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I was fired up when got out of bed Monday
morning. I had stayed up late to watch the Oscars (I love Ellen, don’t you?)
and I was mad.
Melissa Etheridge’s Oscar-winning song from “An
Inconvenient Truth” rang in my head. With her one voice, she made a call for
our generation to change things.
Yet what have I done?
Oh, sure I use the lightbulbs
that burn less energy, I recycle like a fanatic and I thought about buying a
hybrid car. But do I ever get off my couch and tell the world where I stand?
No way.
So I decided to make a change. I went out and
protested. I made a sign which read “Today is the day to STOP the WAR.” I
held it up and marched down Seventh Avenue
(OK, I actually walked, but when you’re holding a sign, it feels like you’re
marching).
I thought Park Slope would still have some of
those old radical veterans of the ’60s protests, and lots of people who felt
like me: fed up and frustrated. I thought people would cheer me on, if not
join in.
I was mistaken. No one joined me; I remained the
lone loony with the red-and-black sign from the first block to the 20th. I
saw plenty of fellow Slopers, but they mostly tried
to not see me, refusing to meet my eyes, and showing no emotion at all.
Two people gave me the thumbs up, and five
smiled. But the smiles had a hint of pity in them, as if I looked
well-meaning but also looked crazy.
Only three people spoke (and only two directly to
me): One said, “I agree with you” as she got off the bus. Another, a student
standing outside of the John Jay HS building, said “F— George Bush!” A third
muttered to her friends, “She’s right.”
I returned home with mixed feelings. I felt good
that I had gotten out there, that I had said something, that I had expressed
the feelings of rage and frustration I have had for so long, but I also felt
sad. One person walking down one avenue in one city seems futile. No one
really cares.
What will it take to get us really angry? There
have been 3,156 American service men and women killed as of Feb. 26, and more
than 23,000 wounded. The numbers of dead and wounded Iraqis is certainly in
the hundreds of thousands. Our nation is culpable, no matter what our
intentions were.
Maybe the war is too far away,
maybe it is too abstract for us to protest it. Well, for one day, at least, I
didn’t sit idly by. I took a stand, even if it was only one voice.
Maybe tomorrow, I’ll go out again.
©
Brooklyn Papers 2007
Reprinted
with Permission
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