Manhattan Overture

In the morning, I meet Sam's sister, Sheree, who has a tender friendliness and who, with my enormous gratitude, lends me her car, which happens to be the same make, model, and year of my car in California, for the time that I am in New York. Sam, Sheree, and I sit at the kitchen table and eat heaping spoonfulls of ripe papaya before Sam departs with her cousin for her next cross-country voyage, and I make my way up the Jersey Turnpike to Manhattan.

During my first week in New York, I practice one of the best team sports ever invented: couch surfing. I feel like such a winner, as I get to stay with Hila, Kyla, Sarah, and Malia, in whose homes I spend several blissful nights sleeping on the best pull out sofa bed ever created. I spend time playing with toddlers (babysitting, but who ever wanted to sit on a baby?); I get free vegan pizza downtown at two a.m.; I am greeted by Dennis and the Barnard community and allowed to use the computers and phones as an office base (It seems that I am a technically “homeless” person with homes everywhere.) I get to attend a class in the newly created Wellness course whose syllabus was largely created by Molly and I. I get chocolate covered strawberries at Café Lalo and befriend Orange, who is interested in CodePINK. My cell phone dies and I am forced into several days without the little vibrating gadget constantly dangling from my pockets, which in the end is rather pleasant, though it is difficult work-wise. The week is a chaos of action and sights and sounds, a slow settling into the peace manhattan has to offer.

Brooklyn: Ice Cream on Snow

Sam and I make our way through hustling Brooklyn streets, Jewish delis, sidewalks littered with advertisements for the divine teachings of the Rebbe, beat up cars poking their crooked fenders out from piles of snow, subway stops in seemingly abandoned buildings. We go to the edge of the jungle, where the water laps over the rusty rocks and the debris, and we take a pint of soy ice cream out of the back of the truck (which simultaneously serves as a large freezer in the winter conditions) and climb over a footbridge to sit on a park bench and savor the morning. Cold chocolate, a flock of birds floating on the sparkling ocean, and Sam besides me. A form of paradise. My boots are entirely covered by the bright white snow and I have the sensation that my body is floating on the park bench two feet above the earth. In this case, the woman sitting next to me, resting her legs on top of the snow bank, appears to me as an angel. Her cheeks are rosy and she is talking about female leadership, political evolution, family, and telling me all sorts of stories. This is one of those “dayenu” moments, when, if for nothing else, all of creation is enough. On our way back over the pedestrian bridge over the parkway, we grab trash can lids and sled down, both of us bruising our bottoms and yelping with glee.

We emerge into lower Manhattan later that day, and I am instantly absorbed back into the forest of bricks, the yellow river of taxis, the colorful humans converging in lines on the sidewalks like ant paths. That night I go to a Tu B’Shevat seder, where I discover a group of mostly liberal-minded Jews crammed into a banquet setting at the JCC. While the general program leaves something of inspiration to be desired, the friendly faces I am greeted by let me know that this trip to New York will be different than any I have ever experienced.

DC to NY

On Monday, Sam, Medea, and I make the trip from DC up to NYC, which quickly becomes quite an adventure, when a huge snow storm breaks out. We keep switching our immediate attentions between trying to get visibility out of the windshield (which we must do manually since the wiper fluid is frozen) and trying not to get in a car crash in the middle of the traffic, and discussing plans for a national guard proposal. And finally, after many hours, we reach New York, where we weave our way through Brooklyn’s neighborhoods, which change after several blocks as if we are horizontally traversing a rainbow, each stripe a territory full of its own colorful spirit. We stay in a hotel near the airport, and Medea departs for the World Social Forum in Brazil while we take off for Dreamland.

PDA Conference and Celebration

Saturday and Sunday we attend the Progressive Democrats of America conference in DC. CodePINK hosts a breakfast and we decorate the entire lobby area with hanging pink slip banners. So, one might say that we have a presence there. Medea gives an outstanding speech.

Ariel and I find out the miraculous news that we have been given a grant by an anonymous donor to become national youth organizers for CodePINK. We are ecstatic with excitement, tearful with joy, and we cling to each other, jump in the air, scream, and rejoice in the foyer behind the conference hall. And then we see Arthur Waskow round the corner and approach us. And at that moment, the whole world is pure, serendipitous perfection. That night we all go out to a bar and order exotic beers (like our favorite, Pinkas Ale, a great find thanks to Z), celebrating our DC actions, our grant money, and retelling tales from the battlefield: past protests, the hunger strike in the early days of CodePINK, road adventures with Sam. Frances describes in detail her journey to Iraq on a delegation trip to me and I become completely absorbed in her words, which take me far away from the bustling scene of CodePINK women, surrounded by young, fraternity-aged buzzed kids and dart boards. I am in the car with her, bearing witness to the road blockades, the highway thieves, the aridity invades my nostrils, the fear becoming bone marrow, the sounds louder than the pop music blasting from above. And then we are all leaving and I am ripped out of the story and deposited on the snowy sidewalk outside, near DuPont Circle, where we depart for the night.

J20 Afterthoughts

Four years ago we were chanting: “Racist, sexist, anti-gay, GEORGE BUSH, go away!” “Hey, Dubya, what do you say—How many votes did you steal today?” While these themes, and cheers, stood the test of time, the new chants were even more direct: “1-2-3-4…We don’t want your fucking war,” Ariel and I shouted, “ 5-6-7-8… Stop the violence; stop the hate!”

Often there is a ringleader, with a hand-held PA system, who is reading off the chants, leading the herd as if we are back in a high school pep rally. The microphone crackles when it inevitably gets too close to the small speaker, but the crowd keeps chanting as they are instructed, until a new pair of lines is introduced. Memories of high school gymnasium assemblies might also be conjured up when assessing the polarity of the whole shebang: On one side are the formally dressed Bush supporters, and on the other side are the liberal protesters. The Chiefs versus the Jaguars. Only in this version, the cheerleaders for the opposing team have exchanged their pom-poms and jerseys for cardboard signs and all black (or all pink, the new black) attire. Instead of pins on lettermen jackets, they affix buttons bearing political slogans to worn-in bags.

The eerie part of this scenario is when you zoom out to see what happens after the game, when both sides of the bleachers empty into the streets and go home. On the one hand, each side goes home to seemingly different circumstances: The Chiefs return to white upper-class suburbia in sleek new cars where they send their children to private school and their charity checks to Unicef at Christmas time. Once they have made it out of the police blockades and through the crowded channels of public transportation, the Jaguars scatter to their various corners of the country, making a living however they can, and pursuing activism in what time remains available, because they believe it is the “right” thing to do.

Or is this really the truth? This seemed to be the way the scene was set up four years ago. What Jonathan Franzen described in an essay as “seeing yourself seeing yourself,” when you return home and “peel off the thermal layers, still damp, of the long day’s costume, and you see a wholly different kind of costume hanging in your closet; and in the shower you’re naked and alone.” In truth, the work we have to do goes much deeper than the sensational protests of January 20th. We are just getting started:

I refuse to be silent
I refuse to refrain
We inaugurate the second term of the peace and justice movement
We begin again

J20

“AS INAUGURAL Day dawned, the west lawn of the Capitol began to fill with fur coats and cowboy hats as Bush supporters with premier tickets took their seats. Along Pennsylvania Avenue, evangelicals prayed for the president. And all across town, anti-Bush protesters ranging from Billionaires for Bush "auctioning off" Social Security to antiwar activists and anarchists took to the streets. As the inaugural ceremony began, anti-Bush protesters at the other end of the city marched down Connecticut Avenue toward the National Mall. This group -- calling itself the Women's March and Funeral Procession -- featured jazzy music that set its two blocks of marchers swaying as they walked. One woman carried a hot-pink purse and pumped her hot-pink umbrella in the air, Mary Poppins style. But their message was the jarring opposite: They carried coffins draped in American flags, with signs reading "Bush lied and troops died."” --AP

“Out in the cold, just beyond the closed doors of a thousand $500 Republican brunches and cocktail parties, tens of thousands of citizens are in the streets, raising their voices against the right-wing agenda. And in addition to marching and chanting, they're talking to one another, trading phone numbers, organizing a movement that will make the next four years see the biggest groundswell of grassroots resistance a president has ever faced. Wealthy Republicans are holed up in the lobbies of expensive hotels, toasting the windfall of corporate profits and tax breaks to come. Bush is blowing a lot of hot air about "patriotism" and "freedom" while a small army of Secret Service agents and police officers makes sure that nobody worth less than a million comes within a block of his person.” --News Article

J20 goes like this:
Thousands of people in the streets chanting “not my president”

“not my president”

I amBush
the president
at his inaugural:
Eight of us CodePINK women pass through security seamlessly, with banners stuffed in our underclothes, and we position ourselves in the seated VIP section where we quickly make friends with all the die-hard republicans around us. Ariel even goes so far as to make a photograph of the elder couple a row in front of us, on their request. After the long processional of “important” people, Bush begins his speech. Midway through, when he is getting to the part about freedom and the liberty of America, we all stand up on our seats and unfurl our banners. Mine reads, “Freedom?” And there is a long one, velcroed together, that reads, “Bush Mandate: Bring our troops home now!” The Republicans execute a surgical strike to stop our action, instantly forming and launching snowballs, ripping the banners out of our hands; one succeeds in twisting my wrist in half and pulling my glove off my fingers. We sit down calmly. And after a few minutes, we pull out more banners and resist sashes, and stand up another time. By the time we sit down again, the police are flanking the aisle next to us. So, we get up a third time, this time shouting “Bring our troops home now” and “Stop the war.” And we are escorted out of the inauguration by overly zealous cops who can’t quite figure out what to do with us. Medea instructs Diane to hold onto her and the two of them refuse to move until they are arrested.

Outside, we hold up our banners and receive the attention of all the people pouring out of the Mall. Many people congratulate us and state their support (who knew that hidden under all those fancy petticoats and suits there were so many dissenters? Then again, all the Democratic offices received tickets to the inauguration). We speak with many journalists and figure out a rendevous point to get picked up.

Later that day, Ariel and I try to do a banner drop: The scene of us attempting to get on Pennsylvania is absurdly humorous: Ariel is on the phone doing an interview with a conservative radio station while I stand in line trying everything to move through more quickly. I befriend an activist, then I feign clausterphobia and crowd sickness and make myself green in the face, foaming at the mouth and putting my head between my knees, mumbling about nausea and swaying quite fiercely. A Republican woman to my right barks at me that everyone is sick of waiting in line and does nothing to come to my rescue. In my next breath, I am simultaneously grateful that my sickness is, for the most part, an act, and frightened by the thought that I might one day be in a situation of real helplessness and have only a numb and cruel person such as this lady at my side. Even my role play, in which I pretend to be a lawyer’s assistant, does not convince the army men at the gates to let me in. And finally the processional passes, and I pull Ariel away and through the streets to the location of the other CodePINK banner drop. As we run through the busy streets, Ariel makes a loud and declarative statement to the talkshow man on the phone about the lack of freedom she feels as a woman in the United States, citing rape and domestic violence statistics, and the glass ceiling women face in the workforce. I am proud to have this strong woman by my side as we speed to the next action.

CodePINK drops a large pink slip banner off a tall building, and we get some media attention, and rile the spirits of the protesters who are making their way out of the city. Mostly, everyone appears to be exhausted from the long day—the protesters in their now bedraggled costumes and still gripping dented and bent signs, the reporters and camera people clutching their bags stuffed with full roles of film and scrawled out notepads, and the people who came to really watch the parade whose faces appear pale and whose lipstick has long since faded to match the color of the stripes on the dead animal skins that hang on their bony, anxious shoulders. $45 million dollars later, all anyone wants is to get out of the cold and have a moment of tranquility.

But we do not rest; instead we cross town and arrive at the Freedom Ball at the train station, where we hold an outdoor protest. This protest, in my opinion, has varied success, considering the anarchist kids in black bandanas who jibe and yell at the ball-goers, even denouncing some of their children. To me, this a violent form of protest, and I quickly grow disillusioned with the scene, though I admire the attempts of the organizers to keep everyone unified and focused. One scene is particularly humorous: a white middle aged man in a tux breaks into an intense argument with some of the young skater-esque protesters and all the cameras focus on the drama. The man finally throws up his hands, declares that “money does buy happiness,” and storms away. It is only exceedingly funny when we see him later that night at the Billionaires for Bush mock-ball, and realize that the whole thing was a play for him. The cameras were none the wiser.

Across the street from the protest, we meet a woman who is distraught by the ball and the audacity of the Republicans in spending so much money on the inauguration during wartime. The conversation we have with her is the most meaningful of the night, for me. She has a deep desire to show the ball-goers that she is just like them—the same age, the same socioeconomic bracket, and yet she is completely disheartened by the war, and by the grandiose expenditures.

Scott, Amanda, Z, Ariel, and I all bash the night away at the Billionaires ball. Scott arrives wearing a suit and rollerblades, and numerous reporters approach him, wanting to know the inner significance of his outfit combo. Oh, to be a zealous, clueless reporter!
The night ends with a cab ride to Scott’s cozy house, and the discovery, online, of the fantastic AP photo of Ariel and I walking out of the inauguration. And we sleep soundly.

Great articles to check out include:
http://www.codepinkalert.org/National_Actions_J20.shtml (the CodePINK summary of the day’s activities, with many photographs)
http://www.commondreams.org/headlines05/0120-09.htm (the Common Dreams headline story about the counter-inaugural, with some vivid AP photos)
http://insidebayarea.com/review/ci_2532373
http://newswww.bbc.net.uk/2/hi/americas/4193465.stm (with a quote from, and picture of, my soul sister Ariel!)
http://www.commondreams.org/news2005/0120-06.htm (the mostly-accurate press release about our counter-inauguration action)

Black Gold and Boots

At noon on Wednesday we kick off the counter-inaugural with a CodePINK orientation meeting at Café Luna. We turn the upstairs bookstore area of the Mediterranean café into a flurry of pink, a packed circle of multi-generational women eager to discuss plans for action. The debriefing includes the distribution of J20 action guides—pamphlets containing the schedule, the map, the metro routes, a list of spots for good eats, and the key digits, like numbers for the lawyer’s guild and the aclu legal rights hotline. What more could the touring activist want? After a short discussion about conversing with the media, and a little time for reporter-activist interaction role plays, a lawyer makes a presentation about legal aspects of protesting. I find this time to be really informative, since it functions as a sort-of “Everything You Always Wanted to know about Dissent in a time of Fearful, Loathsome Administrations” session. Over the months of traveling around the country, I have procured an almanac of legality questions, like what police can and can’t ask (and do to) you when you are behind the wheel, when you’re on the street, or, say, when you’re making a bright pink anti-war statement to disrupt the president’s speech… questions like that.

The orientation generates interesting conversation and questions, and I leave yearning for more. Then again, one of the aspects of CodePINK that I find to be really effective is that the grassroots structure and direct actions empower everyone who takes part; the learning happens in the process. And the process is just beginning…

As night falls, we split off to prep for the Texas Black Tie and Boots Inaugural Ball. Donning outrageous pink attire and pig noses, we later congregate alongside the Billionaires for Bush outside the towering Marriott hotel complex, site for the $375 a head presidential affair. As Bushites drive up to the hotel in their stretch Hummers and black windowed SUVs, we chant and throw “Hallibacon” dollars in the air. I step away from the festive protest for a moment, and when I walk back into it, the protesters, sizing up my pink formal dress, boa, petticoat, and cowgrrl boots, start jeering and poking fun at me, assuming I am a ball-goer. This gives me the idea that maybe I should be a ball-goer! I grab Tzadik, who is a styling Billionaire in a full tux, and we go up the roadway to investigate the scene. We walk into the lobby and survey the long lines of people waiting to get their wristbands and move through the security checkpoint and metal detectors. We decide to find out the details and pick a likely looking hotel worker to interrogate about the ball set-up. When we describe our dire situation (read: two enthusiastic Republicans who traveled such a long way to attend the inauguration and don’t have tix for the party), the hotel employee opens his suit jacket and fans through a stack of ball passes. Turns out, he is the executive manager of the ball. He then tells us that he might have an extra pair of tickets, since a senator had called to say that he was sick. He advises us to wait in the pub across the way. We stroll over to the pub, and once inside, I notice a gaggle of reporters, all carrying large cameras. In my haste to connect with the press, I walk through a set of glass doors with Tzadik in hand, and, unknowingly, we pass right by the security area and presto!... we’re in!

The place is packed, and we weave through the crowds, receiving little golden programs for the evening, which list the ball sponsors, and on alternating pages show the logos of the myriad of corporations behind the Bush regime. The Texas State Society's gala is arguably the most unconventional bash of inaugural week—at least in fashion terms. “It's the only party in town where the 10,000 guests are not just encouraged but expected to pair down-home duds like Stetson hats and Tony Lamas kicks with tuxedos and evening gowns,” writes an AP reporter. I am informed by the hotel employee that it is also the first inaugural ball in our country’s history to have an open bar… and boy, is it open! With the chardonnay and scotch flowing and the mink coats and elaborate gowns swishing through the crowds, I am left wondering about Christian values… whatever happened to temperance and humility, anyway? Texas-sized tables of food, floral arrangements, and corporate sponsor information, adorn each of the ballrooms we tour through.

We are ushered with the crowd down an escalator to the lower level, which contains an arts and crafts fair of Texas’s finest products, everything from “Don’t mess with Texas” baby outfits, to spicy mustards, to large trucks for auction. Against the far wall there is a large Lockeed-Martin display with two fighter jets and a large backdrop of Bush and Cheney and their wives waving to a large crowd. We are queued into a line that deposits us into this large poster, against which we pose for a free snapshot. Imagine this image: Z and I standing, all smiles, with our fingers making big peace signs, side by side with the two presidential thieves. I will try to upload this photograph, for your viewing entertainment.

Next, we begin an all-out search for a likely place where we can do an action, make some colorful statement about the unnecessary lavish, grotesquely fancy ball. These are the two actions we manage to achieve:

After Bush’s speech, during Clay Walker’s country music performance in the main ballroom, I walk up on the stage with two yellow roses. I first give one to Clay, posing as an admiring fan, and then I declare the other one to be in memory of the 1,373 troops we have lost to the war in Iraq, and I shout that we need to end the war now and bring the troops home. I am unable to hold onto the microphone, though, and am ushered off the stage as I speak, so I think that only the people up front hear me. The comment does generate some interesting conversation, and several women stare at me in disbelief, their eyes asking, “How could such a sweet young girl say such an outrageous thing? What is the meaning of it?” If only the inaugural balls included a group discussion on the future of our country event… imagine that!

Out in the main entryway area, we spy a table stuffed with trays of little deserts—torts, petit fours, and the like. I am thinking that maybe the best way to engage in dialogue with these people is if we have something to give away, so I grab one of these trays and position myself by the escalator leading to the exit. As folks are beginning to trickle out of the ball, they stop to admire my tray of sweets, and I offer them a delectable last sweet taste of the evening. As they bite into their treat, I offer up Marie Antoinette’s adage, “Let them eat cake,” and politely inform them that the budget for the (“wartime”) second inauguration of Bush is one tenth of the money we allocated for the tsunami disaster relief efforts (and equal to the original money we were willing to give to Southeast Asia). As I speak, the faces that lit up at the sugary splendors pale, and they grow uncomfortable with the remaining gooey bite at hand. Some engage in dialogue with me, and some turn away. A reporter takes great interest in our action, but his son, who is blasted, gets belligerent and offensive, and grabs my arm too firmly for my own liking.

I find Tzadik and we get ready to leave. The last woman we speak to is the wife of a military general and she gets very angry at our political pastry presentation (the PPP action ;-) and chases us out of the ball. Once I am safely outside, I turn around, but Tzadik is nowhere in sight. Fearing that he has been absconded by the secret service, I rush back into the ball, and enlist the assistance of a few Westpoint cadets, who instantly form a willing search party after I mention Z’s brother, Isaac, who is about to graduate from Westpoint. Eventually, Z turns up, and we depart, snagging a wristband, a few John Deer baseball caps and a couple “black tie and boots” inaugural ball commemorative cowboy hats.

The Activist House

On Tuesday, I schlep bags of CodePINK supplies up to Gael’s house. Gael is one of the founding mothers of the CodePINK movement for peace and women’s rights, and has a big, boisterous house nestled in a suburban neighborhood on the outskirts of DC (“E” in the three-syllable street area, to be exact). From the outside, the house, with its soft orange color and crimson columned wide porch holding an old couch and swing, looks calm and welcoming. This soft façade, however, quickly gives in, through the doorway, to a bustling speedway of CodePINK activity. For the week of J20, Gael’s house has become our activist lair, housing many of the women who have traveled from faraway places to make it to the counter-inaugural, and serving as the meeting point for the construction of our plans. The front entryway is piled high with various pink garments—overcoats, wool hats, assorted gloves, and wet boots. The dining room is turned into a workshop where we cut, hem, and mark up “Resist!” pink satin sashes for the women’s march, and paint large banners for the parade route. The living room becomes Claire and Dana’s internet-equipped office, and the kitchen is always buzzing with two or more women engaged in passionate political discourse over a cup of over-steeped coffee. Someone is on a cell phone talking with the press in an upstairs bedroom, someone else is putting elastic strips on pink statue of liberty crowns, and someone is trying to make lunch… and in the middle of it all, Gael’s two dogs , who have become excited at all the unusual hub-bub of activity swarming through their house, make off with the baguette!

The whole scene is far more than comical, though: it is astounding. I am overwhelmed with joy to be a part of this group of dedicated women who are so creatively and passionately working to say no to the Bush agenda, and the inauguration process. I am also exceedingly grateful to Gael and Lori for opening their home to us, especially in their absence. I’m immediately incorporated into the action, making sashes and talking through the agenda for the busy days to come. And then it is decided that I will drive Nancy and I downtown to get more supplies. My first stickshift adventure, happily, goes smoothly and without unnecessary calamity.

By nighttime, Gael’s dining room is full of CodePINK women making various banners and signs. In the middle of it all enters a Scandinavian reporter, who interviews each of us about our work and our purpose protesting. Later that night, I return to Scott’s house, and he takes me on a rather blindfolded journey to the capital, where we see Lincoln’s monument emerge in glowing yellow light, and then visit the FDR memorial. This memorial is a labyrinthine structure of Jerusalem-style stone, interrupted occasionally with fountains which have frozen in the bitter winter temperatures. These icy green structures, the paused, crystal water shimmering in the light, seem to emerge out of some distant mountain landscape, and their presence here in the middle of the Mall is somewhat of a comfort. For a moment, I am not caught up in the memorials of wars and fallen leaders and soldiers, and I return to the world of Beauty. Eleanor Roosevelt’s statue emerges next to one of these luminous fountain ice sculptures, and I think about how she might be one of the only female statues on the Mall… what a woman!

With her presence on my mind, I return for one more night of good sleep, before the counter-inaugural really begins.

Off Day

On Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, I celebrate civil rights with a day of rest (figuring that the rest of the week promises enough civic unrest!). I have lunch with Scott and Kristen, who is an incredible environmental activist and in a few months will officially be a lawyer, at the Thai Market, which is the only *real* place to get Thai food. Then Scott and I spend the afternoon playing Super Mario Bros. until it is dark, and we venture out to buy whole food, make a scrumptious Indian meal, and watch Mean Girls. This qualifies as a perfect day, and ends with our huddled sleep in the cold, and sweet dreams that taste like chocolate and fermented hops, and smell like fresh snow and grilled cauliflower and garam masala. This day is delicious, and gives me the grounded energy necessary for the intense week to come.

The Counter-Inauguration Journey Begins Here

Sunday, January 16, 2005

At 4:45 in the morning, my mom, Mák, and I pile into the truck and depart for the airport, making two short stops in Berkeley along the way. My early rising efforts prove futile when I discover that the tiny pencil-shaped plane that I was supposed to be on has an electrical failure. The delay allows me to see Shira at the airport (and almost fly with her), get an extended lay over in Phoenix, and fly into Reagan National instead of Dulles… so perhaps my shocking electromagnetic force field is working in my favor! In Phoenix, I take a short day trip to some extraordinary red rock formations protruding from a park within the urban sprawl. From an alcove high up the rocks, Tzadik and I picnic, munching on delish sandwiches and green juice, and looking out over the city. I feel a bit sheepish in my all-black attire, already wearing long johns and donning my new pink petticoat… in Arizona’s 85 degree weather! But all is not for naught, because when I later step outside in DC, I am confronted with bitterly cold air.

But, I am skipping ahead. From Phoenix, after a moment of glorious sunshine, I jump on a plane to DC. En route, I sit in the bulk head and speak with the stewardess. She is a very friendly young woman, originally hailing from the Midwest, who has only been working in the airline business for four months. She tells me about her spiritual journey and how she, after a period of rebellion and uncertainty, had found hope through Christianity. After listening to me talk about my work with CodePink and the purpose of my DC trip to the counter-inaugural, she declares that she is a Bush supporter. When I ask her about presidential endorsement, she responds with the “Christian values” line.

When I ask what morals, specifically, she is referring to, she stalls and declares her lack of knowledge, and I can’t penetrate her opinion further. Here, sitting before me, is a woman who represents many women in this country: she is compassionate, generous, kind, caring, and wants to help make the world a “better place.” For her “better” means ending hunger, helping to construct houses and doing other volunteer work in “impoverished” countries, being a Christian (which she seemed to define as being active in the church, adhering to the opinions of her Colorado minister, and espousing the still unknown to me “values”), being anti-abortion, and supporting Bush’s war in Iraq, on the premise that we are defending our security and liberating a disempowered people. For me, “better” means a world in which each person has a right and an opportunity to a happy, healthy, beautiful, and free life. This inspires my solidarity work in other countries and in the US, and underlies my stance on being pro-choice and anti-war in Iraq. But here I was, sitting with the flight attendant, and noticing the similarities: we both have had profound spiritual journeys, and we believe that we are acting out of compassion for humanity and the earth. It’s just that the means that we believe will achieve peace and justice, that will lead to the fulfillment of our values, are, in some areas, radically different. I think this is the kind of interaction that we need to look deeply at in the forming movement, if we are to achieve broad-based support for ending this war and preventing the collapse of the US, and indeed the world. The fight is not between the ultra-progressives and neocons or between the atheists and the fundamentalist Christians; there is an uneasy silence that is growing increasingly loud between Bush supporters who find justice through inarticulate “Christian values,” and those who find justice through peaceful action that does not demand militarism or Constitutional prohibition of basic health care and social union rights, to name just a few examples.

And there is a sentiment, underneath these differences, that there are many people in this country who increasingly do not see a separation between church (Christianity) and state. When I bring up this separation, the flight attendant told me that this country was founded on Christian values. I politely reminded her that to my understanding this country was founded under the premise of religious tolerance, since its first colonial inhabitants had been fleeing religious persecution for their “unacceptable” beliefs. This is a deeper conversation that we need to be engaged in at this time.

When I reach DC, I am not greeted by my bags at the baggage claim, and do not see them until the next day. But I am greeted by my most incredible friend, Mr. Scott Paul, with whom I stay with for the duration of my protest adventure in our nation’s capital.

2005: Rae Says No to Antibiotics

2005 marks the first year of my life that I have not been on antibiotics for chronic sinusitis and other health issues. This is my most exciting accomplishment this year. Well, that and trying to stop the war...

A quick update about my life: I am living and working in San Francisco. I started traveling and doing election work with CODEPINK in the fall of ‘04, spent two months organizing in NYC in the spring of this past year, and was on the road for much of the following months working on various projects addressing the local cost of war, countering military recruiters in schools, and general grassroots organizing. After the September 24th peace demonstration in DC (where I was arrested outside the White House—My first arrest, and joyous it was—singing and dancing all the way to the jail house!), I began working as the national coordinator of CODEPINK’s local chapters. This gives me the opportunity to work closely with women around the country (in over 230 cities!) and in England, Ireland, Brazil, and soon to be Figi (where a new chapter just started yesterday!). I hear inspiring stories about what’s going on in small towns and in big cities to spread awareness about this war and the current administration, like tales of Peace Picnics in the park in London, held in lieu of protests, which have been banned within 1 km of the Parliament; stories of demolition and rebuilding in New Orleans in the devastating aftermath of Hurricane Katrina; and accounts of street theater actions outside military recruiting centers in which actor-activists dramatized the lies military recruiters spin to convince predominately underprivileged youth to sign up for travel, adventure, cash bonuses, job training, education, and honor.

At the start of December, I had the opportunity to journey to Italy for a speaking tour with a group called Donne di Pace (Women of Peace)--we toured the northern part of the country, speaking to high school and college students, the general public, and the government—it was an incredible experience. I wrote all about this trip, my summer road trip from Atlanta, GA, to Los Angeles, and so much more in my online blog at http://ravenjournal.blogspot.com/. I’ve done some writing this year, including: a counter-recruitment article published in LoudMouth, a feminist zine (see pp.10-11 of the downloadable .pdf file at http://www.calstatela.edu/usu/loudmouth/loudmouth.swf); a chapter on non-military alternatives in a forthcoming book entitled 10 Excellent Reasons Not to Join the Army; a poem that will appear in a women’s anthology called Sisters Singing; and some minor news pieces. I am currently making a hot pot of Sonya’s homemade chai tea, and in the coming weeks, I will be working to assisting our local groups in planning actions for International Women’s Day, March 8. If you are interested in planning something where you live, please let me know and I will help in any way I can.

I am settling into the pace of life in the Bay Area—reconnecting with friends from high school, staying in touch with the East Coast crew and the post-college diaspora, creating a strong community of friends here in SF including the ever-inspiring and dynamic Art in Action folks, and spending time in my hometown with my parents and with my cousin who just moved to the wild west from Kansas City. My stepdad is teaching me how to surf and this morning I actually stood up for a few breaths ;-) When not donning pink wigs, hanging out of a window doing a banner drop, or else mass emailing, I find myself hiking in the redwoods, cooking portabello mushrooms and roasting marshmallows on the gas stovetop, playing balderdash, fighting parking tickets, writing poems on scraps of paper, singing with friends, learning how to use my iBook and iPod (after being a pc person forever), and watching movies and reading books (current recommendations include Control Room, Hero, and the all-time favorite, Out Cold; books—The Kite Runner and Seymour Hersh’s Chain of Command). I’ve broken my heart open to so many new dreams and sensations, and I find myself awestruck by it all.

2005: Rae Says No to Antibiotics

2005 marks the first year of my life that I have not been on antibiotics for chronic sinusitis and other health issues. This is my most exciting accomplishment this year. Well, that and trying to stop the war...

A quick update about my life: I am living and working in San Francisco. I started traveling and doing election work with CODEPINK in the fall of ‘04, spent two months organizing in NYC in the spring of this past year, and was on the road for much of the following months working on various projects addressing the local cost of war, countering military recruiters in schools, and general grassroots organizing. After the September 24th peace demonstration in DC (where I was arrested outside the White House—My first arrest, and joyous it was—singing and dancing all the way to the jail house!), I began working as the national coordinator of CODEPINK’s local chapters. This gives me the opportunity to work closely with women around the country (in over 230 cities!) and in England, Ireland, Brazil, and soon to be Figi (where a new chapter just started yesterday!). I hear inspiring stories about what’s going on in small towns and in big cities to spread awareness about this war and the current administration, like tales of Peace Picnics in the park in London, held in lieu of protests, which have been banned within 1 km of the Parliament; stories of demolition and rebuilding in New Orleans in the devastating aftermath of Hurricane Katrina; and accounts of street theater actions outside military recruiting centers in which actor-activists dramatized the lies military recruiters spin to convince predominately underprivileged youth to sign up for travel, adventure, cash bonuses, job training, education, and honor.

At the start of December, I had the opportunity to journey to Italy for a speaking tour with a group called Donne di Pace (Women of Peace)--we toured the northern part of the country, speaking to high school and college students, the general public, and the government—it was an incredible experience. I wrote all about this trip, my summer road trip from Atlanta, GA, to Los Angeles, and so much more in my online blog at http://ravenjournal.blogspot.com/. I’ve done some writing this year, including: a counter-recruitment article published in LoudMouth, a feminist zine (see pp.10-11 of the downloadable .pdf file at http://www.calstatela.edu/usu/loudmouth/loudmouth.swf); a chapter on non-military alternatives in a forthcoming book entitled 10 Excellent Reasons Not to Join the Army; a poem that will appear in a women’s anthology called Sisters Singing; and some minor news pieces. I am currently making a hot pot of Sonya’s homemade chai tea, and in the coming weeks, I will be working to assisting our local groups in planning actions for International Women’s Day, March 8. If you are interested in planning something where you live, please let me know and I will help in any way I can.

I am settling into the pace of life in the Bay Area—reconnecting with friends from high school, staying in touch with the East Coast crew and the post-college diaspora, creating a strong community of friends here in SF including the ever-inspiring and dynamic Art in Action folks, and spending time in my hometown with my parents and with my cousin who just moved to the wild west from Kansas City. My stepdad is teaching me how to surf and this morning I actually stood up for a few breaths ;-) When not donning pink wigs, hanging out of a window doing a banner drop, or else mass emailing, I find myself hiking in the redwoods, cooking portabello mushrooms and roasting marshmallows on the gas stovetop, playing balderdash, fighting parking tickets, writing poems on scraps of paper, singing with friends, learning how to use my iBook and iPod (after being a pc person forever), and watching movies and reading books (current recommendations include Control Room, Hero, and the all-time favorite, Out Cold; books—The Kite Runner and Seymour Hersh’s Chain of Command). I’ve broken my heart open to so many new dreams and sensations, and I find myself awestruck by it all.