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Crossing the Gulf
Night after night, we are able to camp, due to the hospitality of the black churches, which were the foundation of the rescue efforts within these communities. Night after night, we attend their church services, sitting side by side with those people that the police advised our groups not to send relief supplies to. These are the people – “THOSE people” as the police told Vivian, when she tried to deliver food and water to neighborhoods in Gulfport – who were so dangerous that relief workers were warned not to even enter their neighborhoods, and if they did, keep their cars locked at all times.
These are the people who lost everything, who were left to drown in their attics, who are donating food and cooking dinner for us, in preparation for our visits. Tonight we were given chicken, pork, peas, cabbage, cornbread, beans, key lime pie, cakes, and a place to rest our heads. Tonight we were invited to join their services, to listen to their music and their preaching, and they listened while our walkers talked about the frustration of sitting at Fort Hood in a National Guard unit, not being allowed to provide help to the Gulf area, even though 40% of the National Guard units – as well as their equipment – were overseas in Iraq. They listened to the frustration of watching guard units being used in New Orleans to guard warehouses of Mardi Gras beads against looters, instead of providing relief to “those people.” They listened to a father talk about his son, who had stood next to National Guard members filling sandbags as their own town’s river had flooded, and was inspired by them to join the guard. And then was killed in Iraq, rather than staying in the US protecting our own communities. When it was time for the offering, I realized my wallet was in my other pants, in my car. The woman next to me had two dollars in her hand for the plate. She pressed them into mine, for me to add to the plate, and gave me a huge hug.
It’s a humbling experience to accept money from a person who has lost so much.
These are the people the police were afraid of. These are “those people.”
I knew before leaving home that the purpose of this trip was to cross the gulf, but I didn’t understand until we started walking, exactly which gulf we were crossing.
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Up until yesterday, the police escorts we had were wonderful. That needs to be said. Some of our folks stepped out of formation to chat with them, they took some of our literature, they made sure we were within the bounds of our permit, but also made sure we were safe - and they smiled or nodded at each point as we passed by. We applauded them as we walked by them the final time, crossing out of their jurisdiction.
Yesterday was the first day we encountered hostile police. There weren't any arrests, but they "lost" our permit to march, and began threatening to arrest anyone who stepped off of the sidewalk, anyone who stopped to take photos. "Keep walking, or you WILL be arrested" was the mantra of the day." The fellow from the BBC who's been travelling with us was ticketed for standing too close to his own car. One person was ticketed for honking their support.
Local news channels were covering us, and at first there was some snickering when we realized they were interviewing the BBC guy (self-referential media at it again), but he gave a kick-ass interview, talking about the state of media in the US, their inability to show dissenting opinions, and how that differs so widely from the media elsewhere. In his experience in covering events in 80 different countries, he said, he had never encountered a police force that was hostile not only to the participants of a protest, but actually to the journalists trying to get the story out as well. He likened it (on camera) to the South African government during apartheid.
A few times yesterday the walk was disrupted by police rules changing midstream. We left our cars parked at our start point, and began walking, then a few miles into it, word came that one car was about to be towed, leaving someone having to run back to retrieve it. We were assured that the other cars were okay where they were, and then a few more miles in, they were no longer okay, so those who are leapfrogging their cars along had to drop out, load the White Rose bus, and double back to rescue them and caravan them to our evening camp site, load the White Rose again, and join up with the walkers.
Again, when we were walking to city hall, police forced us back onto the buses, and didn't allow us to walk through the down town area. It's a frustrating thing for combat veterans to be told they aren't welcome to walk down the public sidewalks in their own country.
The reaction from the people has for the most part, however, has been surprising positive. We've gotten a few one-fingered peace signs, but the vast majority who responded honked in support, flashing peace signs at us, or pumping their fists - including a military vehicle being driven by soldiers. Three school buses drove past us at one point, and the kids were hanging out of the windows hollering in support, flashing peace signs at us.
One couple was standing in front of their FEMA trailer watching us, so I dropped out to talk to them. I introduced myself, asked if anyone from the group had explained why we were there. She said no, and looked a bit disapproving. I shook her hand, and explained about how we're there to bring attention to the fact that all that money being spent to "reconstruct" Iraq ought to be being spent for reconstruction right here. I talked a bit about different groups taking part in the march. She said she couldn't agree with pulling out of Iraq - "we need to stay there." I listened, nodded, and talked a bit more about the need for reconstruction here to be a priority. It was a friendly conversation, and at the end, she said though she couldn't agree about Iraq, she wished us well on the walk. There are a few other stories like that, of people stnading, arms crossed, glaring at us, someone in the grooup asking "how are you today?" and getting a response like "better than you all", refusing to take any literature from us, definitely hostile. And then someone from our group talking to them, finding out they actually protested the Vietnam war, but felt this was "different, because no Vietnamese ever dropped bombs on our country." By the end of a conversation, they agreed to check out a website about 911, begrudgingly admitted no Iraqi had ever dropped bombs on us, and were engaged in conversation, and ready to take a flier from Veterans for Peace.
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