On the recent second anniversary of the Iraq War, Iwas driving along Interstate 95 in the earlyafternoon, somewhere outside Bangor, Maine, when acherry red SUV pulled into my lane. Looking down, Inoticed a yellow bumper sticker in the shape of aribbon. It read: “Support Our Troops.”

I felt guilty. It was a phrase that has haunted me fortwo years.

I started looking for similar stickers. And over thenext few hours, I saw about 20 (inexplicably they werealways on SUVs, Mini-Vans, and trucks — never oncars). I also saw a handful of Bush/Cheney stickersand Kerry/Edwards Stickers. Interestingly, I didn’tsee a single anti-war bumper sticker.

Not one.

Why? I wondered. After a while, I decided the reasonwas this: pacifism in America is an admission ofinsanity.

Let me explain: I don’t support the war in Iraq. And Idon’t support the president who started it. So,logically, I don’t support the troops who fight it -though, certainly, I don’t wish them any harm.

But by not “supporting the troops,” I have beenaccused of supporting demonic dictators, Iraqimilitants, Islamic terrorists, and chemotherapy forcancer-ridden cows.

Here is an example: since the start of the Iraq War,I’ve worn a small peace button, an old yellow andblack relic of the early seventies, borrowed from acolleague at the school where I teach. The button fitsnicely on my coat, so each morning I clip it on and goabout my day.

One morning, I was standing in line at a coffee shop.In front of me was a tall, barrel-chested man in hisfifties. He wore a Red Sox ball cap and a dark-bluewindbreaker. The line was long and slow moving, so theman turned a bit to make small talk — the weather, thesports scores.

At one point, his eyes drifted down to my peacebutton, and he stopped talking. Then, after a longpause, he said, “Hey buddy, don’t you support thetroops?”

“Well, no,” I said, “I don’t support the troops. Isupport peace, right?” I pointed at the button andmanaged a thin smile.

“What d’ya mean?” he said, turning full toward me.

“You know,” I tried to explain, “guns and bombs, nomatter what their owner’s intentions, are notparticularly peaceful, right?”

The fellow looked angry. His chin went up, his chestwent out. “So,” he barked, “you support theterrorists.” When he said “you,” his index fingerjabbed at my button.

“Well, no, I mean, that’s silly,” I said. “Anyone whogasses his own people to death or knocks downbuildings with airplanes is scum. But, you know, thatsaid, violence doesn’t come in the humane and inhumanevariety, right?” I kept smiling, hoping somehow tomollify my line-mate, and wondering why the line wasmoving so slowly.

“Typical liberal,” he said with disgust, “your kindjust encourages more terrorism. You should take thatpin off and keep your mouth shut.”

Did I open my mouth? I just wanted coffee.

The fellow shook his head and walked away, frustrated,no doubt, by my obvious support of the Axis of Evil.

That evening I called a childhood friend who livesoutside of Boston. Politically, he had always been amoderate, often even liberal on some issues. So,during our conversation, I felt safe mentioning mylittle peace button and my conversation at the coffeeshop.

My mistake.

“Frankly,” my friend said, “I don’t like these warprotesters and their criticisms of America.” Hecomplained about a “peace type” who brought histhree-year old son to a protest march marking thefirst anniversary of the war. At the march, the “peacetype” with the child was arrested. “Irresponsible!” myfriend howled.

Needless to say, I didn’t mention having brought myfour-year-old daughter to a similar protest march.

Then my friend related a story about another “peacegroup,” this one in Boston. They were “a bunch ofcrazed vegetarians,” he said, “raising money forchemotherapy — for a cancer-ridden cow!” His anger wasrising. “My god,” he said, “these peace types are justcrazy. They don’t support our troops in Iraq, but theywant to save some stupid cow with cancer!”

The conversation ended. But his words stayed with me -in fact, they have stayed with me from that morning inthe coffee shop until that day on Interstate 95. And Istill feel guilty.

Why do I feel guilty?

Consider: the accusation of “not supporting thetroops” is a foolproof means of undermining pacifism.It plays like the old Groucho Marx joke: “So, have youstopped beating your wife? Answer yes or no.” Nomatter how you answer the question, you sound guilty.

Or in my case, you sound like the dupe of nefarious,woolly-minded, liberal peaceniks whose secret plan — if I understand the logic — is to support dictators,Islamic extremists, terrorists — and chemotherapy forcancer ridden cows. That is to say, pacifists arelunatics.

Meantime in Florida, pro-life protesters maintained adeathwatch outside the hospital of Terri Schiavo. Theyloudly demand that all Americans value each individuallife — even to the point of subverting the law. Yet,ironically, they — and millions more who agree withthem — vote overwhelmingly to support the continuingtwo-year, open-ended slaughter of Iraqis by thethousands: men, women and children. That is to say,pro-war means pro-life.

So you tell me: who should feel guilty?

It’s a dark time for peace when pacifists are lunaticsand pro-war means pro-life.