bruit

The World Can’t Wait

When I read the flyer for today’s downtown Chicago public protest against the Bush administration, my brow wrinkled. I agreed with all of the claims they listed—I don’t need any convincing that the men in charge of our big, beautiful country are either soulless or blind, and maybe both. On the other hand, whenever lefties toss off casual comparisons to Hitler, or use the term “fascist” without a careful explanation of what it means and how it can—and can’t—be applied to our current situation, I want to scream. As if this top-level conflict isn’t enough, I also have some see-saw feelings about the public protest in this Age of Irony; what it does for the movement and for the opposition.

I went anyway, swayed by a radio clip from my main, main man Howard Zinn on the WCW website. The crowd was fuller than I had feared, with the usual mix of -types, veterans, boomer stalwarts, scraggly hippies and crusty punks, and lovely old ladies. I love those old ladies at the peace protests. They are in my top 5.

I stayed for about 5 speakers, 45 minutes. The organizers were in severe need of an editor, I am sad to say. Folks in the audience don’t need a reason to hate Bush: they need a foothold for hope, a spark for dialogue, and a sense of purpose. It would help if the calls to “drive out” the peanut-headed suckerleg toilet masters were more substantive, i.e., “We are going to speak courageously to help our friends and neighbors wake up to this wasteful and violent reality,” or “We will make it impossible for the powerful to insult the intelligence of the common person” or “We will reclaim democracy through actions X, Y, and Z!”

Nope.

I was still stirred, by the frank recorded statement of Dr. Quentin Young, who spoke of his regular med-school shifts at the bedsides of women whose wombs had been mangled in back-alley abortions, and by the awkwardly, explosively passionate words of Roberto Clemente High School student Emilio, delivered by a friend because the author was locked in his school to prevent him from walking out. Apparently, a school official told the organized students they “didn’t have the right to form their own opinions.”

And how. On my way back to work, I walked past a block-long row of cops in riot gear, big sticks swinging. Have you tried to look at this kind of cop in the eyes, like looking for someone you know, or like you want to ask them if they feel silly defending themselves against a bunch of little old ladies? It is kind of embarrassing all around, and nice.

Then, on the corner, most visible to passersby, there were three snotty art-school meatheads, holding crude signs and shouting slogans protesting four-blade razors and Brendan Fraser’s acting career. I couldn’t help myself, and asked them if they thought this was a joke. Essentially, they were mocking the act of protest, doubly insulting when you are seriously grappling with the issue. I couldn’t think of a better idea, and neither could they. Good thing none of them will ever die to get money for college. I told them they were pathetic. The tall meathead responded, “You’ve got us there.” At least he admits it.