the billboard project

Today's Billboard

OK, so what’s this all about?

Well… long ago and far away, in the humble hamlet of Austin, Texas, there was a sweet, innocent, idealistic young girl. She thought “the peoples good is the highest law”.  She thought that elected officials should represent the genuine interests of their constituents.  She thought the media’s job was to report the facts.   She didn’t care about Michael Jackson, Paris Hilton or the strange, provocative appeal of Condoleezza Rice’s boots. Boy was she a chump!

That girl was me.

One day I woke up, swept all the Diet Coke cans and Tootsie Roll wrappers off my desk and said, “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore. This is b-------t! (“That word in the dictionary between bullfinch and bulwark” to quote David Steinberg).

Thus, The Billboard Project.  I wanted to speak to people directly and bypass the media. So I bought a billboard.

 

This is my first billboard – and you can do it too.

   

There are billboards for rent by the day all over America. Why not rent a billboard and start a positive public discussion? Be creative – you have more power than you think.  Send me a picture of your billboard and I’ll post it here.

Last Dispatch from Crawford

When I came to Crawford on a hot, sticky Saturday to meet Cindy Sheehan, there were four of us to greet her.  Three weeks later, there were 3500 of us.  People came from all over the world to a ditch by the side of the road in Crawford, Texas - why?  Every single person I talked to said they just had to come.

Camp Casey was my very best dream of America.  In the 22 days I was there, I saw a lot, but I never heard an unkind word.  It was not a cynical place.  It was a place where people cared passionately about the common good.  It was a place where people respected each other - and tried to make things a little better.  In the evening when the sun went down, it was unspeakably lovely.  At night, looking up from the lonely roads and fields of Texas, you could see the Milky Way.

At the end of our improbable adventure, I feel nothing but gratitude.  So thank you.

Thanks to Dot from Dallas, with the beautiful red hair, who drove the shuttle, directed traffic and worked in the kitchen.
Thanks to Ed from Terlingua, with the tie dye and calm voice who put 100 dozen roses in Aquafina bottles in front of the crosses.
And thanks to Ken Gordon, from the great state of Colorado.  You're right - a ditch is a great place for a civics lesson.

Thank you to the Sheriff's department of McLennan county.  Thank you for your patience and your courtesy.  I know it wasn't easy to stand in the sun every day in polyester pants and I know you worked long hours away from your families.  Sargent Kolinek- go home and see your kids.

Thank you to the town and the citizens of beautiful Crawford, Texas.  It wasn't easy to be the epicenter of the perfect storm of protest, but you did it gracefully and with good humor.

And thank you to the folks on the other side of Prairie Chapel road who support the war in Iraq.  It's a fine thing, that in our fractious, untidy democracy, we all get to speak.

Thank you Bill Mitchell, Celeste Zappala, Nadia McCaffrey and all the broken hearted parents, spouses, relatives and friends of those who died.  Your loss is now mine - as it always should have been.

But most of all, thank you Cindy Sheehan.  Thank you for teaching me to help create the future with a little courage. 

It was a privilege.

"Crawford wants Peace"

When I left Austin, it was early.  When I drove through Mcgregor, the electric sign said 106 degrees.  When I got out of the truck in Crawford, it felt like I was walking into a blast furnace. I had a bad feeling.

There is a little white house next to Peace House. It looks very similar.  It's small and I'm guessing it was built about the same time.  Today it was the staging area for a little demonstration by some Bush supporters - a stirring iteration of the values we all share.  We have a great deal in common - they want peace too.

"Crawford wants Peace", said the sign at the little white house, "Go to Iraq". 

This corner was an excellent place for a teaching moment.  So there were the lawn chairs, the bottles of water (if you ever come to Crawford bring a lawn chair, and a case of water, even if you don't plan to stop), the protesters and the signs.  And they had some edifying things to say.  Barbara's sign said, "Freedom to protest is not free" (I'm right there with you Barbara, my Exxon bill is $300 higher this month). She was not unsympathetic to Cindy.  She is a mother too. "I'm sorry he's dead", she said, "But he would have died no matter where he was at, because God took him out". I asked for her last name, "we don't give last names", she said.

It was the pièce de résistance of our disagreement in our sad bifurcated country.  The modest house with the scrubby lawn, the pretty trees and the wishing well, was a petri dish of protest.  The signs themselves seem to be a cryptic series of nonsequitors. I didn't know what they were telling me.  Was there some unifying principle? 

None of the Bush supportors seem to have anything else to say to me.  So I decided to cross the street to Peace House - a.k.a "The House that Osama and Saddam Built".  As I was crossing the street, a little boy about four years old, in navy shorts and a yellow shirt, ran up to me waving exictedly.  His brown hair clung to his forehead in damp tendrils and I was undone, as I always am, by the ravishing beauty of children.

"Goodbye idiot", he said.

I wish I was making this up.

Note to self: freedom - not free

It's called Camp Reality. It's across the road from Camp Casey. There are nine inhabitants and they are playing Rush Limbaugh at about 23 decibels above the threshold of pain. They have all the comforts of home now.  They have coolers full of Ozarka Spring Water, shade and a port-a-pot of their own.  The fence is festooned with "Stay the Course" and "Bush Cheney 04" signs, along with yellow ribbons and a flag every five feet.  Then there is the freshly dug grave.

It seems a little out of place, a little shocking in the midst of all the standard iconography of patriotism.  I'm having a problem decoding the symbolism here.  Is this perhaps the grave of Casey Sheehan - honored properly at last?  Or a poignant metaphor for all our soldiers who died in Iraq, protecting our liberties?  Or did they just bury someone there?

Further down Prairie Chapel road there is another outpost.  They have a nice sign - "American Legion Post 170 - Crawford Welcomes You".  And indeed they were very nice and welcoming.  I spoke to Kathy Warren Miller, the president of Post 170 on Saturday and she was warm, courteous and invited me to come over and join a meeting sometime.  She wasn't there today.  There were just five people there (although they do have their own port-a-pot now).  All five of them were busy erecting the "Camp George" sign.  It kind of put me in the mind of Iwo Jima (if Iwo Jima was just for Bush Supporters).

Back in Crawford proper, "Fort Qualls" has more of the look of permanence, with green and blue striped tents and a repeating loop of patriotic music.  I parked in the lot of The Security Bank of Crawford, where they were stringing a blue banner across the entrance that said "This is Bush Country" and jay-walked across Avenue G to visit the fort.  It was empty, eerie, the wind was whipping the flags and America the Beautiful was playing.  Just when I began to really feel like this was The Andromeda Strain, two teenagers walked up and stood reading the signs. 

"Why are you here", I asked the taller, skinnier one?

"Freedom isn't Free", he said.

Oy.

It is quite literally impossible to take a photograph of a Bush supporter encampment (or a Bush supporter) without a flag. 

Port-a-Pot Index

• Camp Reality - 1
• Camp George - 1
• Fort Qualls - 3
• Camp Casey #1 - 5
• Camp Casey #2 - 11

Another day at the genuine cultural moment?

The town of Crawford felt like a real circus on Saturday.  A contingent of about 120 bikers, in red, white and blue do-rags, was socializing and milling about in the parking lot of the Coffee Station.  Across the road at the Yellow Rose, a group of Bush supporters, all wearing red, white & blue had set up a metal awning and underneath it, a tiny lady, in a red pants suit with a rhinestone "W" pin, was collecting donations.

"What's happening here today", I asked.  She pointed at the white board where it said -

7:30 - Angle candle service (I'm guessing angel?)

8:30 - Main Event - "Awake America"

Mr. Hall, owner of the Ten Commandants Liberty Bell Tribute float, was dressed in a navy frock coat, riding boots and a colonial tri-corner hat.  He was ceremoniously ringing the Liberty Bell for all assembled and carefully positioning himself for the television cameras.

Since it was really hot and really loud, I ducked in to the Yellow Rose and found myself in conversation with a trim guy wearing a green flight suit, in front of an extensive display of Bush bobble-head dolls.  Matthew Giles is a helicopter pilot from Fort Hood and one of his current duties is flying people in and out of Bush's Crawford ranch.  He had driven past Camp Casey that morning and was disturbed by it.  He had a quiet, thoughtful demeanor and he spoke with no ire.  He said exactly the same thing that I hear many times a day up here in Crawford - "That is just what the terrorists want." Every single critic of the anti-war protest has told me this - without exception.

Outside the Yellow Rose, two riders on horseback suddenly appeared in the doorway.  The first, a slender blond in big, black, Jackie Onassis sunglasses, was carrying a large American Flag.  It looked like another thrilling photo op and I ran outside to rubber neck (I love horses - I can't resist them). They clip-clopped across Avenue G (the main drag in Crawford), and headed towards Peace House, pausing for photos.  They were headed for a meeting at Peace House to discuss the removal of one of the memorial crosses, lining the road, leading to Camp Casey.  They didn't want the name of their relative on a cross (and when I left at 5:30, the meeting still hadn't occurred).  About this time, I heard the distinctive percussive, roar of the 120 Harley Davidson's.  They thundered past Peace House and disappeared and I didn't see them again.

Out at Camp Casey 1 (there are now two) it was a ten minute walk just to get to the port-a-pots and another 10 minute walk past a long line of tents and cars to get into Camp itself.  I regretted my decision to forgo the shuttle (they arrive every 10 minutes from Peace House).

In Camp Casey 1, the best part of my day, was meeting Ken Gordon. He is the Senate majority leader of the Colorado State Senate. Again and again, I've met legislators from all over the country, who have come to Crawford because they somehow needed to be there, without expecting anything for themselves and for no political gain.  Indeed, most of them have a desire to remain anonymous, often fearing political repercussions.  They have come a long way, deep into the dusty heart of a state they've never been to, with what I can only describe as an authentic purity of intent. 

Ken Gordon was seated quietly in a lawn chair (you know how Portland has a yellow bike program, well, Camp Casey has had a lawn chair program from day one - anybody can sit is everybody's lawn chair) reading What's the matter with Kansas?  He was contemplative and seemingly uncontaminated by the need to make draconian assertions.  He'd run for office because he wanted to do better for people. In our hour long conversation about politics, the war in Iraq, and the nature of governance, he seemed to constantly be working out how to do just that.  When he told me he had been elected without any PAC money, I felt like kissing him on the lips.

And then I walked across the road to talk to Earl Johnson.  He was seated in a lawn chair under his big banner that said "Remember 9-11?"  Mr. Johnson is a survivor of the world trade center attack and has written a book soon to be published.

He felt 9-11 was a good reason for the war in Iraq . It seemed to be the general consensus among the counter protesters (about 10 of them today) that:  1) Iraq had ties to Al Qaeda predating September 11th, 2) that the weapons of mass destruction have been moved to Syria, and 3) there is biblical justification for the war.  What can I say?  They always shake my hand and tell me how much they have enjoyed our "discussion" even though I've said almost nothing apart from the occasional, mild rejoinder.

"Doesn't the 9-11 Commission Report say there were no Al Qaeda ties with Iraq?", I asked mildly. One of the guys, a veteran of Iraq, shook his head forcefully, "that was the Democrats", he said.

I drove back to Austin in a stupor, over ate, and spent the rest of the night watching "Woodstock" on VH-1. Woodstock, a watershed event, was planned by it's organizers and financial backers for over a year.  They thought they were just planning a big party, but it became something else - it became part of the bedtime story of America. When Cindy Sheehan's August commitments fell through, she just got it in her head to come to Crawford and camp. But this has become something else. Will this become part of who we are?

Rusty Bell

If you want to be on television in America, there are two ways that are absolutely foolproof.  The first way is to initiate a car chase.  If the police are chasing you and the helicopter is equipped with a camera, you will be on TV.  The second way is to come to Crawford and protest the protest.  This is a better way.  This way you can share your thoughts.  All your thoughts.  With everyone.

If you are the only person there who hates Cindy Sheehan, your thoughts are particularly compelling.  You have a certain irresistible....gravitas.  You may unpack your soul to the national media.  They want to hear your thoughts.  You are representative of - something - some kind of unfussy, heartland wisdom, and your ravings are actually the simple patriotic patois of the average decent American.

This is of course, total, unscented merde, but that doesn't fit the narrative.

Today, I parked about a quarter of a mile from the port-a-pots.  I stopped at the Laura Bush Letter Table where I was invited to write a letter to Laura Bush to be hand delivered by a delegation later in the afternoon.  There were three choice of paper - hot pink, red white & blue, and blue sky with white puffy clouds.  I pretended to need some privacy to compose my thoughts, stole some pink paper to take notes on (I lost my notebook again), and walked over to the food tent to get a Diet Coke.  The endless buffet of animal crackers, power bars, and fruit baskets seemed unappealing.  The PETA guys are still grilling veggie ribs, but I don't see how anybody can eat in this heat.

In between her interviews, I talked with Nadia McCaffrey from Sacramento.  Her son, Sergeant Patrick Ryan McCaffrey, was killed in Iraq.  She was very subdued.  Everyone up here who has lost someone is uniformly subdued.  Sometimes you have to lean all the way in to hear them speak and it feels almost like a violation to be that close.  She has shoulder length, blond hair and she was wearing jeans and a long, black tunic, a button that said, "Moms Against the War", and a metal bracelet.  Her son's buddies made it for her back at Camp Anaconda in Iraq.  They all wear them.

On the way out of Crawford, I stopped at Peace House, which is actually located in town on the other side of the railroad tracks from the Yellow Rose.  It's a happy little hive of activity; everyone is part of the big machine of protest.  They are making sandwiches, talking on cell phones, typing on computers, having sotto voce meetings with the door half ajar.  On the wall, next to the table with the bumper stickers, the flyers and the blue wristbands that say, "Freedom begins at home" was this:

New Billboard today

Hey folks - here's the new billboard.  I figure if the President is going to ride bikes with Lance, perhaps he and Cindy could meet on the Crawford veloway (just kidding, no Crawford veloway).  Back to Crawford tomorrow and I'll meet you back here tomorrow night.

Everybody's certain in Crawford

When I got to Camp Casey (there is a gigantic sign now that says Camp Casey), I had to park even further away, about 300 yards past the port-a-pots (there are now four of them).  The long line of crosses was back up (somebody mowed down about 500 of them in his pickup truck). And Jim, who has been here from the beginning, was laboriously trimming 35 dozen red roses and putting them in Aquafina bottles.  Somebody from Florida had sent them and the plan was to place one by every cross until they ran out.  PETA has come to show their support for free speech.  They were grilling barbecued veggie ribs and offering them to everyone.  Cindy looked much better today, she looked like she had a nights sleep.  And Camp Casey looks better too.  It’s much more organized.  There are people with bull horns assigned to keep people out of the road. There is a media van.  The sheriff’s department (in the person of the omnipresent Patrol Sergeant Kolinek) is always on site.  He is frequently seen conferring with two buff guys, with tidy hair and Banlon shirts.  I surmise they are Secret Service since they have wires in their ears. You know how the astronauts look in Apollo 13? That’s how they look.

The counter protest consisted of three people.  At times during my visit it swelled to four.  By the time I left it had stabilized at one.

Once more I walked across Prairie Chapel road to listen to the supporters of the war.  It was a hundred degrees again, they had a lot to say again, and I unhappily augmented my farmers tan (again).

“She is using her son”, said Christie Carter.  Christie had driven up from Fort Hood with her twin sister, Stephanie Sanders. They were two-thirds of the counter protest.  I spent about an hour and a half talking with them before the media onslaught.  I would give anything to have video of the media smack down between KEYE (KEYE always says they are from CBS, not Austin) and a lady doing a German documentary.  She didn’t appreciate KEYE horning in on (her) territory.  Bad words were exchanged. 

They are lovely, adamant young women.  Christie is a widow.  Her husband Curtis Carter was a Calvary Scout 3^rd Battalion, stationed at Fort Hood and originally from Lafayette, Indiana. He died in Kuwait, on February 27^th, 2002. And I feel safe in saying, she feels…ahem…strongly about the war in Iraq.  She thinks it is a noble cause and she thinks it is preserving our freedom.  She thinks Cindy Sheehan should be ashamed of herself.  She’s proud of her husband.  “I’m sorry he didn’t get to go to Iraq, he would have loved it”, she said.

Christie is young and confident, she knows what she thinks. This doesn’t surprise me, everybody’s certain in Crawford.  When the real media showed up, an interesting thing happened.  As the KEYE guy offered his quiet sympathy for her sacrifice, she stopped saying that her husband died in Kuwait, before the war in Iraq began.

I get this completely. I don’t know how she feels; I imagine she feels really crappy. “He was happy to die for a cause, any cause”, she told me.  I imagine everybody wants/needs/yearns to feel that the death of their husband, wife, daughter, son, or loved one has meaning.  Cindy lost her son and she is now constantly accused of promoting her own “agenda” using Casey’s memory.  Christie lost her husband; though I doubt anyone is accusing her of anything. Does everybody have an agenda?  And if so, are all agendas equal?  But what I really wonder is - who owns the memory of the dead? 

 

OK, so what’s this all about?

Alert! My next billboard is Wednesday, August 17th.  Look for it!

Well… long ago and far away, in the humble hamlet of Austin, Texas, there was a sweet, innocent, idealistic young girl. She thought “the peoples good is the highest law”.  She thought that elected officials should represent the genuine interests of their constituents.  She thought the media’s job was to report the facts.   She didn’t care about Michael Jackson, Paris Hilton or the strange, provocative appeal of Condoleezza Rice’s boots. Boy was she a chump!

That girl was me.

One day I woke up, swept all the Diet Coke cans and Tootsie Roll wrappers off my desk and said, “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore. This is b-------t! (“That word in the dictionary between bullfinch and bulwark” to quote David Steinberg).

Thus, The Billboard Project.  I wanted to speak to people directly and bypass the media. So I bought a billboard.

 

 

 

 

This is my first billboard – and you can do it too.

   

There are billboards for rent by the day all over America. Why not rent a billboard and start a positive public discussion? Be creative – you have more power than you think.  Send me a picture of your billboard and I’ll post it here.