The Nature of Protest

I came across these ribbons attached to a fence around a church in Manhattan on Sunday.
I took a look up to get a sense of where I was. The answer: New York. It's all big in New York.

I moved along to find this message inside a marquis at the corner of the Dutch Reformed church.

So I spent a few more minutes taking in these ribbons. And I walked away thinking this message on this signpost outside this church I will never enter says exactly what I have come to think about that war, the lives of good people who serve well, and how we pursue the truth, honor life, and eschew the kind of propaganda--from whatever side--that cheapens everything.

Carlson? Who's That?

I kept my name.

I am not a feminist.

I am not a bitterly divorced man-hating female freak.

I am not angry at anybody.

I am not bitterly disappointed by anything at all.

In fact, I'm good.

I am George O. Carlson's daughter.

I'll die that way.

I know my dad to be a hard-working, kind-hearted, loving and generous man. He's always right in front of me. There's no guessing. If I don't agree with him, I know where he stands. That's enough. Because wherever we don't see eye to eye ain't nothing alongside the very simple fact that I am George O. Carlson's daughter.

My daughter carries his name. She goes by Adella Carlson. She is officially Adella May Dzitko-Carlson.

Usually the freaks who hyphenate their kid's name put the father's name second. Right? Right. But I am not a freak. I am George O. Carlson's daughter. I carried that child inside of me for going on 10 months. Without much help from heror anybody else, I got her out to establish her as an independent human being.

I fed her through my body and devoted myself to her growth and well-being for the first 9 years of her life. When she said it was okay for me to go back to work, that she understood I was her mother 24/7 wherever I was, I got a job to support her.

I don't know my grandfather whose name is Carlson. I don't mind saying I resent the flaming hell out of my father's mother for that. There isn't a profanity in the world I haven't applied to this situation. There are reasons. Those reasons make me crazy. Whatever went on between my father's mother and Carl Carlson left me without a grandfather.

So when I got married, I kept my name. For the same reason men keep their names, I kept mine. I didn't care who liked it or not. Still don't. I am who I am. When my daughter came, she took the name that reflected the people and the values I cherish. So it goes. I am my father's daughter. I love him. He loves me. I'd lay my life down for him. He taught me how to care, what to value, why to be honest.

To this day I wonder about my father's dad. Who was he? What caused him to return to Sweden? Did he ever care that he had grandchildren? Why on earth did he marry my father 's mother, anyway?

Don't know. Will never know. All I know is the bad blood of two generations ago robbed me, robbed my daughter, left me wondering.

Except that I know I am proud and pleased to say George O. Carlson is my dad. And to my grandfather I would like to say, "You have a wonderful son."

I am a Carlson. My daughter is a Carlson. My dad defines the term: love, hard, work, honesty, spirit.

That's all I need.