Mothers and Daughters and Sisters

Part Four in a Series of columns by Brian Keeler
ePluribus Media

Part One: They Came to Crawford.
Part Two: Camp Casey and Casey Kelley
Part Three: The President & The Minister

Family

The word, “family,” is one of those hot-button utterances that evokes a wide variety of responses in both our internal and external conversation. The much-used noun means many things to many people, but common to most, it implies support, love and understanding. And when a family member is lost, the remaining kin tend to travel great distances in order to share their memories, their sorrow and their support. Normally, after the shock of an abrupt death has given way to acceptance, those remaining are left with an echoing question resonating in their soul: “Why?”

In the case of Cindy Sheehan and other members of the Gold Star Families for Peace whose offspring make up the growing count of war dead, that unanswered question has echoed louder with each passing day. Having found no acceptable response within their own hearts, they have begun to ask the question out loud, first of each other, then of interested friends and supporters and now, finally, of leaders they believe are responsible for the empty chairs at their dinner tables. As such, Camp Casey is the physical manifestation of that question aimed at the president of the United States.

After the president’s drive-by and the ensuing open air worship service on the triangle formed by Prairie Chapel Road and an unnamed street, I spoke with the Rev. Dr. Bob Edgar (see The President & The Minister). But his wasn’t the only voice I wanted to hear. I had questions as I looked at the mixed crew of protesters gathered on that humid early August afternoon on the back roads of mid-Texas. So I began to ask.

Mothers & Daughters

As I searched the crowd, my eyes fell on a pair of women I’d noticed earlier because their appearance belied that of the typical “war protester.” As I approached with my open pad, they both darted glances to each other and the older woman spoke anticipating my request.

“I don’t know if we’d have much to say, but, I mean, you want to ask us some questions, right?” I nodded and introduced myself. We were standing in the open sun and their hats and sunglasses were necessary accessories. The older woman appeared to be in her 50’s and wore white slacks and a turquoise knit shirt. The younger woman, who appeared to be in her 20’s, wore a v-neck T-shirt and a denim skirt. They both wore jewelry.

“My name is Christine Harris and this is my daughter, Lacy. We live in Austin, south of here.”

When informed that they were the first native Texans I’d met since arriving at Camp Casey, Lacy said, “There are others in Texas who feel the same way we do. This is real. The nation is finally waking up. Standing up. We’ve been waiting for someone to say what we’ve all been thinking.”

She said she was a waitress part time and still in schooI, but wouldn’t give the name. “I’d rather not say,” she said, suddenly mindful of her surroundings. “This is still Texas.”

Her mother jumped in, “I’m retired. I’ll say it. The war needs to stop. Here, at this place, there is a sense of community, a sense of family. And that feeling is spreading to families across the country. Cindy has brought sincerity to this and is asking the question families everywhere want answered. All they want to know is, ‘Why?'” she said simply. “Why did this war happen? The reason keeps changing. It keeps moving. That makes me think there was no real reason in the first place, or that they are afraid to tell us the real reason. As a mother, how can you sleep at night if you don’t know why your son was killed?”

Her daughter chimed in, “This should be on the front page of every newspaper every day. We aren’t being told the truth. They aren’t telling us the truth.”

“If you’re going to ask people to fight and die, they should know the reason why they are doing it,” Mrs. Harris said.

In response to why they came to Camp Casey, the younger Harris said, “We knew about the Downing Street Memo, and I was talking with my mom on Saturday night. She said we should go as a family and support Cindy’s family. So we left on Sunday and here we are.”

“We’re leaving tonight,” her mother added. “Lacy has to be back to work, but my husband is coming up tomorrow to take our place. To keep our family represented.”

“You know, we’ve never been to a protest before,” they said almost together, then laughed at their synchronicity. “We’ve never done anything like this.” Lacy said, looking at her mother for agreement and getting it.

After watching this shared moment, I decided to ask, “How has this experience affected the two of you?”

After a searching pause, Mrs. Harris said, “I hadn’t thought about that, but now that you ask, it’s brought us closer. Don’t you think?” She said turning to her daughter who smiled and nodded.

I took their picture and thanked them. As they walked away down the hill, Christine’s arm slowly slid around Lacy’s waist and drew her close in spite of the heat of the early Texas afternoon.

Mother & Daughter: Christine and Lacy Harris

Sisters

Earlier, before the president drove past, I’d worked my way up front to the police barricade in order to get some pictures. Standing at the tape to my left had been two women who seemed to be planted in the Texas dirt, determined and unmoving, a stance that appeared to challenge the president to stop his car and speak with them. At the time, I’d made a mental note to seek them out later and hear their stories.

Later had come and I found them in the same location, ready to repeat their challenge should the president return.

They were sisters. They both lived north of Dallas. They were angry and resolute. Although they were quite different, on the subjects of this war and politics, they were of one mind.

“This war is inexcusable,” said Donna Hooker, the dark-haired older sister of the fairer Linda McCall. I couldn’t see her eyes through her round sunglasses, but the determined tone of her voice was unmistakable. She was not happy. “I have a nineteen year old son and he is not going to go to Iraq and die for oil, ego and empire.”

“This is the first rally I’ve ever been to in my life,” said McCall. “I’ve always been a political/news junkie, but not an activist. Thank God for organizations like yours that are determined to tell the truth, because the administration has big news in their pockets.

“I read my news mainly online.” McCall continued. “As a matter of fact, that’s how we heard about this. I read a story on the Huffington Post which directed me to meetwithcindy.org. They asked people to come stand with her.”

“She called me up, just as I was going to call her,” said her sister. “It wasn’t a question of `if,’ just a matter of `when’ we would go. We were in the car on Sunday.”

McCall talked about one of their more memorable experiences in Crawford. “Donna here was doing some traffic control in Crawford the other day and she asked two people if they could move their car up about 10 feet so a delivery truck could get by. They were….”

“They were Bush supporters,” Hooker interrupted. “Well, I was shocked how they responded,” She took a moment to gather herself, and, without looking, McCall brought her hand to her sister’s shoulder. After a moment, Hooker continued. “They rolled down their window and shouted that Cindy must hate her son. That she’s just after the media exposure and this whole thing had nothing to do with the war.”

McCall added, “That we had no business being here and that we were using up police resources.”

“And that we were all — I never use the word she used …,” Hooker said, looking down.

“A-holes, is what they called us, except they used the word,” whispered McCall. “I don’ think either of us have ever been called that. And these are Christians? It’s sad. Very sad.”

“Another thing I’ll always remember about this is meeting Cindy,” Hooker said, her voice returning to strength. McCall nodded. “She has been so strong and measured and calm. I mean, if Linda and I get this kind of treatment, just think of what she’s going through,” Hooker said.

McCall declared, “She’s saying what needs to be said and she’s maintaining her non-violent resolve. The reverend just talked about how important it is that this be non-violent. It’s how it starts. Small, then it grows. We just have to keep up the dialogue.” McCall held her sister’s hand, which seemed to seal a secret agreement between the siblings.

They looked at each other and fell silent for a moment. Then, McCall said directly to her sister, “More people. We need more people to join us. More people to risk speaking out.” She then turned to me and pointed to my pad and continued. “Tell everyone to feel empathy for those who have sacrificed, because Bush has buried the impact of the war. No photos, no united front and no sacrifice, except from these families who have lost someone to this stupid, stupid, pointless war.”

Having had their say, I took a photo portrait and turned to see how my dog, Ben, was fairing with his newfound friend, Lucky, and the heat. At the top of the rise, I glanced back at the sisters. Once again, they’d turned to the police tape to resume their defiant stance, in case the president should return. If he did, they would have much to say.

Sisters: Donna Hooker & Linda McCall