Back at “home”, the sharing and the healing

I hadn’t been able to get back to Camp I all day on Saturday, and so missed most of the action between the Bush supporter’s so-called “Camp Reality” and our side. I know that the police faced the Bush side all day, trusting us and knowing that all of the vets and families they had come to think of as friends would insure order at our camp. And they did, of course.

On Sunday, there were fewer people, but still a line held on our side facing another line on their side. Our people knew not to engage; their side was happy shouting taunts and insults across the road. Some of my favorite Bushie signs:

“The 60s are over, why are y’all still here?”
“It’s about terrorism, stupid”
“Thank the vets who GIVE to support our freedom”
And, my absolute favorite, “Repent Treasonous Bastard Scum”. The police made the nice old couple black out the word “Bastard”, but we’d all seen it anyway.

A sign war commenced on our side. “Nice Car Warmonger” had to be put away, because the police thought it was rude, but “W doesn’t own my flag” was quite popular on the Camp Casey line, as was “Air conditioned patriots, can’t you take the heat?”

There was a really obnoxious 12 or 13-year-old kid on the Bush side. He was shouting taunts at our kids, who just stood patiently. There was an Ann Coulter clone (only with more mascara) who shouted that we should get jobs. Because that’s one of the slogans they hand you at the brain-check booth, apparently.

But here’s what the press doesn’t really write about: there were also people crossing the lines to help each other out, push cars out of ditches, offer directions, and even share stories. There were families from town who rode their bikes out to visit and say hello. There were Gold Star families and veterans from both camps exchanging ideas.

More than anything else, Camp Casey I was a place for dialogue, reconciliation, healing.

Eric walked around and talked to everyone, thrilled at hearing everyone’s stories, making friends, bringing water. Yasser breezed in and out, always with humor. Families from Dallas and Houston came and made signs and expressed their joy at being among friends. Dennis walked around playing guitar and singing. And we stayed as on top of news from Louisiana as best we could.

There were young guys from Austin and a great Texas native who now lives in Oakland, a very cheerful guy whose name I cannot remember for the life of me. There was rice and pasta and sandwiches, Gatorade and coffee and sodas. There was milling about and laughing and playing. The storm had left the sky overcast and the day cooler, so it was pleasant on the sign line and in the chairs in front of the tents.