The Man with the Sign in the Rain
4/7/06
The early-April New York rain fell hard against the grey and dreary sky.
The lone protester, hardly dressed for the still-cold post winter day, was wearing
only a thin wind breaker and he was soaked to the skin. He stood in a solo vigil on
the corner where his comrades usually would have joined him, on more welcoming
days of sun and warmth and pleasant skies.
His sign read: “The Ultimate Form of Terrorism is War.”
Every Saturday morning since the American invasion of Iraq, this suburban street
corner has hosted a bare-bones anti-war demonstration. The well-to-do North
Shore Long Islanders drive by the spectacle in their comfortable cars, with the air
conditioning or heat digitally set to the most comfortable climate and their satellite
radios blaring the most beloved of tunes.
If it were not for the rain-soaked and shivering sign holder, on this April Saturday,
the protest would have been swallowed up by warm living rooms in four bedroom,
three bathroom homes. Yet, there he stood, sign in hand, rain in face, soaked
sneakers on cold concrete: the lone war protester.
The cars passed, the occupants going on about their lives.
To the mall?
To the supermarket?
To the gas station?
To the kids’ hockey game?
“Normal” people, living “normal” life in America?
All the while, the man felt the sting of the cold, practically frozen rain on his face
and his bare knuckles burned, holding his pine-stick sign made of stapled
drugstore poster board, as the words faded in the rain. He stood his ground.
The passersby, meanwhile, felt the warmth of their car heaters and the comfort of
their leather seats.. Many lives passed one life.
Many lives, enjoying the fruits of the struggles of those who came before them.
One life, struggling for those whose lives will come after his.
The early-April New York rain fell hard against the grey and dreary sky.
The lone protester, hardly dressed for the still-cold post winter day, was wearing
only a thin wind breaker and he was soaked to the skin. He stood in a solo vigil on
the corner where his comrades usually would have joined him, on more welcoming
days of sun and warmth and pleasant skies.
His sign read: “The Ultimate Form of Terrorism is War.”
Every Saturday morning since the American invasion of Iraq, this suburban street
corner has hosted a bare-bones anti-war demonstration. The well-to-do North
Shore Long Islanders drive by the spectacle in their comfortable cars, with the air
conditioning or heat digitally set to the most comfortable climate and their satellite
radios blaring the most beloved of tunes.
If it were not for the rain-soaked and shivering sign holder, on this April Saturday,
the protest would have been swallowed up by warm living rooms in four bedroom,
three bathroom homes. Yet, there he stood, sign in hand, rain in face, soaked
sneakers on cold concrete: the lone war protester.
The cars passed, the occupants going on about their lives.
To the mall?
To the supermarket?
To the gas station?
To the kids’ hockey game?
“Normal” people, living “normal” life in America?
All the while, the man felt the sting of the cold, practically frozen rain on his face
and his bare knuckles burned, holding his pine-stick sign made of stapled
drugstore poster board, as the words faded in the rain. He stood his ground.
The passersby, meanwhile, felt the warmth of their car heaters and the comfort of
their leather seats.. Many lives passed one life.
Many lives, enjoying the fruits of the struggles of those who came before them.
One life, struggling for those whose lives will come after his.
© Michael Domino 2007
by Michael Domino