Five Years in Iraq

Since I work in arguably the most liberal city in America, San Francisco, I couldn't deem my reaction as "surprise" when I was told protests would be happening just a hundred yards from my office today... past the Starbucks, and the Subway, near the McDonald's and beneath the towering Citibank and Wells Fargo buildings... at Market and New Montgomery - an intersection which pretty much symbolizes the heart of the Financial District.
At lunch, I got on the phone with Sweet B, and headed over there to witness history happening in real time. Market was mobbed with protesters and police in riot-gear. That's something I've never seen before, outside of a picture or a film. The distinct contrast between the black military issue uniforms, helmets and beatin'-sticks set against the hoi-polloi with makeshift signs and protest clothing was rather beautiful. And as a person who is easily irritated by street noise, the absence of cars and trucks drudging along suggested peace even when the faint voice of a hippie on a megaphone could be heard begging for some. I rather liked it, to be honest. I liked how it looked, how it felt. I liked that these people are mad as hell and aren't gonna take it anymore and they let their community and government know it.
Well, there was no way I was getting through that crowd to get to Walgreens, where I planned to buy a throw-away digital camera, knee socks and a birthday card for my grandpa. So I turned around and went to another Walgreens.
The irony isn't lost on me. I get that the Walgreens of the world are part of the problem. Consumer greed and laziness fueled by corporate greed and disassociation. I get it, but I'm also a creature of practicality and utility, and I needed some fucking shit.
I also get that the vapid bitch fest I unleashed on Sweet B was even more shallow than it would have usually been in light of the events of the last five years, and I took care to forewarn her that it would be. And I get that too, but it didn't keep me from telling her about the dumb fight I had with Copper Crotch about the existence and/or need and/or possible fashion faux-paus of wearing or making footless knee high socks.
I get it.
I did buy my burrito at an independent shop, so I think my cred was partially restored by the time I made my way back to Market. But only partially.
That cred took a real nose-dive when I hung up with Sweet B and entered the crowd to take pictures.
Standing and moving among the angry citizenry, I noticed some disgusting things about myself.
Number 1: I felt afraid to take pictures of the police -- and I didn't at first. How easily would I be coerced into abandoning my rights for order? It sickens me now as I type this.
Number 2: I carried my Walgreens-emblazoned bag into the crowd, without an air of embarrassment. A protester shouted, "Yah, go buy some more shit." I knew she was talking to me, and I felt overwhelming shame.
Number 3: When the hippie on the megaphone started a chant, just two feet away from me, "No More War", I didn't even consider joining in. And then when I realized my mouth was shut, I couldn't bring myself to open it.
I was a by standard, a fucking photo journalist for the local paper, a fucking paparazzo for the politically-aware. I hardly felt like an American. I hardly felt like an American who has real opinions and real passion for anything outside herself.
I felt like a spoiled, greedy, selfish, blow-hard ass, and I am part of the problem. And the hippie, the hippie who I chastise constantly, he's the rabble-rouser. He's the actor. He's the person who inspires others to change. His spirit is mighty and my spirit is dead.

No More War