If I haven't already mentioned it, I am a staunch supported of the West Memphis Three (also here and here). I have been known to stalk people through the aisles of my work establishment, brandishing my little orange strips of protest and berating them for not being willing to even set foot in the library to gain access to free internet service -- and beating them with couch pillows when they get snarky.
Okay, not really. But I do hand people those aforementioned strips of paper whenever they question me about the dog tags round my neck. So, in effect, they deserve whatever reaction they get from me concerning the case and their indifference to it; how does no one seem to know or care about these three men?
Obviously, this is something I'm very passionate about -- and while it might not come anywhere near my feelings of love and adoration to a dead man and his ideals (the truth to Jon Krakauer's lies can be found here), I do still have a whole heck of a lot of fight in me for three Arkansans I have never met.
Among other things, I have sent a letter a month to the President. Well, one to that git and all the rest to our current President. October through July or August, I can't remember. So it wasn't quite a year (which must say a lot about my character, as I seem to have been struck with a condition at nineteen that has left me nigh unable to finish anything I start (more on that here) -- or perhaps I take on far too much (like the four books I'm reading, and the three novellas and half a dozen novels I have planned, and the play I can see only one scene of, and the quilt I want to make though I cannot sew...). Anyway, I wrote the letters and clipped them to the mailbox and become completely downhearted when I didn't receive a response to a single one.
Then what happens?
I gather the mail yesterday to find a simple white envelope, return labeled "The White House". There my name is, beautifully written by an unknown hand who knew not that the abbreviation for Wisconsin is not WO but WI).
The envelope was not thick, nor was it a fancy cardboard thing hinting of a hand written response one should frame immediately.
I opened the letter anyway, with my special golden sword letter opener (this was a special occasion after all).
I was a little saddened to see that it wasn't hand written, but then I perked up when I saw the signature. "Barack Obama". Maybe it's a stamp, but it looks true. There are even tiny puddles where the pen paused to breathe.
He calls me "Dear Friend" in his letter, though I'm sure he calls everyone that, and while he doesn't specifically mention the West Memphis Three by name he does inform me about his agenda to completely overhaul the criminal justice system.
So it's a form letter.
I got a form letter from the President of the United States of America.
How cool is that?
august wanes and the season changes
2 days ago