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Houston, TX, February, 2006--After a reception for Progressive Democrats of America and the premiere of Robert Greenwald's Wal-Mart film, Cindy Sheehan climbed in the back of a taxicab in Washington, D.C., and told her sister and me, "I was just approached by a young man who said, 'I can't believe I'm seeing you! My mother just said that if I ever saw you I was to give you a message: Tell her to go see his Mama.' " Cindy paused, then added, "That sounds right to me." We agreed to meet on Presidents' Day in Houston, to go see Barbara Bush.
Word went out to Gold Star families, Code Pink, Veterans for Peace, and the alumnae of Camp Casey. A letter was sent to Mrs. Bush. We invited her to meet us for tea at 4 p.m., Monday, February 20, in the little park between her church in Houston and a busy highway intersection.
On Sunday, February 19, I arrive in Houston along with Cindy, her sister Dede, and former State Department official and Army Colonel Ann Wright. Gold Star mother Amy Branham and her husband Maxx welcome us to their home.
"This is Jeremy's house," says Amy, showing us his soldier's portrait, which is the first thing you see coming in the door. "He said if anything ever happened to him, I should buy a house, because I've never had a house."
Her voice tells how infinitely much more she'd rather have his life. But she uses the house to save the lives of others.
Gold Star Aunt Beatriz Saldivar, seeing the portrait, murmurs, "He has that look. Daniel had it too. They knew." She carries Daniel's portrait on a poster, beneath her arm, everywhere she travels. When she worked for the UN in Rome, she arranged for Daniel and his fiancée to visit there before his deployment, "to see some of the beautiful things he'd always wanted to see." Among the things he found beautiful was graffiti on a wall in Venice: STOP THE WAR. He posed by it, telling Beatriz, as she took his picture, "That's what you have to do."
We have an impromptu talent show that night and laugh until we cry. Tears are never far from Gold Star families, I've learned. When they flow from laughter, it's a relief. No demurrers – "I have no talent!" -- are allowed; everyone does something. I sing parodies that constituted my audition for Saturday Night Live thirty years ago. Young Brooke sings her voice magical. Dede tells jokes, and Cindy and Ann perform a skit about parallel parking – yes, parallel parking -- that is as hilarious as anything I've ever seen in an improv club. It employs all of us, eventually, as cars. You had to be there.
The next day our action is at 4 p.m. Madeline Crozat-Williams of Code Pink has set up a tea table even though our guest didn't RSVP. No one really expects her -- appearing would require great courage. About 200 people gather with signs and pictures of their loved ones: "Bush Lied, Casey – Jeremy— Daniel – Aaron – Died." One sign quotes Barbara Bush: "'Nothing is more important than our children' – B. Bush. We agree. Bring them Home." Jim Rine of Veterans for Peace and Bill Crossier of Progressive Action Alliance have brought their groups. When peace activist and Episcopal priest Helen Haven shows up, her white coiffure startles some into thinking maybe Barb has joined us after all! Honks from the thick flow of traffic are overwhelmingly supportive: we see thumbs-up and peace signs. Our security guards are in plain clothes; they tell organizer Cheryl Norris that the nonviolent demonstration "will gain you respect and support in this community." At dusk, Cindy gathers us in a circle and Helen Haven reads "7 Prayers in Time of War." One phrase stands out: "This sin of war." As we disband, two people come up to Cindy, having seen us on the news. The Vietnam vet hugs Cindy with tears in his eyes and thanks her. The young woman says, "I knew I had to get off my couch and join you, because you were right here in Houston. All of Houston should be here."
That night, I wake up in the dark to a terrible sound, an inarticulate moaning. My heart races as I wonder whether it was human or animal – there are seven people asleep here and two cats. I'm on an inflatable mattress in the upstairs hall overlooking the living room. It's curtained for privacy but I can hear someone moving around downstairs – the one who cried out? Or someone who was wakened by the sound, like me? Should I get up and see if someone needs comforting? Can I comfort someone whose grief is beyond what I've ever endured? Of all the people here, Ann Wright and I are the only ones who can wake up without a stab in the heart as our first thought: You are Gone. Ghosts watch over the beds of the Gold Star mothers and stepfather and aunts. Casey, Jeremy, and Daniel. But suddenly I feel ghosts around me, too, ones whose names I don't know. All the war dead gather to support voices that give words to their inarticulate grief of the night. "Use your words" we teach our children. We'll use our words, with all our strength, to stop this war. Our words and our witness.
Downstairs, the movement stops, so I don't get up. The person is back in bed. I offer a prayer and go back to sleep knowing I'll wake in the morning without the stab in the heart the others feel: Still Gone. You are Gone and I am Here. I'll see Cindy at the laptop, checking the numbers that change in the night, of military dead, so she can write the out new signs on duct tape to wear on our shirts. The number of Iraqi dead has to be guessed. We'll tell jokes over coffee, laughing, exhausted, before we disperse to carry the message elsewhere – Stop the War. The Gold Star families carry it with their grief. Their river of tears must be enough to seed new life. This killing must end. The look in their soldiers' eyes compels them: I am Here – and You are Gone.