I like the photos that Damnit Janet takes of her peace activity. They get you there. And it is good to be there. I could make up a number of excuses as to why I do not take photos. Some would be white lies and some would be true. Reasons like these. I’m afraid that my soul would be captured, according to the Native American legend that we all learned from watching Hollywood westerns. Or, because I’m too much of a technophobe to marry the technology of modern cameras and personal computers. But the real reason is that I just don’t look as good as Damnit Janet. You’ll find more photos of the Loch Ness Monster than you will of me.
But in the absence of photos, I’ll try to put down in words the very small peace action that occurred on my corner of the planet on Independence Day.
Late Monday, at a local peace meeting, we learned that our good friend, Rep. Mike Rogers (R-MI-08), would be marching in a nearby Fourth of July parade in Mason, Michigan. We thought that there ought to be some peace presence there to greet him. So we put together a last minute action.
Mason is a slice of Americana. The county seat of Ingham County. An old courthouse dominates the small town. And in the few blocks that surround the courthouse, you might believe yourself lost in the fifties. There are the local shops. Well-kept brick buildings. Lovely homes. There’s quite obviously been some effort to preserve the character of the town against the cluster of superstores and fast-food restaurants that have swallowed up the farm land near the Interstate, just a mile away.
I drove into town and parked on a side street just a few blocks from the courthouse. If there was a picture, this is what it would look like: A guy in a late-model Hyundai, windows rolled down against the heat parks in front of a modest home. He’s listening to NPR. Checks his watch. He’s early, so he decides to sit in the car and wait. He’s a bit apprehensive about the reception he’s going to receive.
Heck. This isn’t a picture. It is home video. Because I’ve got to tell you what happens next: A gigantic red pick-up truck turns onto the sidestreet and approaches the little car. It has an oversized American flag mounted on top, where the machine gun turret might be mounted on a tank. Brass horns. Fog lights. Oversized wheels. It is the poster-car for International Redneck Magazine. And the poster-boy for said magazine is driving the car. He gives a surly look to the man in the Hyundai listening to NPR (me). And exits the car to reveal his full redneck battle dress uniform. He’s wearing a sleeveless black t-shirt and camoflauge pants. And he’s got a mullet. Christ! Did they dig this guy out of a casting call just to highlight my apprehension?
He is surly, or perhaps concerned, because I have inexplicably parked in front of his house. I look him in the eye and we share a nod. That’s it. I’m fairly certain that this is the man from wing-nuttia that has helped steal away my country. And I’m pretty certain, that he knows I’m the liberal peace monger who wants my country back. He gets something from his house. Eyeballs me suspiciously, and heads off. To the parade. I wait until he is full clear before I get out and unload things that would have surely marked me as the liberal peace monger — should mullet-guy have had any doubts. Two large signs that said “Petals for Peace” and “Get U.S. Out of Iraq.” Some flyers — red, blue and goldenrod. And over three dozen flowers. The flowers are a hodge-podge of miniature roses, and carnations, and daisies (I think) and who knows what else. They are the ones that are available at the superstore checkout lanes. The ones that let you shop like hell for Doritos and Miller Light, but still allow you to care for your wife. I’ve got these flowers because all the regular flower shops are closed.
If you will look closely, you will see that the stems of a dozen of the white carnations are blue. The plan was to use red, white and blue flowers. So I soaked the dozen in a deep blue mixture of blue food gel and water. I was disappointed when the household expert at flower-dying (my five year old) informed me that it would take at least a couple of days for the flowers to turn the desired shade. But the flowers are red, white, and yellow and purple, because that’s what was available in the checkout line. And a dozen of them have blue-tinted stems. And there is still enough blue dye so that the hands of those that touch them are pick up some of the die. We’ve covered the patriotic colors.
I’m not feeling any better about this action after my encounter with Monster Truck Man. This wasn’t my idea originally. And as I thought about it, I was imagining that there would be a bunch of patriotic people at the parade. That they would not like our message much. And that things could get ugly. And the world had just pretty much confirmed my prejudice.
So as I walked to the courthouse steps, carrying my flowers, and my signs, and my flyers, I was more than a bit tight. A woman saw the flowers and the signs. And smiled. And that should have loosened me up a little, but it didn’t. I’m walking on. Like a peace soldier crashing on to certain doom on Omaha beach. When I see my peace friends. Dr. Jack and One Angry Patriot.
They tell me I look unusually defensive. Man it is written on my face. We go over the plan. Dr. Jack, a wise man, has suggested that the setting requires us to be exceedingly respectful. He is a pacifist. A man of good conscience. He’s been fighting these battles for peace and justice for decades. And his tactics are getting no argument from me.
One Angry Patriot is dressed in a full colonial-era ensemble. Topped with the tri-corner hat. And he’s got a U.S. flage lapel pin to camoflauge the waive of anti-patriotism that has been coursing through me for these last years. Since Bush really. I’m sick of nationalism. Christ. I have become that thing that the right-wing says I am. I’m rooting for us to lose, because we are fucking wrong all the time. But I wear the lapel pin for camoflauge. And the three of us head out to a corner on the parade route. Edging up so we are in position.
Carole comes along in a bit. Finds us. She’s an elegant lady. She’s clipped roses from her garden in the house by the lake. She has a cheery smile that won’t be silenced by the day. Believes that we must be here. So there are four of us now in a sea of exurban proto-fascism, or so a cynical mind might think.
I see the Monster Truck parked a block up, right on the parade route. I’m so comforted that Mullet-man is nearby. The crowd looks like average folks. Well dressed mostly. It is like I’ve died and went to suburban heaven. Khaki pants and skirts. Families with kids and dogs. This is not the decaying manufacturing town where I grew up. This is a farming community that is grudgingly hanging on to some wealth. To be sure the struggling middle class are mixed-in with the crowd. But they are camoflauged, as well as I am. With small American flags to hide their fears of bankruptcy, the lack of health coverage, and a world generally gone mad.
The people are doing their best to politely ignore us. There is some curiosity. Some distaste. It is as if someone has just taken a shit at their bridge club or something. Kind of funny, really. I feel like shouting out, “I’m terribly sorry that this war is inconveniencing your celebration of American militancy.” But I remain silent.
A woman comes up to examine our signs. She wants a flower, which we give her, along with some literature about “Petals for Peace.” We’ve got directions for our action on July 7, 2006 (which I’ll include below — because anyone can participate from anywhere in the world with very little effort). And we’ve got a great sheet that outlines the bills that are in Congress now which could help end the war. On the sheet, we’ve highlighted the Republican Congressman who have co-sponsored this legislation.
The policemen are standing kitty corner to us. In an intersection. Talking on their radios. We’ve attracted their attention. While I do not think what we are about to do is illegal, I will only set the odds at 12-1 against our arrest. It would be a longshot. But possible. I mean, this is America. The land where people can potentially be spied upon, arrested and held without charge for years. So I can set the odds against arrest any higher than 12-1. Eventhough our soon-to-be action is benign.
The parade is led off by the military color guard. And then by horses. Mounted by deputies. A show of force. If you ever stop to look at the symbology of a Fourth of July parade, it is really hard to escape the conclusion that we live in a military-police state.
Over the holiday weekend, I’ve seen and heard many Americans interviewed. Asked to share their thoughts and feelings about the Fourth. And a common theme is the desire to support our troops. Because they are defending us. An attack could come at any moment. People are scared. And I have to stop myself and wonder. What are we so afraid of? Our military budget is equal to that of roughly the entire military spending of the world combined. We are not about to be over-run by any military force. Why are we so frightened? It drives us.
The police contingent in the parade is followed by a woman riding a cow. And the cow takes a shit right in the middle of the intersection. Then stops. This cow has some big eyes. And I’m thinking it is eyeballing me. I’m sure the effect was the same from any perspective. But I was almost sure the cow had sniffed me out as the anti-patriot. And that it was going to come and trample me. I was not at one with the surroundings. An obvious alien presence. And the cow did make some moves toward the crowd. But it was eventually guided back to the parade route.
Next up. The forces of homeland security. Ambulances. Fire trucks. I sure as hell hope there wasn’t an emergency anywhere, because we had a sizeable chunk of the force with us. The caring people. They crushed the cow pie flat. And some of them saw our signs and gave us the thumbs up. A good sign.
Then industry. The farmers. Tractors mostly. A couple of trucks. Old model cars. Followed by the Boy Scouts of America. Really, a military youth group. When you get right down to it. Dress them up. Teach them first-aid and outdoor skills. Swear them an oath to God and Country. And get them ready for rifles when they’re 18. That was my route. Once.
And finally, the leadership. Politicians. First the candidates for the state house. A Republican with a sizeable contingent led the way. He had a support Rogers bumpersticker on his car, so that pretty much sums up his candidacy in my view. His people were handing out candy to the crowd. I offered one of the gift-givers a flower for peace. He declined.
And near the back of the parade, Mike Rogers and his minions. We had to wait the entire parade almost. He had a pretty large parade cadre. There were a couple of cars. One of them a vintage model. And a group of marchers with signs. And candy-throwers, I believe (the candy-throwers all start to bleed together after awhile, so I can’t be sure — it is like operating in the fog or war).
So I start trying to pick out Rogers, but I can’t. And One Angry Patriot lets a flower go. Lofts it at a car. And we all start throwing our flowers. One at a time. At Rogers contingent. Right in their path. A bed of flowers they have to wade through. They try to smile at us. But the smiles are a veneer. This isn’t the reception they want. A bunch of peace activists throwing flowers in their path in public.
Rogers was working our side of the street. Right up close. That’s why I couldn’t see him. He didn’t see us either. So he walked right up on us. Offered to shake Dr. Jack’s hand. But recoiled at the flower Dr. Jack offered him. We all offered him flowers. Asked him to stop the war. And threw our flowers at his feet as he passed. He didn’t really want to shake our hands or take our gifts, as it turned out. He just wanted to get past us as quick as possible.
After he passed, a man from across the street ran up. He was just one of the suburban guys from the crowd. And I’ll have to admit, that I thought we were in for some confrontation. But the man said, “Can I give you guys some money or something. A donation?”
“We don’t want you money, man.” I said. “But I’ve got some literature for you. Check out our websites. Get involved.”
“I will,” he said. So that was good. He could be the one. The Neo to my Morpheus. Or Masih, as Dr. Jack said. There are so many saviors.
Having perfected our craft, we hustled over to the other side of the courthouse, where the parade circled around. We had to walk down quite a ways into the residential neighborhoods to find a spot where we could squeeze into the front rows. But we made it in plenty of time. And we caught the Rogers’ contingent again.
And old woman in Rogers’ vintage car, oblivious to our political message it seems, wanted a flower. So I ran alongside her car and delivered a rose. “Ask Mike to stop the war,” I said. And circled back to my group.
My compatriots had already thrown many flowers out into the street as the Rogers’ people passed. And Rogers was still pressing flesh with the people lining the streets. He was walking up on us again. And when he saw us, he sprinted away. Across the street. We chased him. I’d say he was the very image in the dictionary of phrases for the term “cut and run.”
Victory was ours. We retired to the local pub. Where we had a local ale. And we met a local veteran. A man who served in Iraq. An airborne ranger combat engineer, by his own account. Someone who defused mines for a living. He’s retired. But he is a critical skill so he’s probably getting called back. So he’s considering a job as a private contractor. $200,000 grand a year. Better than going back with the army.
He was pretty drunk. Drinking Beam, he said. Out of Mason jars. And he confided in us. “I hate to say it,” the vet whispered toward Dr. Jack. “But you know the only way to win this thing. We’ve got to kill ’em all. I hate to do it. But it’s the only way to win.”
Maybe that is the only way to win. And maybe we should understand that we cannot win a war with the world.
I left. Made it to the fireworks with my own kids. Sat and watched the rockets red glare. To ooohs and ahhhs and car alarms going off. And made it through the entire day without a single photo.