitting on the south side of the parade route. The few who do take the number smile deeply into my eyes & I feel fortified.
I see a group of young, mostly people of color sitting lined up on the curb. I approach them with the number, thinking surely they’ll take it. To a T, they smile politely and decline. I’m disappointed but determined.
At the end of the row, an old, paunchy white male with some veterans cap slipping down one side of his head, starts screaming at me, calling me a traitorous bitch & I don’t belong at this parade, let alone in this country.
I tell him he does not have to speak to me that way. His spittle has blended with the waves of heat & humidity permeating the space. He continues to scream at me to ‘just go, just get out of here’.
As I shake my head at his obnoxious belligerence, one of the young men who politely declined taking a number, reaches out his hand & asks me for the number. Everyone sitting on the curb follows suit.
I ask the old white man if he wants to accompany me thru the crowd – I tell him he’s a great voice for peace & democracy.
He mutters ‘it’s the wrong day to do this’. I do not let him have the last word: “no, it is always the right day to do what is right” (paraphrasing MLK)
Jan has picked us up & will give us a ride to the beginning of the parade. Normally we walk but it must be 300 degrees & we’re carrying a hundred extra pounds in moisture. And we’re late.
I can’t allow my attention to focus on the parade – young, young boys in uniforms, children, a little older boys in ‘play’ military uniforms, every sort of ugly weapon casually slung over another males’ shoulder not to mention the ones on a zillion wheels.
We have marched up 5th St & met the parade as it veered down Constitution. The crowd is palpably hostile; several begin ranting when they realize we’re standing for peace.
A newsperson wants to take our picture – he’s talking on his phone & tells his editor he wants to take a picture of the anti-american protestors. I tell him we are anti-war, we want no more memorials ever, we want our troops home now. He assures me he knows what we want. He takes our picture but doesn’t do an interview…
Toby is holding her preferred ‘real face of war’, the U.S. soldier with the bloody baby. She gets into an intense conversation with several by-standers. The rest of us head on down the parade route. I hand out numbers to the by-standers who will take them.
Not many folks are taking numbers today. I ask every single person standing or sitting on the south side of the parade route. The few who do take the number smile deeply into my eyes & I feel fortified.
I see a group of young, mostly people of color sitting lined up on the curb. I approach them with the number, thinking surely they’ll take it. To a T, they smile politely and decline. I’m disappointed but determined.
At the end of the row, an old, paunchy white male with some veterans cap slipping down one side of his head, starts screaming at me, calling me a traitorous bitch & I don’t belong at this parade, let alone in this country.
I tell him he does not have to speak to me that way. His spittle has blended with the waves of heat & humidity permeating the space. He continues to scream at me to ‘just go, just get out of here’.
As I shake my head at his obnoxious belligerence, one of the young men who politely declined taking a number, reaches out his hand & asks me for the number. Everyone sitting on the curb follows suit.
I ask the old white man if he wants to accompany me thru the crowd – I tell him he’s a great voice for peace & democracy.
He mutters ‘it’s the wrong day to do this’. I do not let him have the last word: “no, it is always the right day to do what is right” (paraphrasing MLK)
posted by Xan @ 1:26 PM
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