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*reposting for Day-shift*
Im going to apologize ahead of time for any grammatical or content errors in this. I proof read it several times, but you never know. I understand that this lacks in some information, but I was told that it possessed a lot of raw emotion, so I figured I'd share it.
(Also note that I wrote this at 5:30 A.M., so be forgiving) any constructive criticism is appreciated.
I stand along the straight, two-lane road that has become a temporary home for so many here. The air has become dry once again, even though rain had fallen hard one of the previous days. The bright, Texas sun beat down through the light, cotton-candy clouds. Any who had the misfortune of not having a hat or umbrella soon felt the scorching heat waves on their face and neck.
I survey the crowds lined up along this small road in a no-where town called Crawford. At least a hundred people. Probably more. People from all around the country. Minnesota, New Jersey, Ohio, California, New Mexico. Everywhere. All of these people flocking to this place to support a Californian woman who could likely cause our current regime to lose power and support. Just one woman. Tall, blonde, obviously tired, the fact only accentuated by her eyes. This one person in her mid-forties, able to rally such crowds of good people, just by doing what’s right. The thought boggles my mind. But Cindy Sheehan most certainly isn’t like every other person in the world. She is one of the thousands of parents who lost a child in The Iraq War.
The same unjust, immoral war that would continue to claim the lives of many good people. Some that serve and go there do so in a misguided idea of patriotism. Others go so that they won’t be called cowards by their unit. And others do so with the faint and fading hope that they can bring the rest back alive. No matter what the reason, they are over there and dying every day.
People came to this woman, hoping to keep others from having to suffer as she, and so many others, have. From the media, as well as the other people here, it is obvious that this woman is the icon and figure-head for anti-war protesters.
I see the man that I know as Bill Mitchell. He’s sitting under a dark-green umbrella that has been signed by many of the people there. The umbrella has the words “Camp Casey” in bold lettering, named after the child of Sheehan, who died in this terrible war. That has become the name for this part of road that is lined with cars, tents, banners and signs. Bill Mitchell is one co-founder of a group called Gold Star Families for Peace. With his camo coat and hat, sunglasses, his thin but firm build, and graying mustache, he looks like an experienced and weathered veteran. He too lost a child. His son, Mike Mitchell, died trying to rescue the unit that Casey Sheehan was in. Neither of them came home alive.
Meeting nearly a dozen families with similar stories, and knowing there are hundreds more, makes me ill. I have learned that there is very little that will touch a person as talking to a family that lost a child will. Hearing them be able to talk with a steel resolve to keep this from happening to other families is momentarily comforting. But whether it is the flicker of fear that crosses over their eyes, or the sad, worn, dejected slump of their shoulders, one thing that is certain is that they have suffered a loss like no other.
Bill is one of the most affable people that you can meet. He carries with him a folder that contains a collage of pictures with his son in them. In every one his son is smiling and positive, with a bright look in his eyes and giving a thumb’s-up to the camera. He tells us about his son, and shares with us a beautiful and saddening poem. The first one Bill had written since high school. After seeing things like this, it is difficult to think of the body count as a number anymore. Which is good, as that is something we mustn’t do. We must remember every single number reported as a person. A father, a spouse, a brother, nephews and nieces, mothers and sisters, children. . . To forget that those who didn’t come back are also people, makes us far less appreciative of those who did come back alive.
I sigh into the air. Seeing so many people, coming spur of the moment, from all over the country, leaves one with renewed hope and vigor that all is not lost. And maybe it is. But in any event, lost or not, if while I was here, I could give on person renewed hope or changed their view to see the light, as every single one of them did to me, then this hasn’t been in vain. If my coming here keeps other people from having to worry if their child will come home alive, then I have done my part to ensure that hope is still alive in the world, even if it lasts only this one day.
Brandon E. Forsythe
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