This last Wednesday I chose to take the day off from work and protest the war. I have to admit, there are years that I've been behind the eight ball, the anniversary came and went without my batting an eyelash. I was just as forgetful as some people who asked the next day why I'd taken off work, "what were you protesting"? "Shock and awe, remember five years ago"? The anniversary went by in the haze of a raucous Saint Patrick's Day celebration. Hopefully I won't have to use that holiday as a marker for too much longer, in order to remember to voice my democratic right, so, Cheney, what do you think about that?
I went on web sites, weeks in advance, because I felt this was an important year to show force in numbers, to shout out in numbers, so, no, we won't go, so you go! To not let the Iraq War be overshadowed by other issues in this race for the White House. I was surprised that there were no marches planned, only an afternoon protest and evening candle light vigils.
The afternoon protest was at a plaza, in front of a local television station, set up to protest the media's abysmal coverage of the war. My dog and I found our way to the site, at the appointed hour. My dog loves to go on protest marches, so she was rather disappointed that we weren't taking to the streets, she gets a little antsy when asked to sit and listen to speeches. When we got there, there was maybe a handful of people. I spoke with the organizers, who had signs with photographs of Iraqi's wounded by us, soldiers smiling standing over victims. I must say, it took me back, back to another era, to when those soldiers returning from Vietnam were spit on and the government gladly made them the sacrificial lambs. Let the people's anger be directed at the soldiers, not the officials who sent them there. The U.S. government did very little to stop the onslaught of anger towards returning troops, representatives didn't speak out, nobody stood up for the soldiers! I expressed my uneasiness with using soldiers, who under duress, fear for their lives, end up doing things that haunt them for the rest of their lives. This I know because I was engaged to one of those soldiers who fought in Vietnam, we never married because as he put it, you dig too deep and there's too much ugliness inside me, that I don't want to deal with. It's for him and others like him that I march for every year. I didn't marry him because I felt there were too many victims of the Vietnam War, the walking dead, who's names weren't on the Wall! So I let it be known that I felt it was a slippery slope they were going down, one we've been down before. Don't absolve this administration, by focusing on the soldiers, don't let them get away with their war crimes! How can anyone know what you'll do if you feel your life is in danger, a life that really has barely begun, if you're only 19 or 20 years old. To show the reality of what you'll be asked to do, the face of war, to those 19 or 20 year olds before they enter a recruiting office, the pain of war, that I can agree with, to counter the glamorization of it, selling of it, by offering $40,000, as a sign-up bonus! As we were discussing this issue, the plaza began to fill, people trickled in. I was disappointed in the, as the paper said the next day, modest turnout. My next stop was a corner in the small town, outside the city, a corner, where a lone man on Friday afternoons I'd see, he and a woman on Wednesday afternoons, with their signs. His has a chalkboard on the bottom to keep the count of the fallen. There he was, with extra signs, happy as more people came to join him, we kept growing in numbers, spread out to the four corners of the intersection, young and old, families, signs for peace, for impeachment, for W.T.F.! He kept counting the people, both he and the woman had been standing on the corner every Wednesday since August, rain or shine, that's dedication to a cause! We ended up about 30 strong, horns were beeping, fingers for peace, some against! I was glad I chose to take the day off to uncelebrate the war.
I wrote this poem many years ago for a man who was shot down in Vietnam and would suffer PTSD every year around the date his helicopter was shot down. The man I was engaged to, when he first read the poem asked me, where do I find the woman on the beach? I told him, within yourself, but I think we all were standing on that corner this past Wednesday, welcoming them home. It's sad that only a few words have to be changed to make this relevant.
WELCOME HOME
The helicopter blades
like razors slashing veins
break the stillness of the night,
a young boy huddles in cold
caught within the stars........
that one's mom,
over there, my first kiss,
oh, and that one......
summers on Coney Island
Friday night keggers
the guys on the team
Sally's blowjobs
the tits on Jane
my lettermen's jacket,
and that one.....
the first time I.....
Slowly tears fall
like soft summer rain
footsteps from the past.
but the symphony plays on
ringing in his ears.
cries of terror...
sounds of gunfire....
the explosion of bombs....
maybe it's the fireworks
on the fourth of July,
or a bad dream,
or a..........do something, anything,
just make it stop....
cries the child of war
in the jungles of Vietnam.
Can he climb a star?
will it carry him home?
no, the only way home
is to shut up his feelings
stuff'em in a body bag
lock'em in a steel vault,
keep them quiet with a forty five
and destroy the fucking key.
suddenly his tears stop
the nightmarish sounds of war
play like Brahms Lullaby
cradling him to sleep. so hush little baby
good night, sleep tight,
make someone richer,
get out there and fight.
The young boy came home
having grown into a man.
but somewhere in the jungles
he left behind the key
to unlock the emotions,
he couldn't bare to see.
as the years marched by
the symphony of Nams fury
played with all her might
lashing out in anger
screaming through his dreams
he cried in desperation
to escape the cold steel vault
but no one cared to listen
blaming him for losing
a war, that wasn't his fault.
One day on a lone beach
he happened upon a woman
dancing through the waves
a girl naked in the sun
a poet with wings to fly
just a lover, just a child.
something stirred inside,
was it the boy he was?
who went to fight for freedom,
not to fight for war?
suddenly their eyes connected
shocking him to see
eyes that had known pain
yet choosing to be free
maybe therein lay the key.
she reached her hand towards his
slowly he reached out
silently their tears fell
like soft summer rain,
gently she took his hand
softly she whispered
I'm sorry, you're not guilty
that's the key, you're not guilty
the war's over, come home
welcome home, you're free.