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Jewish World Review August 19, 2005 / 14 Av, 5765 It’s 1968 in Crawford, Texas By Tony Snow
http://www.JewishWorldReview.com |
Cindy Sheehan's supporters want you to call
her Mother Sheehan — not because she conducts herself in a saintly manner,
nor because nurture defines her nature, but because it makes her an easier
sell.
Here's Internet activist, dataguy: "We should call her 'Mother
Sheehan.' ... 'Mother Sheehan' is her title, and expresses her ceremonial
status as a bereaved mother, calling forth over the dead body of her son.
She is not a person now, she is a mother, which is not an expression of her
individuality, but rather the expression of her eternal character: the
mother, the bringer of life who has been wronged by state power."
This vaporous encomium makes explicit what many have suspected
from the start. Cindy Sheehan's backers and financiers do not consider her a
"person." To them, she is a useful idiot, whom they will adore until the TV
cameras go away.
Reporters get the joke, which is why they treat her with a wary
sensitivity normally reserved for aggressive panhandlers. After all, this is
a woman who has likened terrorist lawyer Lynn Stewart to Atticus Finch in
"To Kill a Mockingbird"; who has done Dick Durbin one better by calling the
president the most prolific mass murderer alive; who has earned the praise
and admiration of David Duke by calling Operation Iraqi Freedom a "war for
Israel"; and who has accepted support from Code Pink, an organization that
advocated aid to terrorists in Fallujah. Journalists would rather gargle
acid than listen to such gormless gibberish, which is why they primly avoid
asking her questions about her beliefs.
Even her personal recollections seem dotty and odd. When she and
her husband met with President Bush in June 2004, she greeted the commander
in chief by asking: "Why are we here? We're both Democrats. We didn't vote
for you. We're never gonna vote for you!" Meanwhile, she never talks in
detail about her son — other than to mention that he is dead.
This is not how grieving moms express their "eternal character."
It's what happens when people get utterly carried away with politics,
transforming themselves from concerned citizens into boorish zealots.
Her "why are we here" remark does set a tone, however, and those
of like minds and sensibilities have joined Mother Sheehan in her demand
that President Bush alter his vacation plans, so he can hold another
audience with her.
These fellow squatters include a man who refers to himself as
Mr. Foot Massager. Mr. Foot Massager massages feet. Actually, he limits his
ministrations to two feet, both of which belong to Mother Sheehan. He has
become her designated bunion kneader.
The Merry Band also includes Patient Zero, a young fellow with a
shock of hair the color of Tang. He has decorated his classical guitar with
a sign, "My other guitar is a syringe," and a cryptic, spray-painted
equation: "1001 = 0." He also comes equipped with a placard, which he held
as the president drove by: "Honk if your kids are in Iraq."
Then there's Tom Laughlin of "Billy Jack" fame, who scheduled a
drop-by. This is sort of like having Wink Martindale appear at the opening
session of the United Nations. Participants vaguely recognize him, but they
ask themselves: What on earth do you do with a faded minor celebrity? Offer
him fizzy water? Give him a block of wood to crack with his bare hands? Ask
for an autograph?
The "Peaceful Occupation of Crawford," as Sheehan has dubbed it,
seems a protest less against war than against good manners, deodorant soap
and the march of time. Yet, the most heart-rending feature of the entire
spectacle is Cindy Sheehan herself. She seems to believe this transient crew
will help her piece together her shattered life — a dead son, a wrecked
marriage, a shredded family. But how long can one lean on people who don't
even call themselves by their own names?
Sheehan, taking her moment in the sun far too seriously, recently
declared, "I am the spark the universe chose." That may be more true than
she realizes. Like an ember whirling into the night sky, her spark will
ascend, then darken: leaving behind a peacenik version of Courtney Love —
an ashen specter you might expect to see standing by a roadside, bearing a
hand-lettered sign: "I was somebody. Once."
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Comment on JWR contributor, and syndicated talk show host, Tony Snow's column by clicking here. © 2005, Creators Syndicate, Inc |
Arnold Ahlert | |||||||||||
