A couple of bloggers had me thinking of the Civil Rights Movement. You know, the Civil Rights Movement, now, what, some forty years ago.
I came up in the aftermath of the movement. Seriously. When I got on the bus, heading off to first grade, for the first time, I had no idea that a mere two years before, people had rioted over the thought of me busing out to "their" school.
As I got older, I studied more about the movement. The picture that sticks most in my mind was one of serious young men and women, ---black, white, jewish, ---in severe black suits, narrow ties or modest dresses and white gloves marching towards dogs and firefighters, or sitting down at counters with shop owners menacing them with baseball bats and other sorts of mischief.
I know that many of them were beaten, some of them killed.
And yet they marched.
There was a certain cognitive dissonance between the application of the American Dream and it's application.
So they marched.
Many of these peace protesters were beaten, were imprisoned, were murdered.
And onward they marched.
They didn't raise a hand. The restrained an almost natural, primal instinct.
And they marched.
When I think about protesters. About peace activists. About speaking truth to power. I think about these men and women.
Who marched to sit anywhere one the bus. Not to blow the thing up.
So here we are now, on our local. And we have peace protesters, and activist and militant activist militantly activating, and thuggery and threatening and the lot.
See, these jokers use the language of the movement. They do, but in their hearts, there's something, something, there I can't quite name.
The evil that men do.
So we get to play this game, with each his/her/it's assigned part. In my heart, it's like a play I've seen a thousand times. And will see again.
So speak truth to power. There is, among men, a realization of what is right and what is wrong. We'll never escape that, it just is.
[Ed Note--DELETE THIS POST]