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The Percolators
A story of a woman shattering the gender barrier and altering the direction of the most successful church in the Western Hemisphere--the Latter Day Saints; a story of a union leader who came out of nowhere, and with no gifts other than an oversized ego to give this country its first six-hour workday.
From:
$13.45
Excerpt
"I have seen pictures of small children, the same age as my son." She points at Little Him perched on my shoulders. ". . . lying in a hospital bed, arms amputated and skin burned to the bone. The victory of that Iraqi war is not worth the agony of one child. For many, there is a sense of pride in winning a war that our troops so easily won. But, for me, there is a bigger sense of shame in the killing and maiming of human beings."
Sarah steps back from the microphone to the cheers and hand clapping of the mass of humanity surrounding the speaker's platform. After awhile, the organizer announces that this concludes today's demonstration and thanks us all for our attendance. The roar of the crowd subsides, only instead of dispersing they push forward to congratulate the speakers. This cramming together pushes me back into the police line, and the policeman rams his truncheon aggressively into my back.
I face him and shout, "knock it off, can't you see I'm being pushed against you."
"Back away." he shouts at me, slamming my chest with his forearm. Before I can tell him what a brute I
think he is, I hear Little Him's words: "Look at me, Him."
I twist my head and look at what must be a record setting bubble-gum bubble emerging from my grandson's mouth. The policeman banging on me with his truncheon is also distracted by the giant bubble. Somehow, Little Him removes the bubble from his mouth and smacks it on the policeman's face shield with a loud pop.
My heart sinks as I watch the policeman slowly remove his helmet and examine the opaque shield. "You little shit." he growls at Little Him.
"Lighter fluid will take that mess off." I volunteer.
"Do you happen to have lighter fluid on you, asshole."
I don't answer the rhetorical question.
"I'm taking you and your little thug in for assaulting an officer of the law." he spurts out. "Let's go." He takes my arm.
"Police brutality. POLICE BRUTALLITY. POLICE BRUTALLLLLLITY." Little Him begins to scream with a cheerleader's cadence as he bounces on my shoulders, all the while jamming his placard into the air. To the other kids, likewise perched on their mommies' shoulders, Little Him's antics look to be fun, and they follow suit, shouting, "POLICE BRUTALITY." I am impressed by the lungpower and stamina of these kids shouting in unison, because I sense they can go on forever. What is more important is that the policeman also realizes it and releases my arm. But this is only a small gesture in this game of power between the police and kids; the kids turn up the volume on their "police brutality" cry. Once again I feel the television cameras capturing my image as the police phalanx falls back, tails between their legs, realizing they are no match for such raw kid power.
While I am mulling over the possibility of using this kid-power tactic on our next picket line, Sarah removes Little Him from my shoulders and asks in her most icy tone, "was all of this necessary."
"I only mumbled, police brutality once," I offer in my defense.
I follow her like a sad dog back to the hotel, all the while watching my grandson flash his banshee grin at me from his mother's arms.
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