ࡱ> >@= 'bjbj 4.hh 0     bdddddd$>  :  bb `^N0|^t : Working at the Pink House: What I Did Instead of My Summer Vacation By Janet Weil Published in Peace Gazette, the newsletter of the Mt. Diablo Peace and Justice Center At one AM on July 18, I am sweeping in an old three-story home in Northeaast Washington, DC. Though I am limp with fatigue from a long day and evening that included attending a Congressional hearing, taking a tour of war monuments, attending a rally of Democratic members of Congress, and watching Senators make speeches from the Senate Gallery, I still have my chores to do. Middle of the night housework is not my idea of a good time. What was I doing in the Code Pink house in the sweltering July heat? I joined Code Pink in San Francisco in late spring 2003. Depressed over the US invasion of Iraq, I thought correctly, as it turned out that working with other women would help me deal with my anguish over an illegal occupation, and my frustration over the apathetic acquiescence by most Americans. I pulled on the pink t-shirts and fell in with a remarkable group of women, including Code Pink co-founder Medea Benjamin, whom I had known slightly from Global Exchange and the Green Festival. Stepping up my activist commitment beyond vigils, letter-writing, media monitoring, and marching in every antiwar demonstration, I went to DC for the first time in my life for the 2006 Mothers Day vigil and a week of actions in Congress. I did not, however, stay in the Code Pink house then, nor when I returned for a major march and lobbying days in January 2007. The intense collective energy of women from all over the US cyberjournalist Nancy Hill from Arizona, anti-torture activist Lydia Vickers from Florida, and Desiree Fairooz, the House Mama from Texas, to name only three out of dozens was stimulating and inspiring, but I also needed quiet time. The funky old Hotel Harrison was my first refuge, where I stayed with my husband, and my second was a posh bed-and-breakfast where I stayed with my friend Celeste. Then on March 31, the war touched my life directly, as I attended the commissioning ceremony for my nephew Joel into the Marines Officer Corps. Despite many attempts by family members to dissuade him, this enthusiastic, nave young man, like many others, joined the military for the idealistic goals of serving his country and becoming one of the elite of the elite. His older brother had persuaded him to wait until he had finished his undergraduate degree, hoping that time and maturity would change his resolve. I had written him the hardest letter of my life, begging him not to commit his youth, strength and fine qualities to a criminal war. Though highly critical of Bush and Co, and opposed to the initial invasion, Joel was in love with his dream of being a Marine. Weeping silently and filled with an icy dread, I watched my nephew, the same age as my son and his beloved cousin/friend, take his oaths to the constitution and to the Corps. If he can go (to Quantico, VA), I told myself, I can go to DC and stay for a while, I told myself. Earlier that spring I had been one of the organizers of four Teach-ins at Speaker Pelosis office, and had participated to a lesser extent at Camp Pelosi in front of her SF home. At close hand I could see the Democratic leadership rolling out a cynical strategy to market their war funding bill with a timeframe for partial withdrawal, knowing full well that Bush would veto that, then blaming their powerlessness to end the war on obstructionist Republicans. The hard work and vision of the triad of California Congresswomen Lee, Waters and Woolsey, and Dennis Dept of Peace Kucinich to fully fund ONLY withdrawal were not supported by Pelosi . Her real goals, whatever her rhetoric, were and still are money and votes for Democrats in 2008, not a coherent and relentless refusal to fund the war and its profiteers. And as the posturing and excuse-making continued that spring, so did the deaths and horrors in Iraq. My sacrifice of some time, money and privacy seemed little enough, and the opportunity to live with others who shared my commitment to ending the war seemed very precious to me. My three weeks in the Code Pink house passed in a flurry of activist moments: attending congressional hearings in full pink with college students, then writing up my notes for my Daily Pink Bulletin to the Bay Area Code Pink listserv; dinners around the backyard table, reviewing our days on Capitol Hill; accompanying an Iraqi woman refugee to meetings with congressional staffers; being interviewed and filmed by video documentarians. One of my most frequent activities was participating in the Gonzales: RESIGN protests at the Department of Justice, where I had the satisfaction of reading part of the constitution on Constitution Avenue for a video blog later posted to the Code Pink website. On the weekends, I spent as much time as possible with my nephew and his girlfriend, sharing meals and sightseeing, having long talks about my political activities (which my nephew, a political science major, supported and was interested in), and passing on to them information about antiwar Iraq veterans, and what I was hearing in the House Veterans Affairs and Armed Services subcommittee hearings. Sharing a house packed with 20 people, noise and activities going on 18 hours out of the 24, was difficult for me, but I came to love the camaraderie, the endless eager conversations, and the delicious huge potluck dinners. I awoke at 7 to the southern country-style shouted conversations of neighbors across 5th Street, and passed out around midnight while some of my Code Pink sisters continued to watch CNN or blog on their laptops. One of my favorite things was watching Democracy Now! in a group before heading off to lobbying and hearings. Missing home, I tidied and vacuumed and helped newcomers get settled, trying to feel more at home in DC. Some of my best moments were in conversation with African-American locals, including our very tolerant next door neighbor, a yoga instructor, and a cabdriver who described for me the impact of 9/11 on DC. We panicked, he summarized shrewdly, and they (meaning the Bush administration) took advantage of it. Too much happened to and around me in my five weeks in DC, including being arrested for applauding a magnificent antiwar speech by Senator Boxer, for me to describe in a short article. Do I miss it? Sometimes. I miss some of the people I met, and hope to see them again. Emails and phone calls arent the same thing as sitting on the bed, sharing foot lotion and yakking for an hour. Did I make a difference? I hope so in a tiny way, adding my bit to the efforts of many others. What did I learn? Call your members of Congress; mail is delayed and almost meaningless, but they do attend closely to how the calls on the war are going. Even better, visit your congress members offices nothing is a substitute for being there in person. I learned about dealing with frustration, staying positive in conversations with congressional staffers despite their obvious impatience and condescension, and telling the difference between rhetoric and legislative action. I have learned to be more resilient and have gained much respect for others giving their time, talents and funds to help end the war. Four Bay Area women told me that I inspired them to go to DC in September. The tragedy continues, but the cast of characters keeps changing. Gonzales is gone. Rove has retired. The vote on the appropriations for war funding will be delayed until at least November, giving us time to organize for fully funding a complete withdrawal. The number of veterans and military family members actively opposed to the war grows. Cindy Sheehan is challenging Pelosi for her district seat. The drum beat for impeachment gets louder. Blackwater and other war profiteers have been exposed and are on the defensive. Much has happened since I got off the train in Union Station on June 30th. I hope to meet some of the readers of the Peace Gazette at the October 27 march and rally. Ill have my pink on. 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