It's War

We are about to engage in a tussle, my neighborhood gals and me. We are taking on the big guns in the small town to raise a ruckus for positive change. We are activists all, ready to rally ‘round a good and decent cause, to stand together in protest of a wrong. We have a letter of petition; we have a plan, a committee, and a mission statement.

We want Stop Signs. (Maybe speed bumps, but stop signs --much much better.)

Lest you think I am being slightly, somewhat, perhaps a little ironic or shall I say, cheeky, I am, and also I am not.

Stop signs are good! Slowing the speeding cars on this street that is overflowing with kids (who like to play outside, who’d a thunk) is good! Getting flipped off by those in said speeding cars is bad! Very bad, and we are coming for you.

Give me Stop Signs!

The cheekiness lingers, I know. It comes from the same part of me that smiles when I am carded. It comes from the part that still does not believe I pay a mortgage. Or bills. Or have a Will. (I will die you say? With something to leave behind?) It comes from the part of me that still chuckles a little at titles hurled at me like Mrs., like M’aam, like Mom.

This is not the protest of my youth. That was the early 90s and the first Gulf War and, um, grapes and laborers, but this is now. This is Stop Signs, motherfucker, and I want some.

I do my best to meditate on the Big World problems. I actively engage in all elections, contribute money to Veterans causes, and argue effectively with my NeoCon husband my opinions and beliefs. I hang an American flag (because I still believe in this place) and remind people to oppose the war and not the warrior. I am encouraged and delighted and surprised even that our next president might be a woman, or a black man. I ordered a bumper sticker, and when the time comes, I’ll stand on a street corner with a sign.

But I am not, like many of us, walking on Washington in protest. Truth be told, I am not affected daily by the war (though I bawled my eyes out at the funeral procession for a fallen father and son from our town, to which I hauled my kids, all under five at the time, because it was important) and I doubt you are either. Most of you. The Big World problems exist around my dinner table, but sadly, ashamedly, I have not, as of yet, taken it to the streets.

For now, it’s Stop Signs. On my street. Which will become I hope, a kindler, gentler, safer kind of street.

Think globally, act locally.