2006
The
So
far, so good, right?
They
also believe that our country has incurred God’s wrath by its increasing
embrace of homosexuality. And they believe that said wrath is
demonstrated by the death of American soldiers struck down by the hand of God.
The
website for their church is godhatesfags.com
(no kidding).
This
would be a useful moment to remember the First Amendment, “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of
religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of
speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and
to petition the government for a redress of grievances.”
That is it – just 45 words. They include freedom of
religion, speech and assembly. The Westboro
folks practice their faith carefully conforming to the protection of our
Constitution.
Specifically, they attend the funeral ceremonies of American
soldiers killed in action carrying signs saying, “
Corporal Nyle Yates was killed by small
arms fire (not an IED) during combat about 150 miles northwest of
And I must thank those three folks and the entire Westboro bunch for making the Yates funeral a stirring and
reassuring event for the grieving family. You see, if those three were
not there, the Patriot Guard would not have been there. Indeed, if the Westboro bunch had not adopted this tactic, the Patriot
Guard would not exist.
Patriot Guard Riders is
a group that consists mostly of motorcyclists, mostly veterans, who attend the
funerals that Westboro targets, but only after
receiving the invitation of the grieving family. They bring flags and
position themselves between the Westboro picketers
and the other people attending the funeral.
Robin discovered this group on March 23rd and sent me
an email calling it to my attention. In a rare instance where I was one
step ahead of her, I replied that I had become a member on March 12th.
This is the story of my first participation as a Patriot Guard.
~ ~ ~
Yesterday morning, I saddled-up and left
The plan was for everyone to meet in the parking lot of a certain
grocery store and to move as a group to the funeral home at 10:00 that morning,
one hour before the funeral service was scheduled to begin. My
motorcycle’s clock read 9:40 when I reached the parking lot site.
There was no one else there and I thought my fears
validated. I suspected that since it was cold, and since it was a Monday,
that few people might turn-out. That made it all the more important that
I was here.
After a few minutes, another fellow arrived in a pick-up towing a
trailer with a bike. He was in a big hurry to get his bike off the
trailer, so I helped him. At one point I mentioned to him that it was not
even ten o’clock yet. “You are still on
So I got in a big hurry too. The two of us found our way to
the funeral site and were directed past the parking lot, which was full, to a
nearby side street. We rode past the Westboro
picketers and I saw their signs.
I had brought the flag that we fly above our garage door and a
camera monopod. The latter fits in a saddlebag when
collapsed, but extends and served as my flagstaff. As I approached
I saw that the Westboro three were behind a line of
wooden saw-horses and a line of four cops. I saw a large group of bikers
standing in a parallel line facing away.
I assumed that the bikers were giving their attention to something
I could not see and that I would join them in a moment. First, naturally,
I wanted to get a look at the picketers.
“Don’t look at them! Get over there!”
The grumpy fellow ordering me away was not a cop, but a rather
shaggy biker. I smiled and complied but first I walked past him to get a
close look at the picketers. After I found my place among the bikers
facing away from the picketers, my curiosity had me turning my head to look
over my shoulder.
“SIRRR, don’t look at them. Turn your back on them!”
repeated the shaggy guy.
I finally got it. Maybe there had been a briefing in the
parking lot before I got there. What is a picket without an
audience? This also explained the occasional call that “Channel Ten
SUCKS!” by various bikers. Channel Ten was the only TV station to send a
video crew.
A few minutes after the service was scheduled to begin, the Westboro three got into their rent car and drove off.
I admit to looking over my shoulder once more, just in time to see the last one
shout, “You are all going to Hell!” as he ducked into the car. I don’t
know if the shaggy guy didn’t see me that time or if he decided that it just
didn’t matter any more, but he didn’t growl at me this time.
(Of course, the picketers left just minutes after I arrived, so it
may be my arrival that ran them off. There is just no way to know for
sure.)
Anyway, there were some 250 other black-leather clad flag waivers
forming a wall between the picketers and the funeral. From them rose the
sounds men make when they achieve a difficult victory. A “cheer” says,
“oh goody for us” but this said more “if you ever come back again, we will kick
your butt again.” I suppose I could be reading too much into it.
Still, there was a clear sense of accomplishment. When
someone said loudly, “I pledge allegiance to the flag…” that was as far as he
got before he was joined by most others. This was followed by a general
movement across in the direction of the driveway that the hearse would follow
when it left for the cemetery.
There was a lot of handshaking between the bikers and the cops.
After all, this was not a counter-demonstration. We were there as invited
guests of the grieving family.
This point was well made this morning in the
Lansing State Journal:
The veterans and motorcyclists formed a "wall of
silence" to keep protesters away from the funeral. The Grand Ledge Police
Department supported the group's efforts and discouraged any counterdemon-strations.
"The funeral today is to honor Corp. Yates and all of the other men and
women who serve our country with honor and courage," the department said
in a news release. "Unplanned spontaneous counter demonstrations will only
degenerate the solemnity of this memorial and add a circus atmosphere to their
time of mourning and remembrance."
I took a position along the driveway, holding my flag aloft,
waiting for the service inside to end. Nearly all of the bikers remained
to find a place along the driveway or the street beyond. I heard one
fellow on the street shout, “When I give the command ‘Order Arms!’ snap the
flagstaff back to your right shoulder…”
Mostly, we just stood and waited. I still had my rain gear
on from the trip. “You wear those waders because of all the shit here?”
one asked me? I think we all had surplus energy. We were ready for
a bigger fight than we got.
There was quiet laughing and talking. A fellow fifteen feet
up the drive from me dropped his flag. After a moment, someone said,
“Shoot him.” There was a quick consensus that he should be shot, but no
one did.
The shaggy guy reappeared. He was moving along the drive
handing out a memoriam printed on it cover,
inside left and inside right. I took one and
thanked him. He said, “Hey, I’m sorry if I was a little unfriendly back
there…”
He was “Grumpy” (Larry Helser) and one
of the two organizers of this ride for the Patriot Guard. Later I would
briefly meet “Thor” (Zach Chandler) who was the other Ride Captain.
Others came up to me, perhaps because I was an unfamiliar face,
and made me feel welcome. But the best was the fellow who approached me
from behind and announced himself saying, “May I get through, old-timer?”
This is the first time I have ever been called that, not counting my
cousin Cyndi. I turned to see three most clean-cut, healthy, confident
young men. They were two sergeants and a corporal from Yates’ division,
the 101st Screaming Eagles, in their dress uniforms.
Pallbearers, I imagine. Thanks to Robin’s training, I was able to say,
“Guys, thanks for your service.”
Immediately after that encounter, all the cars along the drive
began loading and starting. The talking stopped. Then the hearse
slowly rolled past.
Like the other flag-bearers along the drive, I simply raised my
flag high and continued to stand silently facing the oncoming cars. The
limousine that was first to follow the hearse had darkened windows that were
rolled-up, but I could see palms pressed against the glass in acknowledgment of
our vigil.
Behind me I heard the command, “Order Arms!” A succession of
cars passed, each offering acknowledgment in some
way. One lady made eye contact and mouthed the words “thank you” so I
gave her a small nod. A gentleman held a “thumbs-up” and he went by.
There were many cars and it took quite a while for them all to
pass. I don’t know how much time elapsed, but my shoulder was aching by
the time I could finally lower my flag.
And that was it. I walked back toward the overflow parking
area. As I prepared to leave, there were still others who wanted to greet
me. Graded on friendliness from A to F, I make everyone I spoke to a high
A plus. Except Grumpy, who I give a low A
plus. I’m tough but fair.
It took longer to return home than it did to travel out that
morning. Rain and the
