Thursday, September 5, 2013

Rebel Without a Cause

It was unearthly hot. I couldn’t go wrong with my nifty app, I thought. I had downloaded the app to navigate us around D.C. before we had left for vacation. The app sounded great in its description and reviews. All I had to do was select which historical place that I wanted to go and it would provide me with metro and walking directions. Truthfully, it was a great app. It didn’t prepare me, however, for the terrain and encompassing environment.

We had previously walked a mile from our last metro stop to the National Zoo. Within the National Zoo, we probably walked another 2 miles. I’m not complaining about the walking within the zoo as that is to be expected in any zoo if you want to see all of the amazing creatures and exhibits. Unfortunately, we had gotten there an hour before most of the exhibits were open. This meant that we would have to walk longer to pass the time while waiting for the major exhibits to open. Did I mention the scorching heat? I should have learned from my trip to Japan to carry an umbrella. I had noticed in Japan that many pedestrians and sightseers carry an umbrella when walking the streets to block the sun’s rays from baking their skin. I was not that smart.

The navigation app suggested a mile walk from the zoo to the White House, our next stop. Although I’ve never been in the military, I admire those that routinely embark on several mile hikes in combat boots. The mile-long walk on a continuous incline from the zoo to the White House in the scorching heat was one of the most strenuous work outs I have ever had. Besides the baking sun, the incline did not bother me much that day. As I tried to get out of bed the next day, however, I felt like the lady from the Emergency Alert ID Bracelet commercial when she said, “Help! I’ve fallen and can’t get up.”

After finally making it to the White House, my wife and I took the normal pictures posing in front of the gates of the White House. For whatever reason, there wasn’t a huge crowd on Pennsylvania Avenue that day. In fact, it was relatively quiet. After taking a few pictures of each other posing and basking in the elegance of the historical surroundings, we trekked across the street to a bench directly across from the White House. It was then that we noticed the little old lady camped across the street from the White House. Besides a brief encounter with a Nation of Islam activist throwing Travon Martin’s name around, this was my first encounter with a genuine protestor.

Out of curiosity, we approached her sidewalk campsite. With frayed, grayish hair and her skeletal frame, she spoke softly as she handed us literature concerning her cause. I couldn’t decipher what she was saying repetitively to other sightseers that gathered near her campground. “Stop helping Israel!” was the only rhetoric that I was able to interpret.

We quickly left her campsite to allow other sightseers to listen to her message and to land on the empty park bench set in the inviting shade. It wasn’t long before a loud commotion arose. An Egyptian and anti-American protestor began shouting propaganda in front of the White House. Before he got to a good rant, another sightseer began contesting him in a pro-American debate in which he easily won to an ovation of cheers from other tourists. As I relaxed and listened with my back turned to the event, the ovation continued as the defensive American walked past me. I was surprised to see that the man the crowd was cheering was garbed in a flowered dress and Minnie Pearl hat. Along with the many attractions that were free, apparently tickets to the circus were free as well.

After we had ventured back to our hotel, I laid on the bed wondering what to do with the rest of the night and the next day. There wasn’t much that I could do that night. The stiffness in my joints and muscles from the hike from the zoo was beginning to take effect. I decided to take a look at the literature from the elderly lady protesting across from the White House. I had thrown my copy away, but my wife had kept her copy for a souvenir. I glanced through the material thinking that it would become circular file material if it wasn’t for my wife’s scrapbook hoarding habit. It wasn’t long, however, before I became enthralled in the old lady’s story.

The pamphlets provided very little information. There were some dated illustrations of nuclear missiles, but what captured my attention was the fact that she had been calling her campsite on Pennsylvania Avenue home since 1981. The idea that anyone would go to such extremes for such a long period of time to support their cause amazed me. I found it admirable to say the least. I wanted to learn more about her and her cause.

The woman’s name is Connie Picciotto. Since the early 1980s, she has battled freezing conditions, sweltering heat, hecklers, beatings, and various other conditions to support her cause. I enjoyed her story as I read further. The only problem was that I could not determine exactly what her cause was or what she was fighting for. She rambled about issues that reminded me more of a Cold war history lesson than anything current. In my unexplainable desire to psychoanalyze everyone I meet, I began to realize that she was probably using her “cause” was probably an escape from reality.

She had lost the one true love of her life, her daughter, in a custody battle that was fought in Spain and the U.S. Her husband had an affair with a woman she had thought was her aunt. She was battered by her husband and deemed crazy by the authorities. She had a difficult life to say the least. Although her story is filled with sadness, it is also filled with paranoia. Maybe she really was crazy.

It became apparent to me that when she embarked on a new life on the Washington streets that she was seeking an escape from her real life. From her story, I am reminded that we should never judge a book by its cover. Everyone has their own demons that they deal with in their own way. This is the part where I should say that the woman should turn to God. However, this is much harder to do for some than others. I couldn’t solve Mrs. Picciotto’s problems if I tried. At this point, I think it wouldn’t do any good as her alternate reality has become her actual reality.

As a society, we are our brother’s keeper. We should take an interest in one another. We can’t solve everyone’s problems. What we can do, however, is try not to judge. Mrs. Picciotto is not the only one who has put on a veil to mask who she really is inside. Most of us have done it at some point to hide our innermost feelings and insecurities. Some go to more extremes than others.

I threw Mrs. Picciotto’s literature away with no intention of reading it until I realized I was unable to move from the effects of our trek from the National Zoo that day. I am glad I got a chance to read her story. In my mind, she went from a sideshow to a real person with an amazing history.

For more information about Connie Picciotto, visit http://prop1.org/conchita/

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