A post long after the fact...
Three Sightings
I
On the way to class we pass a man at the Sample Gates. He thrusts his hand out, holds a paper to us. Paula takes it but I look ahead, keep walking. He could have been a farmer, out of the corner of my eye I see plaid flannel, but instinct tells me I don't want to look at what he has to offer. When Paula opens the pamphlet I see a dead baby in glossy color. Paula throws the pamphlet away, but in class other people have pamphlets, from which they read and laugh.
II
There is something absurd about the protest, something off that I can't place as I see it down the road on my way to swim. When I get close enough I see the guy in the red cardboard get-up, realize he is dressed as a can of Coke. Across from him are the abortion protesters holding their signs with neon calls to God, dead babies blurs I refuse to look at directly, shades of fleshy reds and pinks.* They aren't shouting anything. They are silent. The Coke can represents No Sweat, the campus anti-sweatshop group. He and a few of his friends are facing off against the godly folk. They are shouting, and once I can understand it, I realize they are chanting "Hate Coke, not gay people." Gay people? I smile at the threads of protest coming together into what I can only see as performance art.
III
Later, at the bus stop, the evangelists file by. Their signs are broken down, toted under their arms. The women trail the men, wear long skirts that swoosh around their ankles. One woman holds the hand of a little girl who trots along blithely, feet bouncing off the sidewalk. The poncho she wears is green, patchworked, camoflauge.
*Why are the dead babies always white?
I
On the way to class we pass a man at the Sample Gates. He thrusts his hand out, holds a paper to us. Paula takes it but I look ahead, keep walking. He could have been a farmer, out of the corner of my eye I see plaid flannel, but instinct tells me I don't want to look at what he has to offer. When Paula opens the pamphlet I see a dead baby in glossy color. Paula throws the pamphlet away, but in class other people have pamphlets, from which they read and laugh.
II
There is something absurd about the protest, something off that I can't place as I see it down the road on my way to swim. When I get close enough I see the guy in the red cardboard get-up, realize he is dressed as a can of Coke. Across from him are the abortion protesters holding their signs with neon calls to God, dead babies blurs I refuse to look at directly, shades of fleshy reds and pinks.* They aren't shouting anything. They are silent. The Coke can represents No Sweat, the campus anti-sweatshop group. He and a few of his friends are facing off against the godly folk. They are shouting, and once I can understand it, I realize they are chanting "Hate Coke, not gay people." Gay people? I smile at the threads of protest coming together into what I can only see as performance art.
III
Later, at the bus stop, the evangelists file by. Their signs are broken down, toted under their arms. The women trail the men, wear long skirts that swoosh around their ankles. One woman holds the hand of a little girl who trots along blithely, feet bouncing off the sidewalk. The poncho she wears is green, patchworked, camoflauge.
*Why are the dead babies always white?