Thread: The War on Bowdoin Street

The War On Bowdoin Street

As I sit in the lecture hall my professor stands up and walks to the podium. On the walls there are posters speaking out against The War Against Terrorism, or TWAT as I like to call it. Two students are handing out anti-war literature. Some of the crowd read it, others tear it up or toss it to the floor.

My professor begins to speak. He wears a tweed jacket, with brown patches on his elbows and a socialist pin on his breast. He talks about Isms, Imperialism, Capitalism. Zionism. Some people clap. Others hiss and groan like horrid fumes are caught in their bellies. I sit and listen. He talks about oil, propaganda, and far off places like Afghanistan and Iraq. When he is done he sits down amidst applause and chastising.

Some people are angry at what he has said; angry people wearing white shoes made in Taiwan. They are angry at more people than just them. They have not come here to discuss, to learn or to debate. They have come to express their disgust for us. They stand up and speak in turn. "You are spitting in the faces of the men and women fighting." they say angrily. "You have no right to say those things about our president." they growl. "You should be ashamed of yourselves for believing such trash," they dictate.

Another professor stands up. His body quivers with anger. "You are supporting terrorism," he claims, "I am going to report you all to the FBI and to the National Security Council. You should all be locked up."

Some other students and teachers stand up and argue against these people but I sit in silence. I try to remember when I was informed by my government that I was no longer allowed to think freely. I tried to wonder why I didn't feel ashamed for believing in "trash". I thought back to when I might have spat in a soldier's face. I couldn't.

I was a soldier once. Back in the tiny suburbs of New Jersey, fighting along the square patches of homeowner real estate. I was a kid back then, only about twelve or so, and I battled with and against the same four other kids every afternoon. We didn't fight for any Ism, we didn't know of any.

It was a game. We would dress in black, burn stolen wine corks to smear on our faces and arm ourselves with plastic weapons from Toys R Us. It was a game of Sniper and the rules were simple. One or two of us would go and hide, under porches, inside garbage cans or behind garages, and the other boys would come and try to find and shoot them. Our guns shot nothing, not even water. To kill someone was to see them, to call out their name and inform them that, much to their disliking, they were in fact shot and consequently dead. It was a game of stealth. We relied on all of our senses to stay alive. If we were "killed" we would walk back to the starting point and await a new game, our only injury was to our egos.

The five of us played this game every day. Our deaths bonded us as well as our kills, and we were inseparable. Being the oldest and boldest, I led this group of adolescent assassins: the large and arrogant Brian, with tussled hair and a face constantly flushed like a round cherry, his little brother, the shy, baby faced and future lady killer Mark, and the twins, Ben and Adam, with wild golden hair and crooked smiles on hair triggers. Five child killers. Five brothers.

Guns were a part of my life for a long time. When I was in boy scouts I would blast clay disks with calm and ease. I was the best around. It was as if my thoughts alone shattered them into clouds of smoke. Later on, in college, I worked in a gun store, selling rifles and shotguns to fanatical hunters and discontented postal workers.

When I was fourteen my country invaded Iraq. They called it Operation Desert Storm. I watched the missiles and tanks and men on the television and then dreamed of Iraqi soldiers shot dead in my back yard by the Bowdoin Street Commando Unit.

As we grew older our game changed. With larger allowances we began to fund our wars more efficiently. We replaced simple plastic guns with new ones made by Nerf that shot foam darts tipped with suction cups. The rules had to change as well. Shot once you can not run. Shot twice you can only crawl. Shot three times you are dead. The suction cups left faint circles on our skin. When we were killed we returned to the starting point. When it was over we told war stories and collected the hundreds of darts and arrows that littered the yards like autumn leaves.

When I was in high school our country fought in Somalia. I watched as angry, dark men and women dragged an American body through the hazy sand of East Africa and I tried to understand why.

In high school we had jobs and therefore money. We packed our Nerf Weapons in boxes and spent our money on expensive metal guns that shoot paint. We traveled to remote places and paid people money so we could run through the trees and blast each other. We would scream and hurl ourselves through branches and into dirt and riddle each others bodies with thick blotches or red and white paint, which left round and irritable blue marks on our bodies. Mark, the baby faced lady killer would lurk in the back, Brian's face would redden and the twins would smile when they rubbed their welts. One shot you were dead and would go back to the safe zone to brag about exaggerated bravado and killer marksmanship.

When high school ended our fellowship was forced to disband. We no longer patrolled Bowdoin Street from the imaginary oppressive Iraqi's or the chaotic and fevered Somalis. Brian and Mark, promoted by conservative family values and hopes of future wealth went far off to college. Baby faced Mark went to New Orleans where he studied engineering and fell in love with a rich girl, whose father adored him so much he offered him a job in his firm while he was only a freshman. Rosy cheeked Brian migrated to a farm town school where he pled his undying allegiance to Greek letters and keg cans. I went to a state school to study writing and discover the joy of mind altering pills and indiscriminate sex.

The twins, Ben and Adam, did not leave Bowdoin Street for college. Never being stalwart students and lacking the means to pay for school they instead dived into the world of blue-collar work.

I learned about Isms. Mark interned in California and loved his girlfriend and her republican father. Brian bonded with white farm boys who listen to gangster rap and sang the National Anthem over Dixie cups in preparation for their futures as million dollar executives. Ben and Adam tried to smile as they ripped tickets in local movie theaters, delivered pizzas and mail and shelved electronic appliances in Sears. Soon they stopped smiling and one day Adam enlisted in the United States Army and a few months later his brother followed by joining the National Guard. They don't promote smiling in boot camp.

Between the drugs and the girls I would go to school to read and listen. I learned about Vietnam, about Latin America, about Palestine, about the battle over spheres of influence. I read people like Noam Chomsky and Robert Fisk. I began to feed off of leaflets like Vietnam Veterans Against War and Counterstrike. I waived off CNN for the BBC. I rejected my republican origin and talked about Marxism as if I knew what it meant.

The Towers crumbled. Afghanistan was over taken.

Brian and Mark draped themselves in the flag and shouted for Islamic blood. I cursed the Oil Companies and denounced Imperialism. Ben and Adam prepared to ship out.

Adam was sent to Fort Drum, a snow blasted outpost that serves as a staging point for oversea deployment. Ben was issued a rifle and ordered to stand guard over Newark International Airport.

Adam called me when he learned he would be going to Iraq. "I joined the Army to get some money and go places. Did you know that people who were in the Army only have to put up one percent down payment on houses?"

"No I didn't know that." I answered.

"Fort drum is cold. There is a foot of snow on the ground for four straight months."

"I hear Iraq is hot for twelve straight months."

"I don't want to see far off places. I want to be on Bowdoin Street. Remember Nerf Wars?"

"I do. Remember paint balling?"

"I do. I don’t want to shoot anybody. I don't want to get shot."

I keep his boot camp photograph in my wallet at all times. I looked at it then and said, "I don't want you to either, man."

His brother Ben called me from night duty at the Airport, carrying an outdated M-16 rifle through crowds of merry vacationers. "I joined the Guard for the GI bill. I wanted money for college so I can pledge allegiance to Greek letters, meet a girl from California and learn about Isms. Did you know that they are sending my unit to Bosnia?"
"No, I didn't know that." I answered.

"There are lots of land mines in Bosnia."

"There are no land mines on College campuses."

"I don't want to go to Bosnia. I don't want to be in this airport. I want to be back on Bowdoin street. Do you remember playing Sniper in our backyards?"

"I do. Do you remember paint balling and Nerf wars?"

"I do. I don't want to step on land mines in Bosnia."

I keep Ben's boot camp photograph in my wallet next to his brother's. I looked at it then and said, "I don't want you to either, man."

I visited my mother in the hospital. She was dressed in a blue hospital gown. She tells me I should get a job at the hospital, they must make good money. I tell her it is a good idea, that way in case I get drafted into TWAT I can be a combat medic and patch the holes in screaming American boys and maybe, if I am lucky, even my friends Ben and Adam.

For my twenty fourth birthday I receive two presents. One is a silver Zippo lighter from Adam. Engraved on the back it says Best Friends Do All The Small Things. The other is a graduation ring from Ben. Engraved on the side is says The Bowdoin Street Gang forever.

Brian and Mark come home to Bowdoin Street on occasion. They talk about protecting freedom, avenging the crumbled towers and the need for TWAT. I talk about Isms, about Oil and the deception of TWAT. I don't know who is right and who is wrong. Then we talk about Ben and Adam, of bullets and land mines and the infamous Bowdoin Street Gang. We remember hair trigger smiles and exaggerated war stories.

Mark is going back to interning. Brian is going back to frat parties. Adam is going to Iraq. Ben is going to Bosnia. I am going to anti-war rallies.

In Iraq and Bosnia the rules of the game are different. One shot you die. You do not go back to the starting point. Bullets are not manufactured by Nerf. They do not leave paint stains or suction cup marks. They leave jagged holes, torn flesh and cracked bone. One shot you die, and you don't get to start again. Heads and kneecaps and organs explode like those clay disks.

As I think of this stuff, sitting in a cramped lecture hall, people tell me that I am wrong for protesting the war. I can chant all I want before the war, they say, but once our country declares war, to protest is to spit in the face of guys like Ben and Adam. We are at war now, but I protest louder. I carry in my wallet two photographs, on my finger a ring and in my pocket a Zippo lighter. I don't care about Isms, about oil or poor oppressed Arabs. I care about Ben and Adam.

I defy that old and angered professor. Bring on the National Security Council, our countries lawless Gestapo. If Ben and Adam are fighting for freedom then they fight for my freedom to fight for them. I don't want to attend their funerals, cold caskets draped in red, white and blue. I want them to attend my wedding.

I stand up in the lecture hall. I address those who say I should not protest in the height of war. I ask questions of them like, "Is this country not a democracy?" and "If they are fighting for freedom why should I not practice it?" I tell them that the government works for me, and not the other way around. I spit in no soldier's face. I support the troops. I support Ben and Adam. I don't want them in far off places like Iraq and Bosnia. I want them home. Until they are I welcome the National Security Council and my voice shall be heard in defiance of this war.

I sit down. I hear applause of support and groans of disagreement but I see five boys playing in the backyards of Bowdoin Street. I see red cheeks, baby faces and crooked smiles. I see the Bowdoin Street gang.


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Excellent, very good indeed!