To the barricades -- patiently, part two

Me and a couple other big fellas were designated stretcher-bearers. A message came to someone with a walkie-talkie that the ambulances had arrived. We picked up our litter and headed outside, not quite sure what we'd find. Our patient was a kid like us, looking small and innocent with a bloody white towel pressed to his head.

Two cops flanked the ambulances. They told us to leave the kid and the blanket and get the hell out of there. We were good at following orders. Inside, we grabbed the next wounded and headed for another ambulance. The cops were gone and the EMTs told us to load our patient. We did as were told. Unbeknownst to us, a newspaper photographer was documenting the scene. We did our job and hurried back inside. 

Once we stretcher-bearers delivered our wounded to ambulances, cops screamed that we better get inside or get our heads busted. At that very moment, cops were rampaging through the dorms knocking skulls. I just returned to the aid station and waited. For some reason, the police left us alone or didn’t know we were there. When things seemed calmer, we drifted away to find some shelter. I walked across the street and headed to my dorm on the other end of campus. A lone armed National Guardsman waited by the cross street. I asked him if I could make it back to my dorm about a quarter-mile away. He was thoughtful. “You might make it but no guarantee.” He looked like my younger brother Dan. 

I skittered over to my friend’s place at the PIKA House. The Pikes had watched the action from their balcony and drained a couple kegs in the process. I slept on the floor and made tracks at dawn. It was a beautiful spring morning in Columbia. I saw no cops or Guardsmen. The littered streets, gleaming with spent canisters and glass shards, had been swept clean. I had to hand it to the USC administration, more effective in riot-cleansing than in making it easy to register for classes.

When I settled into my dorm cafeteria and opened the morning paper, I saw myself in a big photo above the fold. Uh oh, I said to my grits. 

"What's up?" asked my dorm R.A. Nice guy but one of the senior NROTC officers. 

Nothin'. Just reading about all the news from last night. 

He took a closer look at the photo and said, "fuckin' hippies." 

"Yeah," was about all I could muster. He left and I felt like collapsing into my breakfast. The tallest guy in the photo was me. I wore a bandana on my head, a long sleeve shirt, and bell bottoms I fashioned from regular jeans, sewing some psychedelic fabric into the cuff to give it some flair. It was me. Nobody would know unless I told them. So I kept my secret.

A  few days later I hopped in a van with friends and we drove to the big D.C. demonstrations. A massive crowd, mainly peaceful. My fellow students were hyped up by the event’s vibes. Some were arrested blocking streets and putting up a barricade at the Key Bridge. I stayed away. I was there and not there. I was against the war, mainly any chance I had flying to Ton Son Knut. I didn’t really know the bigger picture and still don’t after decades studying U.S. history. Campuses all over the country had erupted that week. Outside agitators were suspected. Jane Fonda had brought the fight to USC and other campuses. I went to D.C. the following spring for the May Day demos, “Days of Rage.” My friend Rick was arrested for blocking traffic and herded like cattle into RFK Stadium with hundreds of others. I was at the Washington Monument, tripping and listening to the bands who played all night.

We were trying to figure things out along with other Boomer kids who also were there for a good time. There was no future but only a now. We didn’t think ahead to repercussions.

These past weeks, students at Columbia, Arizona State, University of Florida and others have been in the same boat. They seek a better world and a good time, as did I. That is made harder by the militarization of our police.

What they haven’t learned yet is how damn hard it is to make a real difference in the world. It takes lifetimes.