When I was in high school, I used to volunteer for “Arlington West,” a mock [military] cemetery set up every Sunday, adjacent to the Santa Monica Pier, organized by veterans and activists.
These organizers, however, were very left-leaning activists and veterans.
The organizers asked us to come around four in the morning, which was a request granted only by the more dedicated volunteers.
I’d usually arrive around seven, and there would still be lots of crosses, Stars of David, and Stars and Crescents that needed to be put up.
It wasn’t hard work, and being by the beach meant that the weather would always be nice.
One Sunday, during the volunteers’ lunch, we heard screaming, as I was about to peel a lemon.
It came from an agitated man barking at one of the organizers about how the latter’s “liberal propaganda” disrespected the name and honor of “his boys.”
I dug into the lemon with the nail of my thumb.
The organizers sold stickers that were anti-war, stickers that supported the release of whistleblowers, and a booklet called, “Addicted to War.”
These would anger, I presume, some of the more rigid, perhaps Conservative, veterans.
Nonetheless, I was intrigued by the carefree attitude the organizer responded with.
He played a little bit with his earlobe, scratched his chin outwards with the back of his hand facing the agitated veteran, and gave a little shrug.
The angry person left, and then I heard my friend, Jonathan, yell, “My eyes!”
Apparently, when I dug my nails into the lemon, some juice flew out and hit Jonathan in the eye.
It took me a while to process what went on because I was focused on the other thing going on.
That day, I picked up Addicted to War and read it all the way through.