I biked over to the Capital Mall on Sunday to watch the union “peace” rally on the Capitol steps. 

I inadvertently got there very early – guess I don’t know my own strength! – so I went down to the World War II memorial, at the foot of the mall by the Veterans Services buildling. 

An older couple were there, wearing matching T-shirts commemorating their son, an Army major who’d been about a year and a half older than me when he was killed last year in Iraq. 

Now, I can’t pretend to imagine what it’s like to lose a child; the safety of my own children is a constant nagging worry in the back of my own head.  I’m no shrinking violet, and I’m certainly not the most sensitive guy, but I do know when to just shut up and let people talk.

And the woman – the bereaved mother – did talk.  She must have figured she was among friends, being on the grounds of a “peace” rally (and, indeed, she was; some things should transcend politics; caring for our kids and loving them more than anything in the world is one of them), and she unloaded, as her husband stood quietly by, admiring the WWII memorial. 

She was angry.  Still demolished with grief. 

She raged against the President. 

I wasn’t about to argue.  I disagreed, naturally, but what could I say?  What should anyone say?  She’d lost her son; for her, the sky might be red and the sun might rise in the west.  I can’t say as I’d see differently in her shoes.

And then she added “…it’s 2007.  We should be able to settle things by talking…”.

I wondered – to myself, of course – if, 65 years ago, Jewish advocates in Poland might have postulated the same ideal; that if they could only talk with Hitler, they could find a way to settle things, before the rest of their families disappeared into the nacht und nebel?  If some Ukranian kulak pondered the idea of just getting a letter through to Staliln to try to settle things as his children starved to death during Stalin’s famine, or if a Cambodian merchant or a Tutsi farmer yearned just to try to settle things like human beings as doom engulfed them and their families?  If some gay Afghan or pregnant Iranian teenager had a the urge to try to reason with their killers before the evil snuffed them out?  Did they believe that evil could be placated?  That behind the implacable mask of the Nazi, the chekist, the Khmer Rouge ideologue or Hutu zealot or Taliban or mullah, or muj with a cell phone alongside some road in Iraq, was someone who just needed to be reasoned with?

I didn’t know, and I didn’t ask.  I nodded, and listened, and expressed my genuine mutual sorrow.

———-

As the couple walked away toward the capitol, I noticed a group of people – younger and middle-aged – in red polo shirts, gathering around the memorial’s reflecting pool.  One of them came over and greeted me; I was among friends – in this case, “Families United“, a group of people whose children, spouses or siblings are in Iraq – or, in a few cases, who died there also. 

As the people in the distance on the Capitol steps  slowly gathered and strummed guitars, the Families United group – two dozen people, altogether – gathered under the American flag and had a brief observance.  The founder – Merilee Carlson, who lost a son in Iraq – read some letters from some of her group’s sympathizers who were also members of the participating trade unions, and were outraged that their unions would spend their dues money on demonstrating to scupper the troops’ mission.

———-

And money, they spent – although apparently not on trying to help people get there on time.  The permit was slated to kick off at 1PM; people were draggling in until two o’clock; between one and two, the crowd swelled from 200 to maybe 500. 

Four fairly posh motor coaches lined up on Constitution Avenue, reminding us that this wasn’t the same crowd we’d had two weeks earlier (at least, some of it differed); the unions, the AFL-CIO and AFSCME, among others, had pulled out the stops to make the day as low-impact as possible on their members.

And still, over half of the “crowd” was the usual suspects; the ACORN crowd, the poverty pimps from various “church” “social justice” groups – everyone but the anarchists, it’d seem.  It didn’t look like the “A-team” of protesters; the signs looked wan and halfhearted; a guy wandered up and down the Mall walkway, banging a pot to no apparent purposes (and yes, if the other guys start that “banging on pots” thing at the convention next year, I am bringing the bagpipes.  Oh, yes I am).  They didn’t know much about sound; they brought a PA system fit to handle a sock hop in a junior high gym; the speakers all exhibited that tendency that inexperienced, underamplified speakers do, shrieking into the microphone like they were hollering to be heard above a nor’easter.

The protesters shied away from talking in person; they’re smarter than most demonstrators (the ones that approached us two weeks earlier were generally woefully illiterate on current events, if not on talking points).

I left after a bit; it was too nice a day.

Janet Beihoffer and Jamie Delton were there, and covered things.