No Runs, No Hits, No Errors…No Kings??

Hello,

Notice my subtle use of a baseball tie-in? It is after all MLB’s playoff season. Kudos to Toronto along with my sympathies to Seattle. They have the sole distinction of never having played in a World Series. Hang in there. Next year, perhaps. Toronto is the only non-American team to have played and won back-to-back World Series in 1992 and 1993. W-O-R-L-D Series. Hmmm.

Okay. No Kings!

Forced to cut short our grandson’s flag football double-header due to bracing winds and a plunging temperature, I dropped Deborah at home (she hates the wind), and I made my way to Longmont, Colorado’s second No Kings Rally. I was late, but hardly alone as numerous others, signs in hand, costumes adorned and a sense of purpose in their stride were making their way to the staging area. I lucked out with parking, securing a spot on the park’s perimeter. A brisk walk led me to a mostly empty designated assembly point. The protesters had made there way to the city’s main street a block away. There was no missing the noisy presence of thousands of people yelling, chanting, and singing their messages of discontent. A continuous line of traffic honked their solidarity with the marchers.

I entered the thick of it, then paused to take it all in.  After all, my protesting days ended decades ago and I was out of practice. Formal, organized protesting that is. I’m frequently accused of complaining about one thing or another, but rarely take to the streets to verbalize my annoyances with…whatever. Although I took part in several marches, protests, and rallies during the late 60’s and early 70’s, the one that remains most prominent in my mind is the 1969 March on Washington. That was part of a larger initiative known as the Moratorium to End the War in Vietnam. The first phase took place on October 15, 1969 with anti-war protests across many American cities and numerous college campuses, the largest being in Boston with over 100,000 demonstrators.

The second phase of the Moratorium, the March on Washington, took place November 15, 1969. I had just begun my freshman year at Alfred Tech, a month after returning from Woodstock. Rather than traveling to Washington with my new classmates from Alfred, I instead joined a contingent of students and teachers leaving from GCC (Genessee Community College) in my home town of Batavia, NY. I suppose I was a little homesick anyway.

We arrived in our nation’s capital just in time for Friday night’s (October 14^th) “March Against Death”. A somber affair indeed. Thousands of us walked in a single line down Pennsylvania Avenue carrying a placard with the name of an American soldier killed in Viet Nam, from the state in which we both resided. The other hand held a candle. Silence was broken at the gates of the White House to shout out his name. Nixon was inside at the time and later that night famously visited with protesters sleeping inside the Lincoln Memorial. The placards were placed in coffins at the US Capitol, then delivered to the White House the next day during the main march. Ultimately, the name of the soldier on the placard I carried would join those of over 58,000 other fallen soldiers engraved on the walls of the Viet Nam War Memorial dedicated in 1982. I am sorry to say I do not remember the name of that one soldier.

Saturday morning dawned bright with crisp temperatures. A perfect day for over 500,000 of us to descend on the White House, the Mall and just about every government building in the District of Columbia. I do not recall my exact route during the march. But the photos I took and posted here indicate my being in a few memorable locations. Although my geographic senses may have dulled, I clearly remember two things:

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  First, when marching toward the White House I could see that it was surrounded by buses, parked bumper to bumper. Presumedly for security purposes. The image I took near the Treasury Building also includes these same buses and now leads me to believe they extended for multiple blocks, creating a larger buffer than I previously thought. Tricky Dick.
• Secondly, as my section of the march began dispersing, having made our way past the White House and voicing our opposition to the Viet Nam war, I began drifting with the masses toward Dupont Circle. It was mid afternoon and with a group of perhaps 100 others we began following a herd of around 50 loud, fast-moving protesters. A few wore helmets, some had sticks and at least one was beating a drum. No flutes. They were members of the Weathermen, a radical faction that emerged from the Students for a Democratic Society (SDS). They began throwing rocks and smashing windows along one of the side streets leading to Dupont Circle. They were navigating one side of the street and we the other, keeping a safe distance between us. We paused in what seemed like a small park-like area and watched in amazement. I had never witnessed such vandalism on this grand a scale. Catholic boy from a small town as you know.

Suddenly 15 to 20 Police cars came screaming onto the scene in an area between our two groups (protesters and violent protesters). Numerous cops jumped from their vehicles sporting gas masks and carrying weapons. They trained their tear-gas guns on the Weathermen as their Chief, bullhorn in hand, ordered them to disperse. Then without warning, as if that were the usual protocol, the policemen pivoted and aimed their guns at us. Whoa! Hold on. We’re the good guys here. Apparently not to the police. They did not know who was who nor did they care. These simply wanted everyone out of the area. I left as did most of the others from my side of the street, taking care to remain upwind, just in case.