Peace March, 2003, by Carter Jefferson
From MemoryArchive
Who: Carter Jefferson What: Iraq War Protest When: March 2003 Where: Boston, Massachusetts
Peace March by Carter Jefferson
When my wife suggested that we join the peace rally in Boston on Saturday, March 15, 2003, I wasn't enthusiastic, even though I deeply feared the likely consequences of the war; I tend to be a little cynical. I said yes, though, and then thought about wearing my ribbons from Korea. Maybe that would set us off from the nut fringe I always expect at such things.
Fifty years ago I put those two bars, three ribbons on each one, in a box, never thinking I'd need them again. Naturally, I couldn't find them. But two medals did turn up--my WWII Victory medal and Japanese Occupation medal. I figured nobody would even know what they were, but pinned them on my shirt anyway. While I was trying to get them straight, I remembered Swede Swenson, a friend of mine. A shell splinter spattered his blood all over his captain while they stood on the bridge of his destroyer when we fought at Inchon.
With some friends, a VietNam vet and his wife, we sauntered over toward the
Common around a quarter to eleven. Heavy clouds hung overhead--rain looked
certain. Less than five hundred people were there--I was dismayed. Our wives
wandered off to look the place over, while he and I sat on a bench on Charles
Street, watching men, women, and children arrive in groups of two, three, and four.
Then I noticed an old man sitting across from us, maybe fifty feet down the street. His head bowed, he huddled over a big homemade sign that said "Pearl Harbor survivor against the war." I went over and tapped his hand. "Glad you're here." He looked up, and I touched my medals. He smiled, we shook hands, he said thank you.
Moments later a good-looking young blonde walked toward us with a couple of older guys. They carried a big banner that read "Veterans against the war." I hollered at them and they stopped. "Come join us down at the corner," she said, and I said we would. My friend wasn't wearing any ribbons, but he has a few tucked away somewhere.
With our wives, we wandered around looking at the tables full of buttons and checking out our fellow protesters. Some of the buttons looked familiar: "War is bad for children and other living things," wrapped around a kid's drawing of a flower. I remembered that one from the sixties. But you could still see too much grass on the Common; there weren't enough people, and I was distressed.
One woman, looking slightly drawn, stood alone and calm, a sign hanging down at her side. I could read it: "My son is a Marine, but I oppose this war." Some of the signs were cool and rational, like the one carried by a slim, bearded young man: "We are uniting the Arab world against us." Others were strident: "Get rid of Mad Cowboy Disease!" A chubby young man, hair down to his shoulders, held that one. Didn't matter. We were united.
I walked beside my wife while she chatted with a bunch of rebellious Sisters of St. Joseph, none of them very young, as they marched rapidly through the crowd, intent on getting in the thick of it. They wore no habits, had no white wings around their heads, but they had that stamp--the carefully coiffed hair, the neat cardigans, the sensible shoes. One of them didn't see eye-to-eye with the Pope on women's issues, but they all certainly agreed with him about the war.
A man with a veterans' sign, no more than thirty, told me they wanted the veterans to lead the parade, more than an hour away. He'd served a few years in the Air Force in the early nineties and never seen combat; he treated me with deference. That's one of the things you find hard to get used to when you get old. Nice guy. But my feet were getting tired, and I wasn't sure I wanted to wait long enough to lead a parade.
The four of us gave up at noon and went down to Boylston Street to find something to eat. Things looked sad, a little like the days right after 9/11. Cars were forbidden there, and not many people walked around; the shops looked empty.
Lunch gave us a second wind--me, anyhow; I think I was the tiredest of us all. We trudged back across the Public Garden to Charles and Beacon streets. Three gentlemen about my age were holding a big veterans' banner. They wore fancy anti-war overseas caps, and a couple of them bore decorations for bravery. One had a combat infantry badge--no honor is greater than that. I just had a couple of GI medals pinned on, the ones everybody got. I'm no hero; just getting shot at doesn't make you that. They welcomed me. I'd been in the Navy, but speaking to an ex-Marine, an Army pilot, and a couple of others, I felt at home. Something about the way we shook hands. We all knew how it was. I looked up the hill, and the Common looked better--you couldn't see much grass anymore.
We talked to people, all kinds of people, and Lucy said it was wonderful to be in a place where we were the majority, where we didn't have to watch our mouths. The median age looked to be about thirty-five--this wasn't just a bunch of noisy college kids.
When the march began, we took our places in the second or third rank. Somebody warned us--there'd be hecklers, don't get mad, just give them the peace sign. We marched too slowly for my taste, and people kept bumping into each other. How many people? At least 15,000; the TV said maybe 25,000. Plenty of us, that's for sure. Enough.
A black-haired woman with a Dutch bob stepped on my heel. I turned, and she apologized. "Peace," I said, and we smiled at each other. That was the way it was all along.
Just before we reached Clarendon Street, after about a six-block march down Beacon Street, the four of us pulled out. My feet were killing me, and theirs weren't so good, either. Age is hard on feet. We sat on the steps of a big brownstone, hoping the inhabitants wouldn't shoo us away.
As the marchers went by, more and more of them, in their thousands, we flashed them the peace sign. I continually tried to catch someone's eye and make it personal. That worked, and a lot of smiles flew around the crowd. Young girls, old men, black, white, Asian, all kinds. I remember a smile from one trim middle-aged woman in particular. Her sign read "Support our Troops! Bring them home now!" Some of the marchers looked twice, pointed at my medals. I was glad I'd found them.
As they passed, in their thousands, my eyes misted up a couple of times. Probably smoke or something--I haven't cried in decades.
The march went on, but we walked home, too tired to stay any longer. It never did rain. Nothing much happened; nobody got arrested, nobody started a fight, but my wife was right--we had to go. I took my medals off and dropped them on my desk. Maybe I'll need them again. I hope not, but I'm sure I will.
