Gran With A Bag
by Rose DeShaw
I couldn’t believe my
luck when I woke up recently from emergency
surgery for an intestinal obstruction. There, on
my stomach, like a good conduct medal, was a
discreet little sort of sandwich bag, which, for
the foreseeable future, would be externally
collecting my poop.
Oblong, rounded at the
corners and rather loosely secured by what looks
like a potato chip bag clip at the bottom, the
gift was entirely unexpected.
Did my doctor realize he
was placing such a weapon in the hands of someone
desperately searching for a solution to the
violence that often erupts during a peaceful
protest?
Like other pacifists I go
to demonstrations to keep the peace, armed with
some old songs. I’ll be standing there when,
suddenly, maybe ten body lengths away, some
misguided youngster pulls up the bandana around
his neck and bops one of the officers standing
between us and the way forward.
I am particularly
sympathetic to the opposition, as I have had both
husband and son in the peace officer profession.
Fortunately neither has had to stand against me
or haul me off, so far.
However, bandana face
doesn’t see any humanity. Perhaps he has not
yet learned to look beyond the uniforms on either
side. Ooof! Whack! Without warning the push is
underway, escalating, from zero to CHARGE!
Grannies don’t move
fast. Unfortunately, when bashing and bopping
begin, we sometimes find ourselves caught in the
middle.
And the official presence
can lose it. “If you’re foolish enough
to be on the front lines,” the attitude
seems to be, “then it’s your outlook.
What’re you doing here anyhow?”
Hoping my benign, elderly
presence, my commitment to peace as well as free
speech, may cool aggression. Demonstrating that
satire is a far more superior and memorable
weapon.
Yes, it’s a calculated
risk. Hotheads unfortunately prevail on both
sides. Any group of protesters, while perhaps
containing some looking for a scuffle, also has
its share of experienced old lady pacifists.
Well, now, thanks to the
hospital’s gift of the odiferous little bag,
the non-violent profile just took a giant leap
forward.
That baton, the hooves on
that horse, the tires on that shiny motorcycle
can get incredibly stinky if the woman with the
bag, goes down. A granny is much more likely to
contain an ostomy bag than the average punk.
Stomping me could mean a week afterward of
scrubbing.
At the best of times, the
bag isn’t all that stable. They come
detached and fall off, not to mention possibile
punctures. It can come in handy in all sorts of
situations.
During the Canadian
Women’s March on Parliament, I took a short
cut across a small park not knowing it contained
just such a hostile opportunistic individual,
awaiting his victim.
With my handy little bag
now, all I have to do, is loosen the flimsy clip
and dribble on his feet. No need for a police
lineup when he can be picked out by a single
sniff of his shoes.
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