When we were young we protested wars with the self-righteous confidence that what we were doing was big and new and important. I remember the fabulous full-to-bursting feeling in my chest as we raised our voices together, chanting for peace, arms linked, marching as one...
All that music and reefer -- it was heady, sexy stuff.
We were sure back then, that reason would prevail against madness and that hope could and surely would triumph over despair. We assumed it was simply a matter of intent and that when it was our generation's turn to lead, we'd promptly clean the air and water, feed and house the poor, care for the worlds sick, bring global equality, and end wars forever -- because we wanted to and because it was the right thing to do.
And now look. Here we are, up to our eyebrows in a turd-stew that we can no longer blame on our parents and grandparents. As humbling, no humiliating as it is, we can't pretend that our generation turned out to be any less self-serving, greedy and corrupt than any other.
As the words “Targeted Military Strike” shrink my soul down like a weenie in an icy fjord, I crawl off to hide in shame beneath my tie-dye, Indian-print blanket, surrounded by incense, candles and beaded peace signs, hoping that our kids will do way better with the planet than we did.
xo
Amy
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