A Day On Prairie Chapel Road: Part- 1
By Leigh Saavedra
16 August, 2005
Crisispapers.orgLast Sunday, limping noticeably from combined age and injury and using my 13-year old son's arm for support as we made our way down Prairie Chapel Road in Crawford, Texas, a carload of young people swerved teasingly near us. One young woman, early twenties, sun-bronzed and in a halter top, leaned out of the back car window only inches away from us and sneered at me: "Get a job!"
For an instant, it was almost funny. The absurdities -- a broiling sun, jobs I'd held long before the young woman was ever born, my damned aging knees, but mostly the look of frightened offense on my son's young face -- changed my first reaction. It wasn't funny for more than a few seconds. Hate is never funny.
We had come to Crawford to offer support to Cindy Sheehan, the mother of Casey Sheehan, a 24-year old soldier who was killed in Baghdad on April 4, 2004. The soft-spoken Cindy, a bereaved mother now camped out in the sweltering Texas heat two miles from where George Bush is spending a five-week vacation, has asked for a face-to-face meeting with him. She demands that he tell her for what "noble cause" her firstborn died. When the White House ignored her request, Cindy pitched a tent by the side of the road and says she will stay until she is answered, or until Bush finishes his vacation.
The White House has still not responded to her request, and the closest Cindy has been to Bush or a member of the administration since making her demand occurred recently when a presidential cavalcade drove down Prairie Chapel Road, within a few yards of Cindy and the others who have joined her, on their way to a Republican fundraiser. George Bush was behind the tinted glass of one of the SUVs.
So, after a stunned moment standing silent by a ditch on Prairie Chapel Road on Sunday, watching the young people speed on down the lane toward the famous ranch, I climbed into our car, where Bryndan and I gulped, down water that was now almost too hot to drink. I thought of the get-a-job young woman who had yelled at me, in awe that someone so young could show such venom to those opposed to the killing machine that the invasion of Iraq has launched. The night before, arriving home after a 550-mile drive, I came online to catch up on the news I'd missed in the past week of vacation, and there was news of Cindy Sheehan's vigil everywhere. Reading of all the people joining her, from all parts of the country, so inspired me that it was tempting to drive to Crawford and extend our support as well. But I'd just driven for twelve hours and was a week behind in everything. When I read on, it was not the uplifting story of people's support for Cindy that made me decide to go. Rather, it was the ugly that always picks up the scent of the sublime and slithers toward it.
In awe, I saw that Cindy is perceived by people like those in the car as something between Satan and whatever term now replaces "dirty rotten commie." There are rightwing bloggers who see Cindy Sheehan's actions as being treasonous, people who set up websites specifically to attack not only her actions but her character as well (selling overpriced t-shirts and stickers at the same time). Someone had posted on a memorial site, addressing Casey, "I am sorry your mother has chosen to use your heroism as a platform to denigrate your sacrifice." Instead of reading all the information of what was actually happening in Crawford, I became riveted to the horrors of what the "opposition" was saying and writing. Some people seemed to take pleasure in the separation of Cindy and her husband following Casey's death, as if a "bad things come to bad people" philosophy might justify their anger at someone refusing to march in lockstep with the Bush rule.
So in the end, it was to bear witness and continue the battle against mainstream media's disinformation that we loaded the car with water and made the drive. Countering the ever-reluctant media's hesitations to provide us with accurate and fully-rounded facts is, for me, the first requirement to take back our country. I wouldn't have the right to denounce a statement that Cindy Sheehan was simply a pawn in the hands of our enemies without seeing her, hearing her, being there. The same logic has sent me to some interesting places, and the "being there" has always served me well.
And it did in that seemingly insignificant incident on Prairie Chapel Road. By the time the young woman in the fast car yelled at me, we had already been to the Crawford Peace House and heard Cindy and two Iraqis speak. There was a fine buffet lunch, middle east fare, and we arrived in time to eat before anyone spoke. Bryndan and I were flanked on one side by a young man wearing a tee-shirt that said, "Iraq veterans against the war" and on the other side by an older man whose shirt said, "Vietnam Veterans against War." Bryndan counted over 250 people sharing lunch under tents and milling around outside the covered area. I saw faces I recognized, and I was grateful that we had made the drive.
Cindy spoke first, in a soft voice. The audience, in total silence, allowed us to hear every word, as she explained that she had been fighting "falseness" for well over a year now. She summarized her own activities by saying that she had in no way started a movement, that the movement was already here and she simply spoke with it. She talked about the roots of terrorism and the lies that have been used to shore up this invasion and occupation through which billions of dollars are being made for a select few people.
When addressing her specific action of camping at Bush's doorstep, she said the decision was made earlier in the month when fourteen marines were killed in one day. "I felt like a failure for not having made a difference," she told us, her voice faltering for a moment, her "Support Our Troops" tee-shirt bright in the hot sun. So strong was her reaction to feelings of helplessness, she explained, that she determined it was necessary to confront the top decision-maker responsible for these fourteen deaths as well as the killing of Casey and the other 1800.
It hasn't be easy, she promised us. "They are scrutinizing everything I've ever said and done. Why can't they [ed: mainstream media] pound on Bush as they pound on me? I don't have a thick skin and the attacks hurt me."
But after she finished, the one sentence that resonated over and over with me was her simple comment that "What we're doing is good and what they're doing is ugly." And no one in our audience doubted who the "they" referred to.
An Iraqi speaker whose 14-year old nephew had been kidnapped and beaten before release for a $50,000 ransom told us of conditions in Iraq now. One of the greatest changes in Iraq today, the speaker told us, is the shortage of oil. In this land that holds the world's second largest oil reserves, in this land where temperatures reach higher than a hundred and twenty degrees, there is a scarcity of oil and very little refrigeration.
"What we hear is straight from the Green Zone," he explained. "Those in the Green Zone know nothing of what's happening OUTSIDE the Green Zone."
Thus, our nightly news. Thus, the fault and guilt of ignorance. We are not told of the obscene amount of money flowing through Iraq, or that the country under occupation cannot provide the necessary water and electricity.
An Iraqi woman spoke next, describing the devastation the U.S. imposed upon Iraq through ten years of sanctions. "All," she said emphatically, "because of weapons of mass destruction that did not exist." She repeated three times that Iraqis had done NOTHING to the United States.
Before the speeches, I asked a coordinator of the program if Cindy would have interview time available in the afternoon, and the woman told me no, that every single second was filled, that her schedule was totally packed. Understanding how tired she must be, I decided against even going up to meet her. It was hot, and bodies crushed together don't do well in this kind of humidity. But as I prepared to leave and drive to Camp Casey, some distance from the Peace House, I saw that Bryndan was gone. I looked over toward Cindy just in time to see her embracing my son, not a quick perfunctory embrace but a gesture with feeling, prolonged for many seconds. My eyes stung. Was she remembering Casey at age 13? Was she hoping that her work would spare THIS 13-year old from ever being shipped home in a flag-draped coffin?
Afterwards he met me at the car and explained that he'd wanted to take her the gift we'd brought along. "And I thanked her for all she's doing," he added. And silently, I thanked HER for finding the time for a young boy determined to get a small gift to her.
Perhaps things are better organized by now, but on Sunday parking was a nightmare. All the best intentions in the world can't create space. Because I have a handicap card, I was directed to a place that said "no parking" but which, I was told by a member of the Peace House, was not going to be ticketed. "Shhh," she reminded me. She had a policeman's word on it. I was the second car there, and when we reached our car after lunch there were eighteen more vehicles, all unticketed.
Down the street from the Peace House is what appears to be the town's main intersection, dominated by a gift shop called "The Yellow Rose." Outside the Yellow Rose are large cement tablets on which are carved the Ten Commandments. To either side are the usual signs, "Freedom isn't free," "We support our president," etc. Ten or so people stood outside. I needed directions to Camp Casey, where those staying with Cindy were pitching their camp. I glanced over at the folks standing outside the Yellow Rose, and though I saw no overt signs of belligerence, I opted to call my daughter in California to look up directions for me rather than stop for directions.
A bit later we reached the camp. The most noticeable thing upon driving down Prairie Chapel Road, as the road to the Bush ranch is named, passing near Cindy's Camp Casey, is what seems to be endless rows of white crosses, one for each American soldier who has been killed in Iraq. Many have flowers; some have photos and other memorabilia. At one end is a large placard containing a thousand photographs, the first thousand American soldiers to die in Iraq.
Signs abound over and between the several dozen campsites, my favorite being, "Clinton would have talked with Cindy."
I was moved by a hundred things, the generosity of people sharing water, the prime commodity on a day like this one, people in intense discussion, people finding time to laugh, people refusing to respond to a couple of taunts from a dozen or so Bush supporters standing idly on the other side of Prairie Chapel Road. Mostly, I was moved that anyone would be willing to sleep in this inhospitable climate, on the ground or on a cot, in an area where they were neither respected nor welcomed, where there was no pizza delivery service within miles, and even less refrigeration at hand than is found in Baghdad.
We talked to dozens of people of every age, from children to a few who were pretty old during the Vietnam War. I half-promised myself to return in a few days. But life at home, the start of school, finally pulled us away, and it was upon leaving that the car of young people swerved close to me, the young woman telling me to get a job. In the context of all I saw in those few hours, I can now only shake my head at her complete lack of comprehension.
Parts of the day had been almost surreal, the no-bones-about-it supporters of "staying the course" who watched us at the intersection from The Yellow Rose, the rumor that someone had seen a rattlesnake in the field behind the camp, beautiful trees forming near-arches in some places on the road to the now-famous ranch and to the almost-famous Camp Casey, Cindy holding my son, the memory of the car coming so close to me.
We headed home, both Bryndan and I silent for several minutes. Then, as Crawford disappeared behind us, I realized what it was that was making me want to stay, making me want to be a part of what was going on. It was the possibility of what this might mean.
Occasionally an ordinary person, without ever daring to dream of such bigness, actually changes history. Rosa Parks comes first to the minds of many of us. Today, it's possible that Cindy Sheehan, out of sheer determination to have her son's death explained, is waking up enough Americans to completely alter, possibly bring to a loud halt, the neocon plans for control of the entire mideast.
It cannot be ignored that people from across the country, Seattle to Maine, have flown and driven to Crawford to express their solidarity with this plainspoken mother who has transformed her grief into actions designed to spare other mothers the pain she lives with. Some have even pitched tents and joined her in the broiling sun. Some mothers of other soldiers killed in what many are calling "the Bush War" have gone to Crawford to join her. In a world where people like flags and apple pie and baseball, mothers carry clout. Mothers whose sons have died as a result of lies carry enough clout to force even the corporate-driven mainstream media to deal with Cindy Sheehan's vigil. And when the mainstream media is forced to show its hand, viewers ask questions.
After we reached home and were preparing for bed that night I looked at notes I'd taken the night before. I'd copied words from one especially angry site: "Cindy Sheehan has made a mockery of her son's death."
No, I don't think so. Bryndan was young and not unusually well informed, and I moved around with avery tired limp, but we were there. We were insignificant and we didn't make speeches and I never even talked to Cindy herself, but we were there. We saw the white crosses memorializing each soldier who had been killed in a war that has yet to be justified. Without Cindy Sheehan, those memorials would not exist. The woman who took the time for a long, long embrace with my young son isn't the type to make a mockery of anything. I know. I could see her face.
---------------------------------------Leigh Saavedra has written poetry, short fiction, and political essays for thirty years under the name Lisa Walsh Thomas. In 1989 she became aware of the irresponsibility marking our mainstream media when reports over both broadcast news and print media portrayed the young revolutionaries of Nicaragua as communists. She went to Managua and spent that winter and the next in Nicaragua, finding the value of "being there." She is the author of an award-winning book of fiction ("So Narrow the Bridge and Deep the Water", Seal Press, out of print) and a book of political essays ("The Girl with Yellow Flowers in her Hair", Pitchfork Publishing). She appreciates comments at
[email protected].
