Cross-posted at Clark Community Network.
Growing up in the late '70s and '80s, I had a lot of misconceptions about anti-war demonstrations. Taking cues from overly romanticized movies, I had always thought protests were supposed to be uplifting, righteous experiences where everyone feels all warm and fuzzy about the very important stands they're taking. However, after attending my first-ever demonstration, at Camp Casey #1 in 2005, I learned that these Kumbaya moments are entirely fictional. At least for me, they are.
I suppose that’s why, when I returned to work after protesting the Iraq War on Monday, I was dumbfounded by a barrage of questions and comments with a level of cheer that an entire pep squad couldn't muster:
Co-worker 1: "So, how was it?!"
Co-worker 2: "You took a day off, right? Was it worth it?!"
Co-worker 3: "That is so cool! Tell ‘em what your sign said!"
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It was almost like they thought I spent the entire day having my Johnson massaged by team of well-oiled Asian concubines, only taking breaks to re-energize, eat fine chocolates and nap.
No, I had attended a demonstration marking the four-year anniversary of an illegal war, which was based on one pack of lies, was rationalized after-the-fact by another pack of lies and is being escalated today based on yet another pack of lies. People are dying by the thousands. In my name.
"So, how was it?!"
Well, let me tell you, cheery co-worker...
On Monday, I did not feel particularly happy about the protest, just as I have not felt happy about any of my previous protest experiences. For starters, I’m not trying to recapture the magic of the '60s. I’m not just "standing up to the man."
I stand up because my conscience demands that I stand up. And while I sometimes feel a sense of respect for those who stand by my side, also willing to do and say the unpopular, I’m pretty certain that we’d all rather be doing something else with our time.
Oftentimes, I feel sorrow for those who have been killed in my name. I feel betrayed by my government. I feel mistreated, marginalized and deceived. I feel at my wit’s end. These are the reasons that I protest. I can only assume that my fellow demonstrators, at least the ones who are acting in earnest, feel the same. And during the demonstrations, I feel like the circus freak, the nonconformist who’s being judged by those I’m trying to reach. In the United States, and particularly in Texas where I live, talking about peace makes you a "moonbat" or a "hippie" or a "weirdo." This is how I feel when I demonstrate. It’s hardly a scene from Forest Gump with carefree music and a happy reunion.
Did I actually say any of this to my kindly coworkers? No. I didn’t know exactly how to answer their questions. I suppose that, if I honestly explained how protesting makes me feel, they’d ask why I bother at all. But the one question..."Was it worth it?"...is the right question. Just not in a sing-song tone of voice that I heard Tuesday. Maybe something more probing and serious, like when you ask a friend about his or her hospitalized grandmother.
Also, that question – whether it’s worth it or not – would not lead to the easy yes/no answer they want.
I protest because democracy, as the saying goes, is not a spectator sport. We’re supposed to do more than vote. We’re supposed to speak up, to dissent. That’s the entire purpose of free speech. Not to say the easy things, but to say the things people aren’t comfortable hearing. And even though most people, including the majority of residents of Dallas, Texas, agree that this war is wrong, they fail to stand up and say it publicly. This is not a moral weakness so much as it is a lack of strength. I do not fault them for that. On the contrary, I speak for them, too.
Is that noble? Perhaps. Do I feel good about it? Not necessarily.
After a couple of days thinking about their questions, there are only three things that I could say to them with absolute certainty.
- I am a war protester.
- I know that I am right.
- I blog about the rest.