I'm a pretty complacent fellow. But today I stood in the rain with a half-eaten sandwich ready to throw it at a pick-up truck here in Iowa City that kept circling the immediate downtown area, a big red pick-up truck with an giant Confederate Flag flying in the bed of his truck. On the Pentacrest (the UI's central meeting place, where President Obama spoke to 10,000 in late April 2007) there was some (it appeared) peaceful Republican protest going on. The people that I saw were decent God-fearing folks, and I almost felt embarrassed for them--almost.
But it's so difficult for me to understand the efficacy (or the motivation) behind the Stars and Bars in... Iowa? Even in South Carolina, I have a tough time buying it as anything other than a code, but in... Iowa?
I suppose my best hope is that it was a concern-troll who wanted to discredit the protest, but that's cold comfort. I didn't engage with the protesters much, because I had to go rehearse some baroque music beforehand and needed a sandwich afterwards. (Bach waits for no man).
I first saw the stars and bars truck on the street when I went to meet my girlfriend at 5:45. I took the high road--I set my trumpet case down, gave him the finger, and muttered that he should fuck himself. Coming out of the rehearsal, I saw it again, still circling, apparently not getting the memo on earth hour (which just started... whoops, switching to batteries). I was walking next to a couple of African-American gentlemen in suits in their forties, who looked at me and shook their heads in disbelief. I looked down and muttered, I'm sorry.
But it's not about lynchings, is it? It's about federalism, and heritage, of course; the proud history of all of those Iowans who, you know, seceded after Fort Sumter. And of course, if a white president were visiting our fair city tomorrow, I'm sure the stars and bars would come out... right?
I'm re-reading Eric Lott's Love and Theft right now, and it amazes me every day how little has changed since reconstruction. Our President--the first president in a generation to be elected with a clear majority--as an ape, in a dress, you name it. Same old iconography. I thought about (more like fantasized about) going home, getting my red spray paint, jumping in the bed of his truck at a red light (you can't really drive very fast through downtown IC) and adding a swastika to his flag. I thought about buying some eggs from the Bread Garden market. And there I stood in the rain with a half-eaten pita I wanted to throw at him, before I remembered that nothing conceals a gun rack quite like the stars and bars.
Most of the Republicans I saw demonstrating seemed like decent godfearing folk, which is why I was with such a heavy heart to be bubbling over with such anger. I wanted to go up to them and ask the older folk if they had been Boy Scouts--if they knew that waving their American flags in the rain was patently disrespectful to our forefathers and Betsy Ross, ya-da ya-da. And I wanted to ask Mr. Pick-Up if he felt he was disrespecting his "forefathers" by waving his flag in the rain.
I'm bummed--tomorrow's speech is during my lunch hour, but I didn't get one of the 750 tickets (out of 10,000 applications). Still, in a pretty enlightened place, I'm seething with hate at the hate. I don't want to rise to their bait, but a part of me wants to pack a bag with those rotten eggs from my fridge. Just i