Know thy Place, Hippie!!!

I have been a political junkie since birth. I wrote a letter to President George Bush when I was around 8, asking him to do something about the plight of the whooping crane, and it’s loss of wintering habitat along the Texas Gulf coast. At 12, during the presidential elections, I patiently explained to my mother; what a dark horse candidate was, and how voting for Ross Perot (who would have been a fairly decent conservative president, I admit), was splitting the Republican ticket, and was going to put Clinton, whom she thought was too far left, in office. I’d like to note, she didn’t listen.

Out of high school, I collected my shoes and purses, sold them, and donated the proceeds to the Tibetan Freedom Fund. I’ve protested against the death penalty, marched in pro-gay parades, yelled at Westboro Church members while they protested a military funeral, I’ve made a piece for the AIDS quilt, stood at pro-choice rallys. I’ve argued for the legalization of pot, prostitution, and Freedom of Speech, even when it angered me to do so.

I voted, loudly, for anyone other than George W. Bush. My Sunday morning ritual has consisted of, for years, a copy of The New York Times, CNN, and a bubble bath. It is not uncommon to find me curling my hair, or trying on lip-gloss, while John King or George Stephanopoulos led a discussion on whatever was current in Washington. Most nights, or even during the day, while doing homework, there is a news channel on tv, while I bulls^$t my way through another paper or daily question.

So my activist streak is fairly deeply ingrained, and I carried it with me into the new relationship I tripped and fell into with the Sergeant. I’ve affectionately been “a hippie” for awhile now, and while he doesn’t always agree with me, he’s always given me time to voice my ideas, played devil’s advocate to make me think, and he’s always respected my opinions.

But do I have to give that up? Do I ignore the voice in my head that screams in agony when Sarah Palin makes yet another inane remark? Do I just smile and nod and wave the flag and put yellow ribbons on my front lawn? Is an Army wife just a modern update on the June Cleaver ideal, and do I now need to learn how to mop while wearing heels and pearls? Did I lose my voice when he put the ring on my finger?

The answer is no, not for this Army wife. I am the new, improved, Army wife. I have a career that I have taken a voluntary break from, but want to go back to, goals for school, goals for myself, that I will not sacrifice, even for the Sergeant. He may be the love of my life, but he is not the sum total of my life, nor all of the meaning I take from life.

The activist stays. The voice of twisted logic and flawed reason, who says what she means, even when it is not the politically correct thing to say, she stays too. The brainy nerd, who reads medieval history for fun, who knows countless details about the uses of a sword, and the limits of a particular piece of plate armor, she stays too.

This is who I am, who I’ve always been, even when I was too little to really understand everything. Whether I argue about birth control with a strict Catholic, or the merits of the women’s rights movement with my ultra-conservative father (there’s a battle royale for you), this is who I am.

Love me, love the real me.

Love my dog too.

~Jennifer