Activism not just for the young (Page 1 of 2)

“Oh wad some power the giftie gie us/To see oursels as others see us!” So pled the poet, Robert Burns, in another century. Last week, as the events and activities marking the fourth anniversary of the war in Iraq consumed much of my time and energy, I was reminded of Burns several times.

On Monday, during the street theater in Market Square, my friend Kevin said: “It’s been awhile since I was called a gutless idiot.” I said, indignantly, “We are not gutless.”

The “idiot” comment seemed to be the insult du jour; I heard it several times as people tried to figure out how to respond to what they were seeing. Three women, one dressed as a Western civilian; one in a U.S. military uniform, the third in a burqa, stood like statues on black pedestals 18 inches tall. “Are they real?” asked one woman as she slowed, then stopped.

Each woman held, in her hand placed over her heart, a red satin ribbon that descended to the concrete and across the square; each square-inch of red ribbon represented 12 deaths from the Iraq and Afghanistan wars. It was not street theater for idiots; it was a think piece and a feel piece. The three guys in business suits, on a break from their labor in climate-controlled offices, out for a stroll and a high calorie lunch, were disturbed by what they saw and by how it made them feel. The image was compelling — this is what the war is costing. The “idiot” comment was uttered more to turn off their feelings than it was to convey a meaningful opinion.

There were other comments as well. “Thank you for doing this,” said a stranger. “I’m glad you are out here,” said a friend who happened upon us unawares. As Bill’s trumpet played Taps at 15-minute intervals, traffic seemed to slow and stop.

The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan are far away. In the first years, our leaders told us that the distance was one of the main reasons for the war — to make sure we were insulated from the violence. President Bush said he’d rather fight them over there than on our own soil. The distance does more than protect U.S. lives; it keeps us ignorant. We don’t have to think about it — not really — and more importantly, we don’t have to feel it.

That Thursday, I was standing in front of the federal building, where Senators Corker and Alexander have offices, holding a piece of cardboard with a pair of empty boots stenciled on it, along with a name and a town. There were 68 pairs of boots, 50-some people lined up with the boots, waiting to hear from our 10 friends who went in to meet with the senators’ staff. As two men walked by, I heard one say to his friend, “I did that 40 years ago,” in a pleasant voice that betrayed neither admiration nor disdain. Just a memory: He was an activist, once.

I wondered, ‘What does he think now?’ That there is no need for activists? That it is a young person’s responsibility to stand and speak, to be the conscience of a society, to challenge “business as usual?” Is activism a stage of life we are to outgrow? I looked down the row of people who stood on the sidewalk. I knew, from talking with them that the senators’ staff people at least suspected that we were a little off-center, and not just on the political spectrum.

I often gauge the expected response to the kinds of actions we do by asking what my mother would think. My mother is a thoughtful and compassionate person, with a sense of responsibility and a concern for the world that is larger than her own life. But she is an unlikely candidate for holding a sign outside the federal building or attending a peace vigil in the park. Her frustration over social ills is genuine, and she channels it into a different kind of action — delivering meals to shut-ins, teaching remedial reading classes, taking an eight-hour shift at the CONTACT/EARS hotline. Not “out there” activism where someone might call you a gutless idiot.

“How would mom react?” I wondered as I held my breath and sprayed black paint across the stencil, creating the outline and laces of a pair of boots. Would she smile and nod at us? Would she just intensify her conversation with her friend and pass by? I know she would mention it later when she talked to my sister in New Hampshire; the people in front of the courthouse and the boots — so many of them.