Mark's Pages

September 11, 2003:

Banners, signs, slogans. One hundred fifty thousand people. Sunlight, loudspeakers, the thrum of thousands and thousands of conversations.

Two men you know are debating heatedly alongside a literature table. An organizer of today's demonstration, swaggering with that peculiar machoburger pot belly favored by his grouplet. His older comrade, white-haired, authoritative. The two leaders of a group of about one hundred. The only words you catch are "James Canon," the historical founder of their tendency. Their hero.

"Watch this," your friend says, elbowing you playfully. Elderly, shortish, becoming frail; yet fierce, fearless, and utterly self-assured, with that striking calm confidence that arises after decades of struggle.

The two leaders frown as he approaches. He smiles mischievously. "James Canon?", he says. "You're talking about James Canon? I knew James Canon. Bit of a drunk, wasn't he?"

The two poobahs turn purple. Your friend throws his head back, laughing merrily. You take his arm, leading him gently through thick crowds toward the speaker's platform, proud to know the people you know.