MARCHING ON WASHINGTON 1969

With all the protests that have taken place since the new administration took office, I remembered a time, almost 50 years ago, when I was young and angry with the administration’s war in Viet Nam. It was another time, a different issue, but the same desire to make our voices heard and change the situation. I dedicate this to non-violent protesters now and then. Keep fighting the good fight.

MARCHING ON WASHINGTON

 

The campus was buzzing with rumors. “Come to the gym at 6:00 if you have a bus ticket.” “Emergency meeting for bus passengers.” The signs were posted all over the campus.

Like a lemming, I followed the trail of students to the gym. Hundreds of us filled the bleachers on one side. What was happening? We were only three days from a mass migration to Washington, D.C. for the Moratorium to end the war in Viet Nam. Our school, Harpur College, had booked 19 busses to take students and faculty there and back. Over a thousand of us were to join the thousands more, maybe hundreds of thousands, to protest the war in Viet Nam.

It was November 1969.

One of the leaders tapped on the microphone. The gym immediately became silent.

“We have a problem,” he began. “The FBI has threatened Greyhound with a complete shut down if they take any students to the march. They told Greyhound that the FBI would cite every worn tire, burnt out parking light, unrepaired dent and anything else they could find. The FBI is determined to shut down the protest by shutting down the bus companies. Greyhound knuckled under. They have cancelled the buses.

“But, we are not going to let the government deter us,”he shouted into the mike. “We are going to Washington.”

With that the audience broke into cheers.

Quickly, they organized car pools. People willing to drive moved to one side. The rest of us found one of them and signed on for a ride. Instead of nineteen buses, hundreds of cars would travel to Washington. The march would not be silenced.

 

Three days later, I climbed into a compact car with five other people. A French professor had agreed to drive down on Friday and drop us off. After the March on Saturday, we would meet at a designated place for the ride home. In the trunk were four grocery bags, each packed with 4 box lunches from the cafeteria to sustain us.

Darkness was settling in when he let us off at a midtown church. We had been told back at the college that we could stay here for the night. The professor and his girlfriend were spending the night with friends in the city.

Although tired from the six-hour trip, we were buoyed up with enthusiasm. We entered the church and began to walk into the sanctuary to set up camp for the night.  That was when the adventure began in earnest. One of the organizers stopped us. “You can’t stay here. This is only for the leaders from each campus.”

We were dumbfounded…and worried. None of us knew our way around Washington. One of us asked where we could go. The organizer gave us a piece of paper with an address. “Go up Connecticut Avenue to this address. There’s another church there that will be open.”

I looked at the paper in my hand. 10101 Connecticut Avenue. We started out in the direction he had pointed.

By now it was dark. A cold mist fell on us. We saw people with candles making their way to the White House for a vigil. I could also see my breath. The bag of food grew heavier and moister.

Our initial exuberance waned and our pace slowed as we walked. We were cold and hungry as we followed our own version of the Yellow Brick Road. We knew we weren’t in upstate New York anymore. We could only hope something like the Emerald City lay not too far ahead.

As we walked, I began taking note of the addresses on the buildings. They were going up. Then I realized something else.  With a forced calm, I said to my companions, “I just realized that these blocks are only going up by 100. To get to 10101, we’re going to walk miles. I bet this church is in Maryland.”

We didn’t know what to do. Our legs would not carry us that far. In an instant, we had gone from jubilant, determined protesters to wet and frightened 19-year olds.

With no alternative plan, we kept walking. A few blocks later, we saw some other people coming out of a side street. We asked them if they knew of any place we could go inside, sit, warm up, and rest for a while.

“There’s a church just down the street. They’re friendly. You can go there and rest. They even have coffee.”

We thanked them, picked up our pace and quickly found ourselves at the door of the church. We were welcomed immediately and ushered into a large room filled with chairs and tables.

Some people were eating, others were stretching out their legs while they sat. Still others were singing folk songs and discussing politics. A few were curled up in a corner sleeping. We plunked ourselves down, thankful to be safe and out of the cold. We each began eating one of our box lunches. We were hungry and also wanted to lighten our load.

As we sat in their social hall, a man came up and said he and his wife had room for four. We raised our hands and followed him out. We were rescued. We were blessed. Our energy surged. We were okay. More than okay. Only the realization that I had lost my student I.D. lessened my sense of relief. But I decided to worry about that when I got home.

We soon arrived at a small Cape Cod house in one of the suburbs of D.C. We had no idea where we were geographically, but, we had the feeling that we were home, warm and safe.

I immediately noticed that every appliance and piece of furniture in the kitchen had a lettered sign with the name of the item in English and another language, which I learned was German.

Our host’s wife was from Germany. The signs were there to help their two children grow up bilingual. The husband worked for the U.S. Bureau of Statistics. I hoped he wouldn’t get in trouble for giving sanctuary to protesters.

They showed us to our rooms. That night we slept in feather beds, soft and cozy. Exhausted by the emotions and events of the day, we quickly fell asleep.

Tomorrow would be an adventure we did not want to miss.

Our “foster” father drove us back into D.C. in the morning and let us out near the reflecting pool. By now, we were only toting a couple of the boxed meals. We found ourselves immediately immersed in the moment. We were marching and singing and talking with those around us.

Students had come from all over the country. We met folks from Michigan University, the University of Chicago, Princeton, Purdue, Cornell, Virginia Tech, and the University of Pennsylvania. We hoped that our actions would shorten the war. The air was alive with goodwill. We later learned that we were part of the largest demonstration up to that time, numbering over a half a million.

We were fortunate to be near the Washington Monument when Peter, Paul, and Mary began to sing. We sang with them: “Blowin’ in the Wind,” “The Times They Are a Changing” and “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?”  We sang with joy and a fervor that came from believing we were making a difference. There was a positive spirit. Despite our anger with the powers that kept us in the war, we were filled with the naive belief that our actions could end the war.

The day galloped along as we listened to speakers, shouted in unison to bring the troops home, and tried to take in everything while living in the moment. We were not aware of any large police presence, although they must have stood on the periphery, just in case violence broke out. When the program ended, we all dispersed to our respective means of transportation. The French professor and his girlfriend were waiting for us. We piled into the car and shared our stories and observations. We were tired, but feeling good about the day.

We listened to the news on the car radio. On Friday night, only a few blocks up Connecticut Avenue from where we had turned off to the church, a group called the Weathermen set off some small explosives and started a riot. Had we continued up that street, we would have found ourselves in the middle of a violent protest.

Even the least religious of us said a short prayer of thanks.

 

Monday, we returned to classes. Nothing changed. The war continued for another 6 years. But, at least, for a few months, I felt like I had done something to try to change the world.

A week later, I found an envelope in my mailbox. In it, was my student I.D.