Don't Strafe Me

by Fredrika Sprengle, Free Press contributor

hen I was seven years old, sitting on a downtown curb to watch the Torchlight Parade with my family in lawn chairs behind me, a big old Seafair pirate came along and without breaking stride swept me up in his arms, to take me back to the "ship". He was brawny and I was dumbfounded as he ran back to the float, making pirate noises, and pressed his hot and sticky cheek against mine. It left a grease paint scar across my cheek in mirror of his. Setting me on the float, he pressed something in my hand, and released me when it looked like I might burst into tears or scream rather than revel in the attention. The prize in my hand was a pin that read "I've been had by a Seafair Pirate" and it stayed in my mother's jewelry box for years afterward.

Other than the neighborhood carnival rides and the chance to win a live baby duck by tossing dimes onto plates, I never learned to like Seafair. It's mostly those pirate kind of trappings that send me running for the woods in those weeks of mid summer. Its easy enough to say it's the noise, the crowds, the embarrassing Chamber of Commerce boosterism that makes me weary and in want of a fox hole to crawl into. But to tell the truth its the ways in which Seafair pivots shamelessly around misogynist, sailor worshipping, euro-centric, missile romanticizing notions that put me in less than a carnival mood.

Think of the mainstays of Seafair: the Miss Budweiser (yes that's a fast boat named as a female brew), the Seafair Pirates who like to "have their way with the girls, matie", the crowning of neighborhood princesses - Miss Ballard, Miss White Center, or whatever, who all compete for the honor of being the Seafair queen and riding on puffy floats near the pirates, the Navy fleet coming to town complete with requests in the newspapers to show the sailors some Northwest hospitality by inviting them to home cooked meals, and the Blue Angels, whose "hair-raising" feats of precision flying dazzle shell-shocked vets and war refugees to trembling and flashbacks.

Where's the cotton candy?

This year the Blue Angels also made a visit to South Seattle Community College. Lots of PR went out about the visit. The neighborhood community and college were given an "eye-popping invitation" to learn about "hot navy career opportunities". When the word went out, some expressed opposition "to any affiliation with the U.S. Navy's Blue Angels" via e-mail and a lively and sometimes ridiculous discussion took place. The first protester gave three pretty standard left-wing reasons for the school to not be involved in Navy recruiting. Then, the flaming began in a nauseatingly familiar tirade of pro-military clichés. It was as though a time vault had exuded the icy cold war of the 50's.

One guy wrote a lengthy scenario which described the "impending doom of nuclear war" when "the people who didn't believe in war , actually managed to have the "armed forces disbanded". The rest is a worn blow-by-blow that counts down to Seattle being nuked. He ends with a "salute to those . . (who) sign up for the unknown based on nothing but a belief in freedom." That must be some of that some critical thinking that educators talk about. One Coast guard lifer remarked that he "went threw (sic) e-mail messages . . on the Blue Angles (sic)" He's "glad there (sic) here". He must be especially gratified that the education they hold as an incentive for new recruits is so thorough. Another questioned a protester's nationality asking "Are you from the United States?" and then went on to make other nationalist assumptions about his political beliefs.

The military received much praise, most of it remarkably unchanged from that heard during the Vietnam War era. But a newish tangle was kudos for being the number one employer of African Americans. Isn't that a little like praising agri-business for being the number one employer of Chicanos? Will we commend clothing manufacturers for having such a culturally diverse group of sweat shop sewing machine operators? Just think of all the possible awards.

All this was far from my mind that Seafair Sunday when I was lazing in my yard only to be startled by the unmistakable sound, like movie special effects, of fighter planes overhead. The birds momentarily flushed from the trees and darted. My gut reaction was to try to spot them and to duck. The familiar thrill of the speed and precision was there, but so was the chill. We know these machines are built precisely to kill. Somehow, mixing that, in Seafair tradition, with a boat full of partying white guys, a couple of beers, and a beautiful blue-skied Seattle summer day is more hair raising than I can handle.