So I was walking to class a couple weeks ago, and I was listening to the two people in front of me talk. They weren’t speaking English, but I thought I heard one of them say, “war.” I hadn’t watched the news in a few months, but they looked like pretty smart kids, so I knew this was serious. I stopped in my steps, ran back to my room and pulled out my old box of tie-dye shirts: it was protest time!
That afternoon, I was talking to one of my friends who heard from her friend who heard from her boyfriend that we were going to war with Iraq. We both decided that something needed to be done and agreed to meet at 7 p.m. Before she came over, I sat down and wrote some morbid poetry about death so that I could show her later that night and maybe even recite at the anti-war poetry reading the next night. One of the guys I have a crush on runs these poetry readings, and that’s really the only reason I go. On a side note, I think it’s really sexy that he doesn’t shower.
When my friend finally arrived, I noticed we were both wearing the same long flowery skirt. We thought it would make a great statement if we made “No blood for oil” shirts out of recycled cotton with blood red paint splattered on them. While we were making the shirts, my friend pointed out that our skirts had a little bit of red in them. Since we didn’t want our clothes to match, and we needed to buy supplies anyway, we got in her car and drove to the mall. We bought stuff like wood, paint, markers and these really cool inspirational anti-war tapes that were on sale for $20.
As we were paying for our stuff, I noticed a cute boy with long hair down to his knees and a big peace sign shirt staring at us. He came over and asked if we needed help with our bags. At her car, the cute guy asked if him and his friend could come with us. My friend and I looked at each other and smiled. “Any friend of peace is a friend of ours,” we both said cheerfully. At that moment, his brother approached the car. He was wearing torn jeans and an Abercrombie and Fitch sweatshirt. When we got in the car, I turned around and asked his friend what his thoughts were on the war with Iraq. He looked at me and said, “Damn war. I am all about peace, and I will be at every protest with you guys.” I turned back around and stared blankly in front of me. If he is a true protestor, why was he wearing an Abercrombie and Fitch sweatshirt?
That night we made a bunch of cool signs and pamphlets. I already decided I wasn’t going to go to any of my classes until the war was over. I also decided that since I wasn’t going to go to my classes, no one else should either. With the help of my fellow protestors, we decided that blocking the Student Union halls would be the best way to do this. That night, we all got stoned, listened to Bob Marley and talked about how cool the world would be if everyone was naked all the time. Then we practiced new yoga meditations and tried to find our Chi’s, anticipating our first organized walkout.
The next day, at one of our rallies, I looked around me, and I couldn’t help but smile. I was still pretty fucked up from the night before, but that was only half of the reason I was smiling. On my left, I saw my friends screaming and holding up signs. On my right, I noticed that one of my fellow protestors was scaring the shit out of the girl scouts with his gas mask. And as I slammed my pamphlets into another student’s face, I thought to myself, damn, it feels good to be a protestor.
Candlepin Lovestar loves being a protestor and can be found playing the bongos and tambourine outside of PVTA bus stops all over the Pioneer Valley.
