The peace sign turns 50 years old this year. I turned 46 years old this year. This symbol, with three simple lines contained within a circle, has been part of my life since at least 1968. We've grown up together.
Much like an old family friend, this symbol was with us through the wars in Southeast Asia and our return to the U.S. in the turbulent 1970's.
If you'd like more information on this symbol, Wikipedia has a pretty thorough history.
I grew up in a quasi-militaristic family. My Dad, a CIA case officer, was stern. Actually, stern is a nice word to describe how he was between 1968 and 1977. My first encounter with the peace sign was in the Philippines. I was attending a private Chinese Catholic school. One of my classmates was from Australia. She would draw them all over her notebooks. I became fascinated with them. I started drawing them all over my own stuff. This peace sign replaced my infatuation with Kilroy.
I took drawing it to the next level. I started drawing them on me. My Australian friend and I drew them on our thighs. We put them just under the sweeps of our dresses so that no one could see them. Of course, we used pens to draw them on. Like any other six year old I completely forgot that they would still be on my leg when I got home.
I will never forget my Dad's reaction when he saw that inked-on-tattoo of a peace sign on my thigh. He was incensed. At that point I was no longer his six year old daughter but a rabid drug peddling, acid dropping hippie. Yes. A hippie. I never drew another peace sign on my thigh. Ever. But I did become a hippie.
I did everything I could to rebel against a CIA Dad who had a personal vendetta against a simple symbol. I refused to put my curly long hair back into a pony tail. Instead I wore it long over my face. I started wearing beaded necklaces and bell bottoms. By the time we left the Philippines I was a child of the '70's and I would never go back. He didn't know what to do with me at nine years old. My love affair with the peace sign didn't start for altruistic reasons. I didn't know much about war...and peace. But I soon would.
Our next assignment was in Laos. We arrived there in 1971. Laos was nothing like the Philippines. No modern cities. No grocery stores. No TV, and, no American music. The outside pop cultural influences were gone for me. Books became my new friends; Nancy Drews in particular. We lived in very small villages. My Dad was gone from our lives most of the time. He was on assignment in the northern part of the country fighting against the Pathet Lao. When he was home he would try to involve his family in his work.
I distinctly remember the day I became a pacifist.
Occasionally my Dad would have celebrations for his troops. These celebrations would center around a slaughtered water buffalo. Most of the time I was free to run around and explore these parties. I would watch the soldiers interacting with each other while they cleaned their guns and rested on the grass. Something I wasn't prepared to see though were the prisoners. The Pathet Lao and Viet Cong POW's were kept in small cages. They sat in these cages, stoicly, while the laughter of their captors surrounded them. They sat in these cages while an American girl of 10 looked at them. When I first saw these men in cages I was horrified. I remember their eyes and how scared they were. I asked my Dad about them. He told me they were prisoners. I was concerned they wouldn't get any food. He assured me they would. He told me he would not mistreat them. And he didn't.
I don't know what happened to those soldiers but they had a profound affect on my life. There was something very immoral about keeping a human being in a cage. I didn't like what this war did to them. I didn't like what that war did to me and my family. My first understanding of war came by watching a human being under duress.
In 1970 our compound was attacked by rockets. In the middle of the night my parents pulled us from our beds and threw us into the hallway. They covered us with pillows. The lights were out. I could hear the whirring and whistles of the rockets as they approached. The house shook as they impacted the ground outside. We were terrified. The next day my brother and I went outside and picked up the schrapnel remnants of the terror we experienced the night before. From that point forward we slept in a bomb shelter constructed of a room downstairs that was sandbagged outside the door. M-16's hung on the wall by our bunkbeds.
That peace sign was becoming more meaningful to me. I started asking questions about why we were there. I never got a good answer from anyone.
We headed back to the U.S. in 1971. We came home to Albuquerque to see my Grandparents only to find they had become involved in the "peace movement." My Dad did not understand. In his mind he was just overseas fighting against the Pathet Lao and the Viet Cong in a war that no one back home understood. The arguments started, the yelling was deafening. The family was fractured. Back in the U.S. was when I saw my first anti-peace bumper sticker. It was on an old truck. The bumper sticker had a photo of the peace sign with text that read "Sign of the American chicken."
I kept asking myself, at what point does a simple symbol become so offensive? How could the concept of "peace" be something that caused such adversity among people who loved each other? How could peace be something that a nation could be offended by?
Today things are different with my Dad. Instead of becoming more conservative as he has aged, he has gone the opposite direction. After my Mom died my Dad eventually remarried. His wedding cake was decorated with sugar encrusted peace signs. He now has one on his car. As far as the nation is concerned, things are about the same.
The peace sign still offends some. It is seen as a sign of weakness.
I beg to differ with them.