The Occasional Dissident

[Author’s note: Dear citizens, in the essay below, I have truthfully recorded my actions not to compliment myself but rather to serve as a “lessons learned” for others who will act against the Westboro family’s insults to members of the armed services, living and deceased. I hope that others will improve on my efforts.]

…

I had never before organized a counter-protest. But, a counter-protest was clearly required. A Baptist Church was threatening to exercise its First Amendment rights. It was threatening to despoil Arlington National Cemetery. And, I, retired from the Air Force and father-in-law to a Soldier, will have none of that—not from this Baptist Church—not from Westboro.

The counter-protest owes its genesis to a small newspaper story. The story reported a legal, if immoral, victory for the Westboro Baptist Church. Their appeal of an earlier case successfully reinstated their First Amendment rights. Their protests would be permitted to continue. We can expect more of them in the future. Reading the story moved me to look for the church’s presence on the Internet and to see if they were coming to my area anytime in the near future. A quick search found their web site. The site features a picket schedule that showed they were coming here to Arlington, Virginia, in less than two weeks. The schedule included the following announcement, copied here with all the attendant errors.

03/21/201011:00 AM - 11:45 AM, Arlington, VA.

Arlington National Cemetery Jefferson Davis Hwy & Memorial Drive Is there really ever a bad time/day for WBC to picket Arlington National? Rhetorical question, people! Jeremiah 16:5 For thus saith the LORD, Enter not into the house of mourning, neither go to lament nor bemoan them: for I have taken away my peace from this people, saith the LORD, even lovingkindness and mercies. God is not keeping the house of the america any longer, and this Army mutt signed up in the clear light of day, with us out on the bloody streets of DOOMED america telling him to flee the wrath of God and that God Is America’s #1 Enemy. Talk about walking eagerly into a dozen buzz saws! For those who insist on worshiping the dead carcass you need to be mourning for YOUR sins and being THANKFUL to God that this child did not live to see the days (shortly now) when Obama is going to pass a law that you must eat your little babies or you will die of starvation. AMEN!

Westboro, you see, had been the target of the lawsuit for protesting against the toleration of homosexuality in the United States. The Westboro “Christians” do this by taunting grieving military families. “God killed the fag enablers!” “That’s what you get for supporting the fag Army and the fag United States!” So “saith” the Westboro gang. A grieving military family won a case that would have protected other families from this harassment. That victory was overturned on appeal. Westboro marches on.

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I had never before organized a counter-protest. I had no idea what to do. I posted notes on MySpace and Facebook and got limited responses—all encouraging but few in number. A cousin who lives hundreds of miles away, and who shares with me a history of service in the United States Air Force (enabling “fags,” I suppose), expressed regret that she could not be here. Others passed along word so that more would know the plan.

The plan—my plan—was ill-defined, however. I suggested that we (whomever “we” turned out to be) should form a “silent curtain” between the Westboro protestors and those who came to Arlington National Cemetery for more respectful pusposes. I had no idea where they would be, so I suggested a Sunday at Arlington is time well spent and suggested people remain alert for the presence of the Westboro protestors and move to their location when they arrived.

Social networking did not seem enough to me. I called the Iraq-Afghanistan Veterans Association to alert them. They were aware of the group and its vile protests, but had not known they were coming here to Arlington.

“How did you find out they were coming?” I was asked.

“I found their schedule on their web site. Would you like the address?”

“Yes, please.”

“God hates fags dot com.”

Pause

“Wow.”

“Yeah, they don’t hold back.”

The IAVA officer recommended that I notify Rolling Thunder and Gathering of Eagles, two groups he claimed had responded to IAVA calls to action. He also asked that I email two IAVA officers in New York City. I did all that. I got no response to the message I sent to the two officers at IAVA, and I did not have time to follow up. Communication is, of course, comprised of a sender, a message, a receiver, and feedback. I failed to communicate. Likewise, my effort to contact Gathering of Eagles fell short. I did get a response from Rolling Thunder’s national office, asking that I contact the local chapters. Of the many listed for Maryland and Virginia, I found two in the local area that had web sites and found email addresses on each. My messages to those addresses did not gain a response.

I did better at school. I attend George Mason University on a Post-9/11 GI Bill scholarship. I receive regular and helpful communication from the school and its veteran-associated groups and individuals. I sent a message to one, alerting them to the challenge and asking for help. The next newsletter from that group advertised a brunch for veterans on the Saturday before Westboro’s planned defamation of Arlington as well as a copy of my short note asking for help. I went to the brunch hoping to spread the word still further.

What a relief. As I chatted with some of the members, the leadership of the group began discussing upcoming events. One member stepped forward to describe the Westboro protest and the hoped-for counter protest, using my language of a “silent curtain” to screen the Westboro group from view. A question was raised, and I introduced myself and explained my goals for the next day. I learned before I left that a number of local veteran groups had been contacted and responded favorably, including the Patriot Riders who appear in YouTube videos providing a similar response. My spirits soared on the way home. Perhaps we would have a large enough turnout.

…

I drove my car onto Fort Myer, which wraps protectively around the cemetery, and parked near the gate closest to the cemetery’s northern entrance. Arlington opened at eight o’clock this morning. I walked up to the gate a minute early and soon saw a staff truck heading in my direction. The gate was opened at precisely eight. I smiled at the gentleman keying the lock and complimented him on the precision. He replied, “We try to do things right, here.” They do. Arlington is precision everywhere one looks. Utmost respect is paid to the sons and daughters of our nation in honor of their sacrifice. The cemetery has the best-behaved tourists of any site in the capital.

There are a couple ironies at work in my visit. I was here on March 20th a year earlier, the first day of the seventh year of our war in Iraq. I posted an essay on line the next day—a year ago, today—calling for more visits to Arlington. Now, I am trying to organize a counter-protest for people who are paying an unwelcome visit. Like those buried here, I spent time in uniform, all told, a twenty-four enlisted career with the Air Force, to protect the right of free speech. This morning, some may argue, I am fighting against a group that is merely exercising that right. Perhaps I should have been celebrating, instead. I felt rather like I was headed to a battle. There is free speech, and then there is decency.

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Marine Lance Corporal Matthew Snyder was twenty years old when he died from a “non-combat-related vehicle accident” on March 3rd, 2006. He was serving in the very deadly Anbar Province in western Iraq, according to the “Honor the Fallen” page on militarytimes.com. Corporal Snyder’s picture reveals a handsome and serious young man. The site notes: “Family members are still reeling from the news of his death.”

Four years and five days after Matthew’s death, the Supreme Court decided to hear a case regarding the Westboro Baptist Church’s right to protest at funerals like the one held for him in March 2006. At Matthew’s funeral, the Westboro protesters stood inside a space walled off with hip-high orange plastic and held up signs with messages that included “You’re Going to Hell” and “God Hates You” and “Thank God For Dead Soldiers.” They shouted obscenities and howled in glee that another member of our “fag Marine Corps” had died. Albert Snyder, Corporal Snyder’s father, won a $5 million judgment against Westboro for the trauma that resulted from their protest. However, an appeals court overturned the verdict on First Amendment grounds and ordered Mr. Snyder to pay Westboro’s legal bills. It was a report of that ruling that attracted my attention. Mr. Snyder, in turn, has appealed to the Supreme Court and vowed not to pay Westboro’s costs.

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I arrived too early to worry about Westboro showing up. I stopped briefly at the visitor’s center and decided no one else was milling about waiting to join me. Then, I headed off toward Section 60 to pay a visit. Arlington inters the victims of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan here. Arriving tourists, however, head toward buses that take them to other noteworthy areas or strike off on foot toward the Kennedy family graves and the Tomb of the Unknown. By the time I got to Section 60, I was nearly alone. One woman walked past me carrying a holder with flowers and something else I could not make out. The recent graves here are often adorned with photos and other items that link the visitor to the interred—tenuous and fragile links to a person and a past that are no longer within reach. The woman gingerly walked down one row, crossed to another, and then crossed back again. Generally, if one knows the date a loved one died, finding their grave is straightforward. The progression of graves here closely follows the calendar. With only occasional interruptions, the headstones are a chronological record of shattered dreams and families.

There were two other people there. One, a man, was about my age. The other appeared to be his mother. He was standing back a bit, perhaps the uncle of a soldier. “Grandma,” as I have imagined the woman to be, was standing closer, with her head bowed. It occurred to me how cruel this must be for her. I imagined her taking a younger grandson or granddaughter to see the sites in DC and then, when they were old enough to conduct themselves properly and to solemnly understand the sacrifice row upon row of white headstones denotes, bringing them here to appreciate the contributions others have made to their security and to their freedom. I imagined the pride Grandma felt when little Billy or Jane, all grown up now but still her little darling, put on that first uniform. I imagined the sorrow created by encouraging a noble patriotism. Was she punishing herself? Into this agony, into this personal grief, slithers the Westboro clan.

…

“Pussies!” “Pussies!” “You’re all a bunch of PUSSIES!” Westboro’s leading shouter, an obscene, vile, and unsightly woman, is in full throat. She is wearing a t-shirt and sneakers and a pair of black spandex leggings that reveal a disdain for exercise, good diet, and conventional standards of modesty and good taste. “Megaphone” is standing inside a waist-high parade railing that encloses a space about twenty-four feet by twelve. She shares the space with a grown man, another woman, a boy perhaps twelve and a girl younger. She expertly holds two signs in each hand and leads the group in singing traditional military songs with childish and foul new lyrics about anal sex and male-on-male oral sex and dying at the hands of God. I suspect the little girl does not quite get all that unless the Westboro elders have provided pictures or demonstrations. “Oh! I heard something I didn’t like and it hurt my ears!” Megaphone shouts at her opponents.

Across the four-lane boulevard that leads into Arlington, a group of people, a larger group, is showing their support for the troops in opposition to Westboro. There are perhaps ten people inside a railing perfectly matching the one enclosing Westboro. I have spoken to two of them. They had been milling around like me, so I approached them and noticed the Patriot Rider bandana on the head of one. I introduced myself and determined they were here for the same reason, but the Patriot Rider had bad news for me: “Oh, we’re not coming. I don’t think Westboro will show up.” In front of the patriot riders and local veterans, exchanging taunts with Westboro’s human megaphone, is a line of a dozen Marines and a couple other current and former members of the military. I cross over and try to explain my objective. The Marines are unwilling to budge. One gestures to the two cops standing nearby and says they “would prefer that we stay on this side.” Good Marines respect authority and the sacrifice of their fallen comrades. I know they are torn. My pleas are not satisfied.

I cross back to the Westboro side and take up a position by their fence with my back turned to them. They do not speak to me once. Indeed, I think they are mildly disturbed by my presence and uncertain how to respond. They have an easier time with four young apparently homosexual men, who periodically ask them questions and exchange taunts. I call one of the young men over and point across the street at the obscured signs of the pro-troop protesters. The problem is clear to him, so at my request, he crosses with his three friends to explain that a line of standing Marines would be better employed blocking views of Westboro’s fouls placards that scream “God hates Fags!” and “Thank God for Dead Soldiers.” To my astonishment, the Marines sit down. That lasts for only a short while before they stand again. The four homosexuals remain on that side, further blocking views of the support for troops and their families.

A woman chaperoning a half-dozen junior high school girls passes, all of them wearing red t-shirts and jeans. She stops near me and looks and listens in astonishment at the spectacle. “You’re joking, right? They’re joking, right? This is some kind of television stunt.” I begin to tell her that no, they are not joking when the point is made for me by the Westboro Megaphone as she starts shouting at the woman and her charges that they are all “sluts” and “whores.” One of the young girls tries to engage the Westboro protesters in a discussion, but her chaperone, mercifully, leads them away. And then, a maroon van pulls up and the Westboro filthy cacophony is over. The loudest is the first to escape, pausing to face the Marines and to simulate wiping her ass with an American flag she has been desecrating for the past forty minutes. The van pulls away from the curb to take the Westboro clan, kids and all, on to their next profane picket. And, I start the long walk back to my car.

…

I remain convinced that a silent curtain of people standing with their backs to the Westboro Baptist Church congregation, blocking them from view and absorbing their shouts, will prove to be the best response. I am certain it will frustrate and perhaps discourage Megaphone and her children when they cannot see the targets of their venom. Two or three or more deep, a cordon of people silently rejecting them will steal the attention and confrontation they crave. The right to Free Speech guarantees the Westboro purveyors of hate admission to the public debate, to the conflict between opposing ideas. It does not guarantee them a forfeit by the other side. I think of the old woman standing over a grave and of the other families that have been victimized by the Westboro protests, and I hope that others will do what they can, lawfully, compassionately, to guard families against the disrespect and hate the Westboro anti-Christians hurl their way. I know they have hurt people. I know they will hurt more. The New York Times, in a March 8th, 2010, story, records the pain felt by Albert Snyder: “For the rest of my life, I will remember what they did to me, and it has tarnished the memory of my son’s last hour on earth.”

- Alan Howe, May 2010