Yesterday, under a gazebo in a public park in Knoxville, while rain was pouring outside and a cluster of maybe 40 people huddled inside, out of the lightning and thunder, there was an Iraq war demonstration. It wasn't much of a demonstration; most Knoxvillians don't care enough about events in the outside world to even be aware that there was a demonstration. And the weather was horrible.
But there to speak were the founder of the Oak Ridge Environmental Peace Alliance, a Catholic lay worker, an Irish priest, a Methodist minister, an activist whose severe speech impediments didn't stop him from real eloquence or from the noble history of having been arrested more times in peace demonstrations than anyone else present, a young woman politician who is trying to breach the gates of a County Commission notorious in the past year for its brazen corruption (Amy Broyles, Knoxville County Commission), a troupe of activists with a funny skit showing the similarities between Nero and George W. Bush, a 9-year-old boy who told some quite funny jokes about Bush, and, finally, the mother of a soldier serving in Iraq.
It was she who stole the show. With wispy blonde hair and a determined but uncertain air, she stepped up to the mike. There she froze. "I want to thank you all for being here," she said. "I don't really know what to say, I didn't write it down." Then she said, almost as an aside, "Where I work, I told them I was going to a peace rally, and..." she paused to collect herself, "...some of the people there told me I'm not a good American. They told me to be ashamed of myself. But I wanted to come for my son."
She had brought a homemade poster with pictures of her son and his friends. He was a happy-looking boy with a buzz cut, smiling from the pictures. "My son wanted to help in the war," she said, "but he doesn't know when he'll be back. First it was 12 months, then it was 15 months. Then it'll be sometime in 2008, but he...he doesn't know when. Here's a picture of him with his little girl. He wasn't here when she was born, he didn't get to see her till she was six months old. Here he is on the day he finally got to hold her."
She choked. There was a long silence. A tall, skinny woman with dark hair moved up to put her hand on the mother's shoulder.
"And here he is with his buddies in Iraq...that one in the middle there, he got blown up by an IED."
"I just want to say, they've done their part. It's time for them to come back." She paused, then repeated, "They've done their part. It's time for them to come back. Thank you all for being here."
As lightning continued to rage around the little gazebo in the park, the small band of protesters took their leave with some final remarks at the mike. The musician, Nick Boulet, coiled up his cords and packed his equipment. Volunteers distributed the extra pastries donated by a local bakery. They all promised to meet the next day, Sunday, in better weather to demonstrate at Knoxville's main mall. The soldier's mother lingered to offer to help carry equipment. The mud squelched under departing feet.
The words of the singers who had been performing intermittently came back in insistent repetition as we left: "What would I do, what would I do, what would I do...if I were brave?"
Well, for a start, we could all be more like that soldier's mother.