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Kate Sharpley
B. 1891 Deptford, England / D. 1978 Lewisham, England
Socialized Medicine

United for peace and justice march, two weeks ago, I was there, marching. Really walking with long stops and bursts of quick-stepping to pass the obstructions.
Big hand-held beachball trampolines emblazoned with words for the aerial press. We cry “1-2-3!” and run underneath, raising the nylon ceiling with hand thrusts, dislodging a beachball.
Michael Musto of the Village Voice in the midst of a shifting cell phone-induced party.
Parents with children paused and accreting around sweet and melty snacks.
To hand drums and slide whistle, a lesbian go-go line-dancing troupe inciting a clot up by 29th Street. An impression, dark as if viewed through denim lenses, of black engineer boots and stylish eyeglasses.
Coffins, black or flag-draped, I think two or three times we’ve passed them and they’ve caught up, shark-swift black coffins, many flag-draped—unbelievably fleet-footed their bearers, rather—but I’m wrong, they’re in batches, some more black than others.
No democrats.
Our goal, more general than official, was Madison Square Garden and vocal protest at its occupation, at its cordons, at its living crenelations of armed men, at the woman in pink standing out front and laughing into her cell phone, at the moving-lights signboard on the side of the building taunting us: “Thank You New York!”
“You’re not welcome! You’re not welcome!”
“Four more months!”
“This is what democracy looks like! This is what democracy looks like!”
“No more Bush!”
“Shame! Shame! Shame!” I’m screaming, it’s like I’ve found lava pits under my heart, when suddenly I realize the peace sign I’ve been holding over my head, my arm as my sign, I’m still holding it up, and I’m screaming. Can’t look good.

Consolation Site: Tell the kids

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