Parade formation

The clamor of horns and cheers filled the air. Eager for a diversion from the monotony of another deadline day, we got up and plastered ourselves in front of the window to get a better look at the action. For the last few evenings, a break dancer had been holding court in the parking lot below our office, much to the delight of the local work-a-day stiffs but to the chagrin of law enforcement, who would inevitably swoop in and shoe him away.

But today, it was only around noon – far too early for the beginning of the evening’s entertainment, which was typically choreographed to a car stereo.

Instead, we peered out to see what looked like a tour bus headed north along Main Avenue. There was a congregation of well wishers standing on the corner, fervently waving tiny American flags and shouting goodbyes. At first, it appeared your typical downtown Durango parade, albeit a bit more subdued. Over the course of the first few years at the Telegraph’s downtown location, we had become well aware of one thing: Durangoans loved a parade. We had seen processions for everything from Snowdown to Fiesta Days to Veteran’s Day to even the first – and last – annual St. Patrick’s Day Parade. We even learned that sometimes, people didn’t even need a reason.

But a quick glance at the calendar showed no particular holiday, per se. As far as we could tell, it was just your average Wednesday in September. However, as we continued to watch the spectacle unfold, it dawned on us what we were witnessing. The parade was a send-off for local National Guard troops headed to Iraq.

Maybe it was the hormones coursing through my extremely pregnant body at the time, but as I took in the cheering crowds, I remember feeling a bittersweet mix of sympathy and sadness. I looked at the spectators – mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, wives, husbands – and cringed at the thought that this could be the last time they would see their loved ones, through the dust-smeared window of a northbound Greyhound. Again, maybe it was the hormones.

Sitting back down at my desk, I thought about an uncle, a general in the Army, who had done various tours in Afghanistan and Iraq. I thought about a brother-in-law, an army medic stationed somewhere in Qatar. And, of course, I thought about my own son and the yet-to-be-determined bulge in my belly.

See, 35 years prior, I had come into the world in one of modern America’s more notoriously ugly periods, which included Vietnam, Watergate and Kent State. And while people of my generation had little to do with such events, they had in a way become the stain we were forced to wear, for there is no way to talk of the years of our birth without at least thinking of that less-than-flattering chapter in our history.

Likewise, I cannot help but equate the birth of my own first child with the ongoing war in Iraq. His is the era of “shock and awe,” born a few weeks after the U.S. invasion of Iraq against the backdrop of the televised blitz on Baghdad. And, not so coincidentally, every year he is a year older, so is the war.

Of course, he knows little about his birthright. A few years back, he was given a book based on a true story about a librarian in Basra who rescued the books from her bombed-out library and stored them in her home. This occasionally leads to questions about how she can move around in her house with so many books and a trip to the family globe to find the tiny country of Iraq – but not much else. Not that it’s due to a lack of willingness on my part, but sometimes it is difficult to explain war in my own mind, not to mention that of a preschooler’s.

However, earlier this week, we were presented again with what I thought would be a good segue not necessarily into the topic of war – but rather that of peace. While squandering a lazy Sunday afternoon downtown, we came upon a group of peace marchers making their way down Main Avenue, commemorating the anniversary of the Iraq war.

Of course, the first question from Baxter after the initial delight of encountering a parade, was an inquiry into the candy. “It’s not that kind of parade,” I told him as we stood along the sidewalk and watched. Nevertheless, he wanted to be a part of it. So, for a few moments, while the participants regrouped to head back up the opposite side of Main, we mingled, and I read signs to Baxter as he pointed them out. He became particularly excited about a simple white sign bearing four black numbers: “3,218,” I read at his request. He wanted no further explanation, but it was a tally of the American soldiers killed since the war began four years ago. I couldn’t help but think back to the other parade I had been privy to just a year and half earlier, and I thought about those faces on the bus and the countless more that were lining the streets. And as the peace walk made its way back up Main and we parted ways on our bicycle, I hoped that the next parade we saw would be that of a homecoming.

– Missy Votel