Whirled Peace

I learned what a "FOOSH" was after I attended my last "formal" peace protest. For those of you who do not frequent emergency rooms and are behind on your medical terminology, this is an acronym for "fell on outstretched hand". To be fair, the injury didn't actually occur at the protest proper. This was way back in 1991, when the United States stood at the brink of invading Iraq the first time.
I stood in the parking lot of the local Army recruitment station, in a shopping center that also housed a Mexican restaurant and a number of other less-strategic businesses, and I listened to speaker after speaker announce their agenda. There was agreement on just what a bad idea it was to invade Iraq, but not much else. One group wanted to strike down the military's "don't ask, don't tell" policy. Another was advocating veganism as a response to America's preoccupation with death. There were signs announcing all the points of view that could be heard from the hastily erected platform through a crackling PA system. "The Oil Companies are to blame!" "The Republicans are to blame!" "The Men are to blame!" There was some serious spleen being vented on that winter's night.
I stood and listened until the sun went down. Then the mob started to become unruly (as mobs will). The problem was they couldn't decide on just what and where to take all their frustration. The limits of civil disobedience were not being pressed as long as we were confined to that parking lot. A number of suggestions were tossed about and it sounded as if there might be a march to - somewhere.
And that's when I bailed. I had enough of the good intents and lack of focus. I walked home. As I was crossing the street just a few blocks from my apartment, a car blew the stop sign as I was making my way across. I managed to get my hands out and roll across the hood and fall on those same outstretched hands to give my bones a solid jarring, and the heels of my hands a good scraping. The thought of confronting the driver seemed vaguely hypocritical, having just come from a peace protest and all, so I limped on home and watched the news to see where everyone else ended up.
Tonight, sixteen years later and four years into the new and improved Gulf War, I stood with my family on a corner a few blocks from our house, holding a candle in one hand and the corner of a "PACE" flag in the other. My wife and son watched a couple dozen peace vigilantes wave their signs and listened to the horns honking in support. As the sun went down and the fog rolled in, we counted the times the light turned green until we felt that we had done our part. When we walked home, I was careful to watch for oncoming traffic.
Thus begins year five.