I wrote my first anti-war diary after I returned from the march on Washington, D.C. on September 24, 2005. It was a story of coming together with people from across the nation. Meeting with my friends from this blog. And bearing witness to the war our government has wrongly waged.
Today I write a second chapter. On coming home and bearing witness again. At a local level. To that same wrong. It is a different experience. One without hundreds of thousands of voices. But it was no less powerful. And I believe, in the end, I learned something far greater about the power of the people.
Context of the “Picket for Peace” and the Media
Since returning from Washington, D.C. I’ve worked diligently to become a part of the local anti-war movement. In the fall, I helped organize an event to commemorate the death of the 2,000 U.S. soldier in Iraq. And from that point I turned my energies toward organizing local protests against the war to mark the third anniversary.
We ended up with a week-long series of events. The first was a gathering at five “community peace protests” throughout the greater Lansing area. We organized these protests at shopping malls to raise the visibility of the ongoing war with ordinary consuming Americans, and turned out over two hundred people to protest. Those events drew significant media attention. Lead news stories on local television. Front page coverage in the major daily. And more in smaller papers. A preview interview on local FM-radio. And one or two preview anti-war profiles in the smaller papers. The coverage, of course, fails to document the truth of these events. All told we turned out between 350 and 500 people to participate in all of our events by the weeks’ end. Our efforts were acknowledged by regular people in the community through horn honks, and gifts, and hand shakes, and words of encouragement. Literally thousands of Lansing citizens supported these efforts through acknowledgments of gratitude. The positive displays out paced any negative expressions by a ratio of far more than ten to one. If I had to estimate, I’d say a fair guess would put the ratio at between 25:1 or 100:1 positive to negative. Yet from reading or viewing the coverage you might guess that the community of Lansing was really torn about this war. Not from this viewer’s perspective. And I say with high confidence that I saw more of the week-long protests than any other living soul.
Other events included two informational shows. “Confronting the Myths,” where speakers with first hand experience about the war explained how the Iraqi people want the U.S. occupation to end. And “The Power of Nightmares” about the larger war on terror, where a BBC documentary about the political use of the “war on terror” was screened and discussed. There was also a fund drive that raised over $1,000 to publish two advertisements in local newspapers calling for an end to the war. One was a full page ad that ran the week before our protests.
And the week concluded with the “Picket for Peace” at Rep. Mike Rogers’ (R-MI) Lansing office. This was a week-long picket of the office from 7:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. daily. It is this picket that I will describe in this diary. For me, it was a transformational event. Though news crews did stop by on the first day, and several members of the alternative press did show up to document the picket for peace on tape and in photographs, to my knowledge, there was no coverage of the event actually aired or printed.
Civil Disobedience (Part I)
There is sometimes talk among members of the peace activist community about the efficacy of civil disobedience. To paraphrase Howard Zinn’s philosophy, it is appropriate to violate minor laws in order to shed light on our government’s violation of major breaches of justice that result in the deaths of thousands of innocents. I strongly believe that a solid majority of the peace community believe in the principles of civil disobedience. That disobeying unjust laws is just.
But in a practical sense, many might say that to engage in acts of civil disobedience will engender hostility in the mass of the citizens that the peace movement is trying to reach. We know that a majority in America oppose this war. But we need far more involvement to effect change. So many are weary of breaking even minor laws, considering the possible effect of driving away mainstream people.
I have found neither the personal courage to engage in civil disobedience, nor the appropriate circumstance where I can directly violate the unjust laws and policies I oppose (the war). But I did commit my first act of random civil disobedience on the morning of Monday, March 20, 2006 at 5:50 a.m. Really, you might call it civil-infraction disobedience. I was racing to Mike Rogers’ office at that darkened hour in order to get the prime public parking space in front of the office. We knew that the space was usually filled by 6:00 a.m. And I was running late. Speeding down Michigan Avenue. Trying to pass a truck in front of me just in case he was the driver who might take the last spot. And a patrol car spotted me. I would later learn that an officer had been shot that morning. The city was swarming with police. I was nabbed in the dragnet.
The officer was very kind. I explained my protest mission. And he wrote me my ticket quickly. And I was still able to get the good parking space. The cost of my civil infraction disobedience. A fine for ten over and a stern warning to slow down.
I was parked and had the protest gear unpacked in time to watch a beautiful sunrise on Michigan Avenue.
Setting the Scene
Rogers’ office is a squat, one-story brick building in a professional/commercial zone on Michigan Avenue. Michigan Avenue is a five-lane road that runs from East Lansing to the State Capitol Building. The city’s major hospital is two blocks to the west of the office. The office is fronted by a public sidewalk, where we would conduct our picket.
There is a set of windows and a glass door on the west corner of the office. It leads to a lobby and the front desk. There had been a hand-colored American flag in the entryway. It was a gift to Rogers from an elementary school class. It was accompanied by a poster-sized letter thanking Rogers for his patriotic leadership. The flag had been removed recently, despite adorning the entryway for months. I can’t help but think that it was removed because people in the office did not want it photographed when this public protest started. It was a rather strong statement about militarism in our public school system, if you ask me. But it was gone. Though our schools are still a feeding ground for the army. We live in Sparta apparently.
Life is Like A Movie
I am a Luddite in active revolt against technology. I will not film my children with video cameras because I want to live those moments rather than record them. And though I refuse to claim total leadership of this particular demonstration, as it was the culmination of a grueling group planning effort, this picket for peace was my idea. And I learned in writing my novel, that an idea being birthed into the world is very much like a child. So I didn’t want to film this event. I wanted to live it. I didn’t want to take notes in a diary, though it was suggested I do so, because I did not want to be distracted from the event as it unfolded.
I knew I would ultimately write this diary. And that the earlier events would already be softened in my memory. Shaped by the human experience. For instance, I cannot recall the number of people who were there that first morning. Between ten and twenty. I only remember the cold sunshine. And the resolve I had. To bear witness against my government for this grievous war. An angry resolve that I’ve been processing for more than a year now.
To me, the picket for peace became very much like a long, long movie. New faces came and went. I remained. And I was not alone. Many came and marched with me for nearly the whole time. Gary D., whose idea it was to have a weekly march at Rogers’ office starting last fall. There the whole week save one day. And Gary L., who stood lonely on the opposite side of the road with his sign commemorating the number of American soldiers who have given their life for this war. There almost the entire time. And people who came every day. Often. Ann F. who was there every morning and at other times. And Janet L. who was there every day with coffee and hot chocolate and soup. Bob A. Daily. Janeen. Tom. Carl. A mainstay to rival any individual commitment. Matha. Daily. Margaret K. who I’ve come to view as a wise grandmother. Daily. I did not want to mention the names. For fear of missing people. There were so many people. Parading past me. I could not remember the names. Or the hours that they spent. Picketing. Singing. Laughing. Talking about peace and change and justice. Jack. And Kelly. And Erik and Brian and Anna and Anna and Regina and John and Kathie and Charlie and Aaron and Regina and Margaret N. and Erick and Frank and Susan and Judy and Jenn and William and Will and Ada and Pat and Quess and Judith and Sue and Peter and Paul and Tom S. and Phil and Al and Beth and Destiny and Josh and Barbara and Dennis and Brian and Mark and two Kristens and one Melissa and Kathleen and David and Becky and Janet II and Kate and Eugene and Jeff and Ian and on and on. Others for whom my human frailty of memory, and my stubborn insistence on not taking notes, has deprived them of their place in this diary. Ridiculous numbers of sober people. Professionals. Clergy. Scholars. Citizens. Patriots. Those that live in suburban dream homes. And the homeless. Some wealthy. Some poor. Some young. Some old. And they filed past to my amazement. Spending time marching before a procession of honking cars on Michigan Avenue. Bearing witness to this lying war and asking our leader to bring this chapter to a close. It is safe to say that when the picket ended, between one-hundred and two-hundred people participated in some way. And this may understate the number. As well as the effort and effect.
All of it, to me, was like a long, long movie. Though I can only imagine what it must have been like for those who stopped for smaller chunks of time. Or those driving past. To me it was a powerful and sustained effort of a community. Others may have seen less.
For those I’ve missed by name, I beg your forgiveness and laud your contributions to this human mosaic. This live-action film. Calling for peace.
Three signs of peace
The most basic task of the week was engaging passing motorists with signs. They were the audience. Asking that they honk their horns so that the legislator inside would realize the unpopularity of this war. Asking that he would, despite his apparent nature, become an agent of peace.
For some, the act of honking a horn at an anti-war protest seems nearly a bridge too far. If you watch closely at the passing drivers you can see some who struggle with their decision. Become involved. Or stay inside the comfortable lives they have built for themselves. Get up. Go to work if they are lucky. Put in their day. Drive home. Spend some down time and do it again. You can see the angst on some of these faces. To peep their small horns. Or to engage in some less vocal protest. Or to drive on.
For the veteran commuting activists, they know the drill. And they know the three international signs of support as if by instinct. The peace sign. The thumbs-up. And the fist of power. And for large chunks of the day, you commune with the passing traffic. Exchanging these signs in solidarity. And you know as they pass that they are happy that some group of people in the world cares enough to try to stop this insane war.
Pig Is a Dirty Word
The Peace community has grown up. Literally. Many of the committed planners of this effort trace their anti-war activism back to Vietnam. Many to the civil-rights movement. The word “hippie” is tossed about by some. Both as a term of endearment and remembrance. And as a term of derision by those who fail to understand.
Those of us too young to remember the power clashes in the 60s have been left with pop culture images of what that struggle was. A powerful image in my own mind has the “flower child” confronting the uniformed officer with a quip, “Somebody smell bacon?”
From my own experience, that hostility between the police and the movement, if it ever existed in reality as some monolithic form, has largely died away. There are still open expressions of righteous outrage at symbols of authority, to be sure. But I believe that the level of understanding about non-violent change has risen. There is an understanding that the police and the military are tools of authority, but an equal understanding that they are citizens. They are a part of “the people” that will be the change.
We engaged them before these protests. With the guidance of Margaret K. And it paid dividends all week long. A first example came on Monday morning. We gathered in a circle for a moment of silence for those who have died in the war. We held hands. And as we gathered a Lansing squad car pulled-up.
The officer was visibly agitated. The police were over-taxed looking for someone who had shot an officer hours earlier. And dealing with a community protest seemed like one straw too many. But I was able to speak with the officer about our earlier contacts with his sergeant and precinct captain, and he allowed us to continue our “peace circle” without incident. I tried to encourage him, as one human being to another, offering my best wishes for his fallen comrade. And away he went.
Monday, Monday
By noon on Monday, things are rolling along quite well. We’ve already pulled off two very successful events (the community peace protests and the “Confronting the Myths” program on Sunday). We’ve attracted 272 people or so to those events. We’ve garnered front page news. And the television cameras have been rolling. Three networks shot footage of our Monday picket for peace, though they took no interviews.
And participation in the Monday event is going as planned. We had a decent turn-out for the morning kick-off. And a steady stream of picketers during the morning. Plus we are starting to engage citizens on the street. All morning we are asking people to deliver receipts for the war to Rogers’ receptionist. I did not keep count. But we delivered quite a stack.
Meeting Mike (Part I)
The picket for peace was planned to coincide with the Congressional break for St. Patrick’s day. We wanted to make sure that Rogers had an opportunity to see firsthand that the opposition to this war. I first saw Rogers on Monday afternoon (if memory serves). I was picketing the sidewalk and saw a white SUV pull up on the side street, waiting to pull out into traffic on Michigan Avenue. My senses were a little dulled by hours in the cold. But Gary D., who would march beside me every second except for Thursday, noticed that Mike Rogers was sitting in the passenger seat. He was attempting to talk to the vehicle. I approached and used the international sign for “roll your window down,” because I wanted to talk to him as well.
He is not a bad looking man, I suppose you could say. I’ve met him. And heard him speak. He projects above average intelligence. And he is becoming a fairly smooth politician in my opinion. And I just wanted to say, “hi,” really. Ask him to try to stop the war.
He smiled at us. Pleasantly. And started rolling down his window to talk, but his driver sped off into traffic. We shared not a word. But I was left with a hopeful sense, from looking at the man.
Civil Disobedience (Part II)
Late in the afternoon on Monday, I learned that there had been several arrests of anti-war protestors at an unrelated protest elsewhere in Lansing. A student group had a rally in south Lansing. And five anti-war protestors reportedly went to a nearby recruiting station. Some went on the roof and hung a banner about lying recruiters. Others blocked the door. They were arrested for trespass. Since I know many of these people, I decided to take leave from the picket site, and do what I could to help arrange speedy bail. I was gone less than an hour. The protestors were charged with trespass and released on bond. I can’t talk about their cases at this point, as I’ve agreed to handle their defense pro bono.
If They Don’t Report It, It Didn’t Happen
Monday was long and cold. It ended without serious incident. At the end of the day, I went to a lecture by John Perkins, author of “Confessions of an Economic Hitman” after the picket, and sadly fell asleep during his lecture. He is a good speaker. And it was interesting. I was just bone tired.
I got home and watched the late news. Our picket had been replaced by the acts of civil disobedience. The anti-war movement had dropped to the third story of the day, and the news had reported only that “some of the protestors had gotten out of hand” along with news of the arrests. Worse, they followed that story with a comment from Rogers. In a very reasonable manner, he said he “respected the protestors’ ” rights to express themselves but that we could “not turn our backs on a blooming democracy in Iraq” at this stage. I’m fairly certain these are reasonably accurate quotes. Then they cut to Rogers giving private money to help fund a homeless shelter that is being closed by government cut backs. Ironic that the shelter is staffed by one of the protestors arrested during the day.
I prepared some gimmicks for the next day, just to keep us all busy, and went to bed late. Got up and 5:00 a.m. and we did it all over again. This time with no speeding ticket.
The morning news from the Lansing State Journal had only a blurb about the arrests. The State News led with a picture of one of the arrested protestors. The picket for peace did not officially exist. But we did have media coverage of the anti-war movement for a second straight day.
Stockholm Syndrome
The receptionist at Mike Rogers’ office helped make this protest what it was to become. I’m sure it was not intentional on her part. She did not mean to give aid-and-comfort to us. But she was a pleasant person. A friendly person. The kind of person that gives you hope in humanity. On my best days, I aspire to be that kind of person.
We were establishing a friendly relationship with her on our visits with the “receipts” for the war on Monday. Then, late Monday afternoon one protestor took in a receipt and let her “have it.” We all felt bad about that. I went in to apologize. The receptionist did not vote for the war. And was truly a kind soul. When I apologized for anything upsetting that was said, she looked a little teary, but said it was a part of her job. So things went on. But it planted the seed that would help evolve this event into something very special.
And while she was held captive to our protest, I felt myself held captive as well. Starting the second day I was already a bit sore. And I knew I had four days to go. And Tuesday morning was the coldest of the days. The weather never topped out too far above the freezing point. And a strong wind that morning made it downright bitter. I, genetically a Swede, am built for cold weather. But there was a time Tuesday morning when I was shivering. So I stepped into the office and asked if I could write Rogers a letter. The receptionist provided me a form.
Only one day into the event, and my thinking was already effected. I was somewhat touched by Rogers’ statement on television from the previous night. I give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps his expression honoring our rights to protest were sincere. Maybe I could write something to convince him to end the war. And if not, well, at least I would write something long enough so that I’d be fully warm when I left.
I told him as best as I could that I believed he had been misled to war like the rest of us. And that he could go back to Washington and turn things around. I tried to be positive. Constructive. It felt good. And though every other letter I have ever written the man has met with a rather glib response about how well things are going in Iraq, I still have hope that this man might change his mind.
So I’m not sure whether the receptionist or I had the more severe case of Stockholm Syndrome. But we were both at the scene of this event for the entire week. That much I know.
Tuesday Afternoon
The Moody Blues said this about Tuesday afternoon:
I’m looking at myself
reflections of my mind
It’s just the kind of day
to leave myself behind
As for me, I would say that Tuesday afternoon was laced with self-reflection. A crucible for me to boil down my thoughts about the anti-war movement. To understand my own role. To understand the power of the peace movement.
There was conflict on Tuesday. Tame conflict. Minor conflict. But enough to catalyze my thoughts on the power of non-violent change.
Rush Republicans
Whether it is a fair characterization or not, I see some blue collar white men who support Republicanism as “Rush Republicans.” In my perception of the world, they tend to be white males without higher education and without an ability to look at information critically. They are the type of people who listen to Rush Limbaugh and accept him as an authoritative source.
From the thousands of faces I saw during the week, there were many of these men. Some would drive by and shout, “Idiot!” Others, “Get a job!” It was not uncommon that these things would be shouted as I marched beside a fellow attorney. Or a college professor. Really, rather amusing.
But one man stands out as a representative of this class. He passed on foot and completely flipped out, telling a group of protestors that we were, “Idiots.” We were un-American. We were ruining the country. We were losing the war. We were doing what was done in Vietnam. It was our fault. He was venomous. I could almost hear lines from Rush Limbaugh being repeated from his mouth.
He was engaged by a number of people. The protest happened to be staffed by a number of veterans at that point. And one fine trial attorney (not me). And as the man was yelling himself out, he saw a “Mike Rogers’ Supports Torture Sign” and asked, “Just who in our government is torturing anyone?” He asked this question as if his brilliance could not be challenged. As if undisputed facts were dripping from his lips. Very self-satisfied.
My lawyer friend asked him very calmly, “Do you watch the news? Did you see the man who was just convicted for using an attack dog on a prisoner? What do you think that was?”
The Rush Republican pursed his lips and said nothing. He just walked away.
Sometimes facts are our friends.
Angry Republicans in Suits
The anger in Republicans is great. I can only imagine that they realize that the President has really led this country into a disaster. And their anger comes from their fear. They must be terrified to see protests like this in mid-week at Mike Rogers’ office.
One such person presented himself to our group as he was leaving the office. I can only guess that he was a Republican. He had the slick suit. The look of a lobbyist or other dignitary of the party. Perhaps a businessman. And he was easily the angriest man that I saw all week.
He stopped to scream at a group of my fellow protestors who had stopped their picket to talk amongst themselves. He jumped into the edge of the group and started yelling questions. He was a right-wing prophet sent to save us. Us poor misguided souls who somehow fail to understand the benefits of war.
As I approached he was giving an angry history lesson.
“Any of you geniuses know when the American Constitution was ratified?”
“How about the Declaration of Independence. Know when it was signed?”
“How many years difference is that?”
“Now, how many years have we been in Iraq since they passed their consititution?”
I’m ashamed to say that I politely failed the very angry pop quiz. I was off by a year or two on every answer. I suppose I need to go back to school. With a more nurturing history professor. But I confirmed the man’s estimation of my intelligence.
“You are all a bunch of idiots,” he screamed and started to stalk away.
I followed him, unable to let it go. “So I answered your questions,” I said. “Now you answer one of mine.”
He sputtered and stalked on.
“What percentage of the troops believe the U.S. should get out of Iraq this year?” I continued.
“Who cares. They signed up to fight. They’re doing their job,” he screamed, stopping to face me.
“Seventy-two percent,” I said. I was calm.
“You know who took that poll,” he screamed. “That’s just bullshit.”
“Zogby international,” I said. “You want a copy. And those kids are on the ground there. They ought to know.”
He was jumping in my face mad. The kind of posturing that inevitably leads great apes to do battle in the streets. And in my youth, I would have been happy to oblige him. But I’m an agent of peace now. And I just walked away and let him rant.
Sometimes facts are our friends.
Angry Insane Christians
Another man approached the picket line as a metaphor for the Christian-right, in some ways. He was going to Rogers’ office to deliver something, and stopped in our picket to yell. His was the loudest protest, I think. At least initially. “You’re picketing the wrong person here,” the man screamed. “This man can’t do anything about the war. It wasn’t his fault we went to war. What do you want from him?” He was raging.
“Well,” I said calmly. “There are five bills in the house that he could support to help stop the war. We’re asking him to support this legislation.”
The man’s demeanor changed instantly. He went from raging lunatic to voice of reason.
“Oh,” he said. “Really. I didn’t know.”
I got him a copy of the list of bills that will help stop the war, and he took it into the office to visit Rogers. When he came out he was still calm.
“I’m not sure how I feel about this,” the man said about our protest. Then he dragged me aside and let me know he was an insane Christian. “I want to tell you something. You know if you read the Book of Revelations it says that the world is going to end on August 31, 2006. It is right in there. You can read it for yourself. Look it up.”
“I didn’t know,” I said, and waved goodbye. “Thanks for telling me.” He was deadly serious.
Moment of Zen
I like John Stewart. He educates more people today than nightly news, I think. And I love the moment of zen. Tuesday’s moment of zen came from one of Mike Rogers’ angry staffers. I’m not sure what her role is at the office. But she is not, at her core, a nice person.
She shooed Margaret N. off her resting spot on a flower box outside the office. “You can’t sit there,” she said in her curt way. At other times, when someone would lean a sign against the building, she would rush out to disallow the practice.
But my favorite moment from the rude woman was this. We were singing a rather loud chant. An adapted army cadence satirizing Rogers’ votes for war and torture. And within minutes she ran out of the office and said, “You’re going to have to stop that. You’re protest is too loud. We’re trying to do business inside.”
I imagined Marie Antionette running from the palace, instructing the French revolutionaries that their protest was too loud and was interfering with her consumption of cake. It was my moment of zen.
Civil Disobedience (Part III)
In the waning hours on Tuesday, our little gathering had swelled to over a dozen. More than a dozen people carrying signs on a small section of sidewalk looks fairly impressive. It is hard to ignore.
By this point in the picket, we had been buttressed with much good will from the public. The good far outweighed the bad. But the bad things were relatively intense. I would say that my inner-state was much what it has been since I joined the peace movement some eight months ago. I’m repressing a lot of anger at my government. Some of it toward the citizenry who supported this administration. Twice. It is not an altogether positive emotion. And I’ve tried to process it intellectually. But it is there.
As I picketed like a zombie, someone nudged me to say that one of our protestors was drawing on Mike Rogers’ sign on the side of the building. I looked and saw an older woman with a black marker in hand. I quickly grabbed a couple of other organizers who were at the picket and asked their opinion. We decided it was appropriate to stop her.
I walked-up and put a hand on her shoulder. Told her that we were non-violent. And that we did not want to damage property during this protest. She was already done with her message, by the time I got to her. I do not recall it. But it started with the word “Shame.” It was her honest expression of rage at Rogers and the war. She was mad at being stopped. At me telling her how to protest. I told her I understood. I was sorry to limit her. That she had every right to act how she wanted to act, but that this action was not about property damage. I left her to cool. And to talk more with the other organizers. We quickly decided that we were going to attempt to clean off the graffiti. And before one of our group attempted it, I insisted that we report the incident to Rogers’ people inside. The act was right in front of the surveillance camera. And I did not one of our group getting charged with a crime for attempting to clean the sign.
I went in and reported the incident to the receptionist. She got the office security person – a elderly woman with what I think was a German accent. The elderly German woman told me that this was a federal crime (I am uncertain as to what crime, if any, may have been committed). She came out to inspect the graffiti, and gave us permission to attempt to clean the sign.
Someone ran to the art store, got a good cleanser, and the message was erased without leaving any permanent mark. The protestor was offended that we took down the message and went away mad. I let Rogers’ people know that we got the graffiti down. They did not come out to observe it. They wanted the name of the person, and though I had heard it a couple of times, I could honestly not remember the woman’s name. I would have given the name up at that point. I wanted to. I did not want the group to be responsible for the actions of an individual. This was a snap decision that I might have made differently given time to think about the situation. But my analytical skills were as dulled as my memory. So I tried to cooperate, but could not. No one at the protest offered to assist me in remembering the name. So I was unable to report it.
I was disturbed by the entire event. It impressed upon me the lack of control one has when bringing a group together. Each individual has the power to change the group’s course. And despite all the positive that had happened in the first two days, I left that night feeling very negative.
Am I paranoid, or are these police vehicles following us?
I spent the evening at the screening of the BBC documentary, “The Power of Nightmares.” It is a three part documentary explaining that the “war on terror” is mostly a fiction used to promote fear. While I love the content of the movie, it is long and boring. I didn’t fall asleep, though I can’t speak for the rest of the audience of about twenty people.
I talked with some of the protest organizers about the graffiti situation. And started to feel a little better about it. Until a couple of us walked out of the tea house at 10:30 p.m. or so. We walked out and there were two police cars waiting outside. We looked at each other and laughed. The cars took off in different directions. I’m sure it was just a coincidence. I am a coincidence theorist.
I drive home. Sleep. Rise and repeat.
The Rose Revolution
Wednesday morning was the turning point for me.
We started getting a regular morning routine. Ann F. rose early and claimed our parking spot, letting me sleep-in an extra hour. I pulled up at five minutes to seven every morning for the rest of the week, and we started setting up the “peace car.”
In just a few minutes, my little Hyundai was converted to a focal point of protest. It had a large rooftop sign that said, “End the Occupation.” And a magnetic sign was hung on the side of the car that said, “Call Rep. Rogers – 702-8000. Tell him to stop the war. Honk loud for peace.” And a bunch of signs were taped to the rear-bumper and the front windshield. It looked pretty cool.
Janet L. brought coffee and goodies every morning. And these things were set up on the trunk of the “peace car” like a buffet. Plus, passing drivers had been stopping and dropping off gifts. Cookies. Fresh fruit. Hot drinks. That was really sweet and energizing.
I was a little stiff every morning after Monday. And it took a few minutes to get loosened up. And on Wednesday, I was trying to put the bad vibes from Tuesday behind me as well. Also, I needed a new gimmick for people to go in and interact with Rogers’ staff. That’s when I looked up and saw the Bancroft flower shop one block over. I suppose I’d been looking at it a lot that week. But it just blended into the background. And I know that I’d thought of that shop earlier in the week, as I was considering getting something for the kind receptionist.
Another thing on my mind was a lecture I had heard about non-violence the week before. Jack Duvall, co-author of “A Force More Powerful” had lectured at Michigan State University the week prior to our events. And I recalled his story about the Rose Revolution. I was late to the lecture, because I was doing radio publicity for the events, and I was tired, because I was spending many hours planning for the events. So I may not have gotten the bit about the Rose Revolution with complete accuracy, but here is what I remember him saying.
The Rose Revolution took place in Georgia, the former Soviet state. The people were tired of an oppressive regime. And they had taken to the streets in massive numbers. The entire thesis of Mr. Duvall’s presentation was that government is only possible with the consent of the governed. So that when sufficient numbers come together using non-violent means of conflict, governments lose their power to rule, and quickly fall. He traces the intellectual line from Thoreau to Whitman to Lincoln to Gandhi in South Africa, and then India, to Nelson Mandela, to Martin Luther King, and to a number of more modern movements in the former East bloc countries, as well as Latin America. Very inspirational message. I’ve much to learn about these things. For instance, it goes further back. The American Revolution (and a thesis that it was won because of the non-violent resistance to the crown more so than the battles). Anyway. In Georgia, the people were confronted in the streets by the powers of the regime. The army. The police forces. And they did a neat thing. They started running gifts across the lines to the soldiers. Flowers. Baked goods. They humanized themselves to the troops. And when the crisis came. When the orders were given by the regime for a crackdown, the military refused their orders, and the regime crumbled quickly.
So with these thoughts swirling, I set on an idea. I wanted to head down to the flower shop and get a couple of dozen flowers. I figured we could deliver a gift to Rogers as we delivered our message about trying to stop the war. No more snide “receipts” or papers discussing the Democratic legislation that could stop the war. Just flowers. A human thing. People to people. Totally non-violent. Still with a message. And for me. That was all the difference. The rest of the week, I was at peace. There were still incidents. In fact, some that I described above may have come after this change. I’ve honestly lost chronology on all the events. But this simple change shifted my thinking on everything. I’m not sure it is all that profound a change. Maybe I was just tired, and as I recover and think about these events, the flowers will lose significance. But I don’t think so.
We ended up delivering approximately fourteen dozen flowers in the next three days. I’ll tell you about some of them.
Is This a Con?
I have a gullible face and nature. I want to believe in people. Just born that way, and I’ve tried not to let the world take that away. As a consequence, when I visit large cities, I am not infrequently the target of minor scams. Many of you have been targets as well. So that when people give you strange requests on the street, you are wary. You’ve developed a natural inclination to walk past these queries for your own self-preservation. And the expression on your face when given these novel questions is one of guarded and silent bemusement, or perhaps one of feigned hearing impairment, or total disinterest. The coping mechanisms are endless I suppose.
So when I started asking strangers to give flowers to Mike Rogers to help stop the war, I started seeing these looks. The looks hiding the thoughts. What is this guy selling? What does he really want?
But I wasn’t selling anything. And I guess that came through. Because strangers took up the flowers easily. Hardened city-dwellers.
One man was riding past on his bike, slowly enough for me to make my pitch. He trusted enough to leave his bike unattended with me, while he delivered his flower. Another, left his running SUV with me in the street while he delivered hot chocolate to the “peace car” buffet.
Peace is disarming.
Hummer’s for Peace
Though you might not immediately associate someone driving a Hummer with enlightened attitudes about peace and justice in the world, you might be too hasty in your judgment.
Not less than once a day a Hummer passed and honked in support of the picket for peace. I think it was the same Hummer, though I can’t be sure. Many of the honks came from large SUVs and other expensive cars. Also, from hybrids. Apparently one’s views on preserving the planet through driving responsibly are not directly correlated with one’s beliefs that this war is unjust and must stop now.
The Homeless for Peace
On Wednesday morning, a young man approached the picket for peace. He had some obvious problems. An affected gait. Some type of facial tic. Not a severe as George W. Bush. But noticeable.
The young man, Josh, was homeless. Gary D. talked to him for hours. I talked to him a bit. His young daughter was apparently killed in a tragic accident. He had relatives in the war. He delivered a flower for peace. And wanted to stay.
He picketed with us for large chunks of the next three days. He loved the “honk for peace” sign and was the Most Valuable Honk solicitor.
People want this to end. All kinds of people.
Backhoe’s for Peace
I’ve been asked by critics of the war, “Who is benefitting?” The answer. Halliburton. Bechtel. The Carlysle Group. Big Oil seems to be doing well. Military firms. It is the people who do not want war. War is business. The business is death.
We saw that in microcosm on our picket for peace. A backhoe drove by one morning, followed closely by the company truck. The backhoe driver indicated his support for our cause with a sympathetic look, but could not do more, because it appeared his boss was driving the truck behind him.
Later in the day, when the backhoe driver was free from the boss, he laid on the backhoe’s horn. Masters might support the war. But the servants do not.
Children for Peace
Bryna, my wife, stopped by the picket for peace on more than one occasion. She wants peace in the world, but does not think protest matters much. On different occasions she brought different things. She brought donuts, and press releases. And my sister. And my children.
Sierra and Jordan walked on the line for a short time. They hoisted their signs and marched back and forth.
They deserve to be raised in a world at peace.
Public Transit for Peace
Busses pass the picket for peace regularly. And many of them honk in support. We think this is impressive, as the driver risks offending any pro-war passengers. It is a sign that the war’s popularity is crashing.
Ambulance Drivers for Peace
Can ambulance drivers take a partisan position on this unpopular war? Yes. Several honked support. One flicked on the sirens for a short blast. It is a sign that the war’s popularity is crashing.
Corporate Horns are Really Loud
How about commercial truck driver’s sporting corporate logos? Is it safe for them to blast out their support on a city street, where right-wing driver’s might take their license number and call to complain? Yes. More than a few blasted those lovely, loud blasting horns. I haven’t smiled at those horns so much since I was a child.
Signs of War
The angry still pass us. Far outnumbered. And they flash their signs of displeasure. The finger is most common. Or the thumbs down. We were mooned once, though I didn’t see it myself.
Meeting Mike (Part II)
Wednesday came and went. Bled into Thursday. The flowers mounted. And we started delivering Hershey’s “Kisses for Peace” along with the flowers on Thursday. The citizens passed. On foot. In their cars. Expressing their support. Or their displeasure. Or remaining stoically neutral about this awful war.
Late on Thursday night, I saw Mike Rogers for a second time. He was leaving the office by the front door, walking quickly to his car in the back lot. I was near the street, and I called out to him. “What do you think Mr. Rogers? Can you stop this war, sir?”
He did not turn. But he put out his right arm and flashed me the thumb’s up sign.
I choose to take it as a sign of peace, though a cynical person might feel otherwise.
Buddhists for Peace
I spent much of the week walking beside people. People from the peace community. People from Lansing. People from farther away. Talking.
Some of the people I talked with were completely calming. Serene. Anna was like that. She had taken time away from her life to spend on the picket for peace. Time was very relative. Sometimes it sped up. Sometimes it slowed down. So I’m not sure how long I talked with Anna. But it was like breathing calm.
As we talked, I learned she was a Buddhist. And that she knew a lawyer I know, Ian, who is also Buddhist. As Buddhist as a lawyer can be, anyway. He had once encouraged me to join a local group of Buddhists. But I didn’t. It turns out that Ian and Anna are friends. Who knew? Later they marched together. There were many existing connections in my own life that I only discovered through talking to people.
People from many faiths want to end this war. So do people with little or no faith.
Christians for Peace
On Friday around noon we were joined by Dennis and Destiny. They are citizens in Lansing. They came at a perfect time. Our protest had dwindled to about four. They made it six. And very soon it had climbed to eight. The difference between three and seven is great. The difference between four and eight is great. Each new person adds to the force of a group in some exponential way. I do not possess a degree in math, though I marched next to people who did during the week. Maybe they could explain this non-linear addition of power. Or maybe some of the sociologists I marched with. Or maybe it doesn’t need explanation, because it is very human. But Dennis and Destiny came at the right time. And stayed for hours. Many walked up from the community in this way. And others stopped to deliver flowers. Some stopped their cars to explain how thankful they were that we were out there, finally saying what needed to be said. Or stopped to shake our hands. The outpouring of gratitude during the week was very real, and very good. It bolstered us.
I talked with them both for a long while. Dennis had raised Destiny by himself. And he had raised him to be a fine young man of 19. They just saw the protest, and are the kind of people who want to get involved. So they came out.
Dennis is a Christian. Not a vocal Christian, who tries to sell his religion. But someone who believes this war is un-Christian. He gravitated toward a sign that said, “Thou Shalt Not Kill.”
“That kind of says it all,” he said to Destiny. “Doesn’t it?”
Destiny reveres his father. He has managed to avoid the army recruiters. He understands at 19, what I did not. That to join the Army would be to join a group that is putting death out into the world. He is in school. And working to get through school. He wants to start a business in Lansing so that he can give back to the community. He is smart and articulate and thoughtful and compassionate. His father has raised a wonderful young man. And they say they will stay involved with our group. We need that energy. This thing has got to grow.
Oh. Destiny. He got his name because he was born weeks premature. He had yellow jaundice, and was not supposed to live. They called him Destiny. He is strong.
People from many faiths want this war to end.
Lessons
Talking with Dennis and Destiny, you can hear the father still educating the son. And you can see a son still respecting his father at nineteen. Listening. Destiny tells me how much he loves his father. That he is patient and kind. Not preachy. But a teacher.
Dennis and I talk about the flowers for peace. And we guess about approaching pedestrians, trying to gauge from the look of them, whether they would be likely to support peace or war. We see a scruffy looking man approaching, with long hair. If he does not look counter-culture, I don’t know who does. So I say to Dennis, this guy, I bet he will take a flower in.
But when he approaches, he is a supporter of war. He has a quiet disdain for us.
Dennis tells me, “You can’t judge a book by his cover.” He is a good father. It was a truth I already know from my time on the picket. But Dennis sums the lesson up nicely. I tell him about another young man from the community, Brian, who looks the part of a young Republican. Brian holds conservative, almost Libertarian ideas on economic issues, but he is ever-the anti-war activist at heart. Brian spent good parts of two-days marching with us. Just a walk-up. And he wants to stay involved.
Many people want this war to end, but just don’t know what to do to end it.
Saints for Peace
Martha works with the Michigan Peace Team. She snuck away from her work often, and came to the picket. She has traveled the U.S., serving in her role as a peacemaker. She has spent time on the U.S. border, keeping the peace between “minutemen” and the community. The role of “peacekeepers” sometimes seems like that of a referee. She had to come to the community peace protests on Sunday as a “peacekeeper,” meaning her task was to ensure that there was no violence between “protestors” and “counter-protestors.” But she always wants to be on the side of peace. She has a smile that is so good. She is a saint. And she works with another saint.
Father Peter is a Catholic priest. I met him two weeks ago on the way to a vigil for Rachel Courrie at local CAT headquarters (that movement is trying to get CAT to stop selling bulldozers, like the one used to run Rachel down, to Israel). He has spent a life, it seems, at odds with the hierarchy in the church. He’s not so concerned about his standing in the church, as he is about doing good work. He is like social justice come to life. He spent years living and operating a homeless/co-op in East Lansing, often in semi-defiance of his superiors. He has traveled to Palestine and Iraq on peacekeeping teams. He would like to build local peace teams that travel to Iraq, Palestine and Chiapas. Looking at the work of these peace teams, it is hard not to admire the people who do this work. Like Tom Fox.
Father Peter has driven by and honked like a wild man. It was both comic and encouraging. And he came on Friday to march and sing. The power of that man is great. If you had to meet one person in Lansing, I think I’d nominate him. Some might say Tom Izzo. Not me.
Martha and Peter are saints among us. And they want to stop the war.
Wise Old WWII Veterans for Peace
I think it was Friday morning when this man passed. He did not look old enough, but he had served in World War II. In North Africa and Italy. He was quiet and would have never ventured an opinion without my asking him to give a flower to Rogers. He was happy to do so. And then he came out and quietly explained how awful he thought this war was. He was a powerful man. A voice that would otherwise not be heard. We were all pleased to shake his hand and receive his well-wishes.
Many veterans want this war to end. It seems to me most do. A vast majority. Most soldiers do not want to die or kill. I say this from personal experience. Some are gung-ho. And there have certainly been times in American history where nationalism has been sufficiently stoked to make people believe that dying and killing were necessary. But at a human level. Most just want war to end.
The National Guard for Peace
On Thursday or Friday afternoon a young man was walking by, and I asked him if he was against the war in Iraq.
“I’m in the National Guard,” he said softly.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Have you been there?”
“I’m going in June,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” I said. It was obvious from his posture and tone that he was not a volunteer for this war. He may have been led into the National Guard with some enticement, but this was not a young man itching to go to that war zone.
The young man took a flower to Rogers to ask him to stop the war. And we talked some. Ann F. got him a soldier’s hotline number. He doesn’t want to go. But he feels quite obligated. I don’t even know his options clearly.
Soldiers want this war to end. This one wants the war to end before June. Let’s help him.
Rangers for War
A U.S. Army Ranger stopped by Rogers’ office. I asked him how he felt about the war. He said he was a ranger. I said I was too (not a Ranger, but a veteran). He said he supported the troops. I said I did too, and wanted to bring them home. We didn’t really say much. We just looked at each other. He kind of smiled at me and cocked his head just a bit. I think we amused him.
I do not believe this man understands the power of the people. The power of non-violent dissent. These things are a joke to him. An amusement, like clowns. I’m sure he has been trained in urban combat. That he can shoot his rifle well. That he knows how to properly wear body armor. And that he is convinced that our mission was always to bring Democracy to this country we have torn asunder. I wish he could have stayed on this sidewalk for a week.
I patted him on the shoulder and wished him well. There were three or four soldiers we saw like this. Some day I imagine they will be like the other veterans I have met in this movement. Those who have been to war and realize after the fact that the human cost does not justify the “ideals” on which war is marketed and sold.
Extreme Protest – American’s New Weight Loss Fad
Gary, who spent about 45 hours marching the sidewalk outside Rogers’ office (on a bad foot), said he had weighed himself and had lost four pounds. I thought maybe I would lose a few pounds on this protest, too. But I didn’t touch a scale.
The food on the protest did make it hard to lose weight though. I wanted to share with you some peace recipes. But I was not diligent in my collection efforts. The best I can do is tell you about some of the very yummy food, and tell you to send me an e-mail. I may be able to give you a recipe.
Three things that I remember. Carl A’s Peace Chile (either I was just freezing, or it was the best Chile I’ve ever eaten). Gary L.’s Norwegian Peace Bars (breakfast food or dessert bar). Janet L.’s Vegetable Peace Soup (homemade and delicious). There was some excellent bread and peanut butter cookies as well. And lots of packaged goods. And I still did go away from the peace picket a little slimmer than I went into it.
You remember reading Kansas’ series on the Peace Pilgrim? I didn’t understand how it would be possible that people would actually give the woman enough food and shelter to keep her alive on her pilgrimage. But I do now. Peace is a powerful product to sell. And strangers brought us more than enough calories to sustain life. That was one of the coolest things to learn.
On Walking and Standing
Some people like to walk with their picket signs. Back and forth. Someone said I looked like a caged animal at times. Others prefer to stand and show the sign to traffic. Or to stand in groups and talk.
I was a walker. I’m guessing that I was actually walking between 70-90% of the time I was out there. At three miles an hour, I walked over one-hundred and fifteen miles, even using the lowest estimate.
Had I have stood there that long, I would have been really hurting. It hurts more to stand, at least to me. I was sore every morning. And my foot did hurt. Sometimes a back or a shoulder. But a couple of days on now, and I feel wonderful.
Chapped Lips
It was rarely above freezing during the picket for peace. Which wasn’t all bad. There were snow flurries a few times. And that was a lot better than rain. Cold rain would have been almost unbearable.
I’m not much of an outdoors person. This was probably the most time I’ve spent continuously outdoors since my days in the Army. And I forgot what the elements do to your skin. My entire face is chapped. I’ve been peeling away layers of my lips. I feel like a prune head or something.
What’s the Frequency Kenneth
Do you remember that old REM song? Someone told me it was about a crazed lunatic confronting Dan Rather on the streets of New York, or something. Anyway, I met a young journalism student during the week who should be the next Dan Rather.
He was way committed. Just a student with a camera and a microphone, but far more committed to getting an accurate story than any of the professional journalists I met. He took lots of film. Spoke with quite a few people for good periods of time. And planned on trying to interview Mike Rogers.
He’ll never make it of course. If he became a member of the mainstream media, they would be forced to televise the truth from time to time. And that would not be healthy for the corporatocracy. This boy will end up as a lawyer. Or writing subversive novels or something. I’m sure of it.
Scary NRA Guy for War
I did not meet the scary NRA guy for war. But a couple of people saw him during the picket. He was in his car. And he would park and take notes and stare at us. He had an NRA bumper sticker. He scared people on the picket. But it is a free country. Kind of.
I had a moment on the picket. Tuesday, I think. At the same time the scary NRA guy was being reported. Gary and I were marching up the sidewalk together, and we approached a car that was stopped on a side street, waiting to pull onto Michigan Avenue. The window was rolled down. There were two guys in the car. They looked a little rough around the edges. But I flashed them a peace sign anyway, to gauge their support of the cause.
They both stared at me. Kind of non-committed. Nothing threatening, just kind of icy. They had been watching us as we approached, even before I flipped them the peace sign. And they said nothing as Gary and I walked up to them, then turned and walked back the other direction.
And just as I turned I got this chilling kind of premonition. Or bad feeling. I imagined a gun and getting shot in the back. A very real day dream. I’d never had that thought before.
Are there people for war so angry that they might shoot people for peace? I suspect there are.
Angry Chants for Peace
I modified a couple of old Army marching songs so we would have something to sing during the week. They could be loud. And angry. As the week went on, I liked the songs less. A professor for peace, Kelly M., suggested that it was better to focus on the positive of getting people to honk their horns. Rogers could hear that as well as the chants.
Still. Some people liked the songs. I was going to print them here, but this is getting so long. I’ll send you a copy if you want them.
It makes me think of a larger point. Much of my language surrounding the peace movement is couched in terms of war. We are a culture of death, and I speak the language. How does the peace movement take the high ground? How do we fight this battle to stop the war? How best to martial our forces?
I need to let go of that mind set. It is very hard. But I need to. Our culture needs to let go of war and death.
Other Songs
There was much music. So many beautiful voices. I do not know all the people. John M., Ann F., Judy M. (I think), Anna, Frank D., Kathie K. and Father Peter. And many others I do not know by name. Beautiful voices in soft choirs. And soloists. Many songs.
And Gary and his boom box. “War – What the Hell’s it good for.” Josh liked this. The angry Rogers’ staffer, not so much.
Beautiful voices sing for peace.
Mike Rogers’ Surveillance Camera Theater
This was fun. We needed things to break up the monotony. So I wrote a story book tale called “The Bush Who Cried Wolf.” As many of you will recall, Rogers recently installed surveillance cameras during our weekly protest at his office. So I thought we could use the camera to send a message about the war.
People seemed to enjoy the story. We used story boards, each one a page of the book. It was like an illustrated children’s tale, with a reader. The audience was encouraged to ooh and aw. Lots of laughs.
Counter Protestors are Hard to Spot at a Distance
On Thursday, I believe, we got our first hint of a counter-protest. A man was walking up the street with a homemade sign. He was several blocks away. But no one knew him. We figured some counter protestor was going to join our ranks, to protest the protest.
As he got closer, the sign was against the war. He just wanted to have his own say. The man looked a heck of a lot like Harry Connick, Jr. I think his name was Mark.
[Continued in next diary: The Accidental Actist: An Anti War Diary (Part II) Continued.]
