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Sunday, Nov. 10, 2002 / 1:41 p.m. ~With Sandy and Skipper Again, Marching For Peace~ I barely knew of the March/Vigil yesterday, barely knew it was going to happen, before I found myself getting involved, being invited by Sandy to tag along with him and his son. As it turned out, we took a friend of Sandy's son too, and Skipper. Skipper, whose cancer did not return, who is alive and seemingly quite well, and whom it turns out I was very glad to see. I liked him before, I like him still. We share a rather sarcastic, sort of sick sense of humour at times, and Sandy doesn't get it. Or if he does, he isn't showing it. Sandy definitely got the message about the phone thing, that is, my aversion to it, so we never even really confirmed anything, he just told me to show up at 1:45, so I found his house, after only going there once last May, and after getting pawed and scratched by his incorrigible dog we managed to leave the house. He has a really nice house, filled with hardwood floors, huge exotically patterened area rugs, rugs from some trip to the Middle East, or Morocco, or god knows where. And Southwestern art, and Grateful Dead framed posters, and colorfully painted walls and trim, and wood everywhere, leather in the room off the kitchen. Really, it's a great place, and the prevailing sense of chaos under control is endearing. Sandy, too, is endearing in his self-professed ADD dysfunctional way. I found myself instantly attracted to his character. But the whole day, though we separated throughout and rejoined, I never picked up on anything from him. We picked up the friend, now traveling with two 11 year olds, and Skipper and his sign, which I won't quote here, but I'll say it was controversial, anti-Bush, of course, and it got smiles, guffaws, and many comments all day long. We all expect to see it on bumper stickers very soon. A great slogan. Me and the boys. The boys and me. In a van, then on the train, going downtown, the boys, the 46 year old, the 60 year old, and me. And we picked up a first year law student along the way, an activist, idealistic, angry young very light skinned black woman with one wandering eye, too afraid to walk through the projects with us. "You don't want to walk through _____ Homes, you just don't!". We did. She did not. But we caught up with her later. We caught up with the March as it was already in progress, as we were late, as traveling with two 11 year olds and the one's self-professed ADD dysfunctional father would prove, and took up the tail end. I ran ahead along the sidewalk, backpack bouncing on my back, turning to take pictures with the digital, the wind whipping my hair in my face every time I turned. Church groups, black students, old folks, young folks, kids, seasoned activists, familiar faces, men with megaphones singing hymns, and new chants, "No War! On Iraq!", and others. We were huge! For this city? The largest I've seen, and I've seen a few. Usually all we can muster is a couple hundred, max, and we knew this was at least a couple thousand. Again, for this city?? Huge! It was so great, it was so affirming, it was so American, so human, and I loved the expression of all of us, what we were saying, and that we were saying it, together, in as diverse a group as you can possibly imagine, Buddhist monks included. I joined in the front of the march, saw Listerine marching, holding a sign, a big button on her sweater, and chanting loudly. She gave me a big smile and a hug and we marched together for a bit. Who woulda thunk? After we reached the park, our police escort on their way to escort something else, I looked for Sandy and the boys, Skipper. Saw Dianne, and she saw me, gave a big smile, asked if I'd marched. Oh yes, in the front row! The TV crews may have caught me, don't know, peace sign flashed at all passersby. Yes. And then Adam, manning his Palestinian rights table. Big hug, me searching for anything, him running out of things to say. It's like that, I think. I've dropped out, physically, though I'm on the list servs, I read everything they send me, I am abreast of their marches, their demonstrations, I make it when I can, I read what I can of the articles they link to, I'm the silent partner. They see me, remember me, are glad to see me, but it falls off after that, they don't know me, don't know what else to say. I bought Listerine a button like the one she admired on my backpack, found her to give it to her, and she glowed appropriately. There were gospel singers on stage at the Rally, a choir, speakers, Gulf War vets, political people, former candidates, representatives, congresspeople, students, and the Rev Joseph Lowery of the SCLC in a rousing and inspiring speech/sermon! Sandy took the stage with four others who recently were arrested storming one of our Senators' offices. I hadn't read Sandy's email, it was an attachment I hadn't wanted to open. He is awaiting trial and I didn't even know. Skipper and I stood holding our candles at twilight, struggling to keep them lit with the coming wind, him playing with the wax that dripped, fielding compliments about 'the sign'. And we left as it sprinkled rain, the sounds of a good reggae band wafting back up towards CNN Center, and I wanted to stay if the weather had been better, and I weren't so utterly exhausted. Sitting to eat in CNN Center, the security guards hassling Skipper about his sign, "You need to turn the sign around in here", and talking about this and that. No one actually asking me how I've been the past six months, but me volunteering my story of meeting Moby, making the boys laugh as they constantly told me I'm 'obsessed with Moby', joking I only had wanted his love child. (I get along well with 11 year old boys) Briefly showing my newest lizard tattoo, to a resounding query of "Didn't it hurt?!" from the friend of the son. Talking politics and the Demo next weekend, catching the clip of the 300,000 marchers in Italy on one of the TV screens showing CNN up above us. Back at Sandy's, Skipper back at home, we gathered to go to "8 Mile". Sandy'd invited me and I couldn't think of a reason not to tag along. The theatre was one of those HUGE multiplexes, 24 theatres, people everywhere, in the midst of a Gay Film Festival as well. A long line to see the film, but we got in, the seats were very nice, stadium seating, and the movie was okay. Eminem has a certain charisma, and is actually fairly attractive. The plot was formulaic, the dialogue trite and hokey, but the 'rap battles' in the clubs were really fascinating and engaging. Not a bad movie at all. The boys were a little disappointed it wasn't exactly like Eminem's life, and Sandy's son wanted more, a better ending. I left Sandy and son after midnight, totally exhausted, came home too late to even catch the repeated 11:00 news, never got to see the coverage by FOX and NBC locally. But I was there, and we made a splash. We all felt it. A large turnout to protest a war that's not even officially begun. Not bad at all. Sandy had run into his last long term relationship at the Rally in the park, and I walked on after seeing them greet, thinking I didn't want to hold him back, I'm not his girlfriend, just someone he went out with once, but he introduced her, and when he and the two boys and I went to the hotel right on the park to use their bathrooms he started talking about it, about her. They'd been together for over three years, they'd broken up, gotten back together, she reminds him of his mother, something which attracted him immensely, it ended badly, he knew she's gotten into 'this stuff' (i.e. Activism), but he hadn't run into her yet.... though he thought he might. It blew him away to see her again. She was pretty, tall, dark hair, nice smile, friendly... seeming. And the son and the son's friend knew her, remembered her. I think he was awash with it (in it?) the rest of the day really. I think at the end of the night he was still thinking of running into her. I got a brief hug (I find I tend to hold on longer when hugging) and a reminder about next weekend, if I want to go I am welcome, and that was that. I came home and had missed the beginning of the FOX news repeated (I figured it was the local lead, so I missed it), and got online, read diaries, wrote a bit. Didn't even get to sleep 'til after 3:30 or 4:00. Today it's warm outside. I woke up too warm in my flannel pajamas, glad I'd not yet put the down comforter on the bed, not so upset about the pilot light which won't stay lit, not anymore. But I'm cleaning, doing laundry, trying to get this place in some sort of order so I can call maintenance and not worry that they'll have to step over piles of clothes and recyclables to get to the furnace. I tried to watch the tape Mark recorded for me, "GL"s from a week or two ago, but the VCR doesn't want to play it for me, not yet. I'll try again later. It's moody. I'm a bit tired, a bit spent, a bit overwhelmed with things that must be done, soon, but I'm also content and comfortable. Yesterday was good. Cost of the War in Iraq
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