When Protesters Were in Flower

The mob of protesters washed by me on the campus green like a wave of random rumbling bodies with vacant eyes. I barely understood what was at stake. I was busy impressing my professors with my ability to intuit what they wanted me to say. My sisters and I had been so carefully shielded from any sort of conflict by my insecure parents that I had only a vague idea of the Vietnam War and the dreaded draft. What I knew I learned from the TV series MASH, because what we heard elsewhere was often tailored. Protests were an anomaly I didn’t understand. I laughed when I read in my university resident assistant manual that in case of a riot, I was supposed to stand at the entrance to the green by myself and encourage the mindless, destructive mob to return to their rooms. Really?

And then two American students were killed at Kent State University by National Guardsmen only miles from where I was studying. The sounds of machine gun fire and clouds of smoke surrounded my dormitory at Ohio University. This wasn’t a protest; it was a riot. “Townies” came armed to kill “hippies,” and young guardsmen pointed their guns as they charged into the middle. I stopped laughing. I was glad to go home to receive my diploma by mail without formally graduating. I’m not proud to say I never protested. I was too self-absorbed and ignorant. My parents wanted me to stay safe, be a good girl.

I’ve participated in several small, peaceful protests in recent years when I no longer bear the burden of meeting the role model expectations of an educational administration. How can anyone feel incensed by a peaceful demonstration/expression that should be protected by the Constitution? (Some are infuriated, of course.) I admire the gigantic demonstrations staged in urban areas. I can’t guess how effective they are in changing power motivated policy, but they have to be noticed as a movement by the masses.

My first and perhaps only political accomplishment lay in convincing a single couple that Sarah Palin was not well qualified for the White House—especially one heartbeat from the top job. I felt alarmed that she could be a serious choice by either party. Surely John McCain knew better. She was the vanguard of an approaching reality. Otherwise, I don’t know that I ever made a noticeable difference.

Today, since my husband and I live rurally, we post signs, but we’re senior enough that we think long and hard about joining new protests. My husband has a far different history from mine. He experienced riots from the law enforcement side. He no longer believes risking fresh skin cancers or further damage to our eyesight in the punishing sun for a small statement is worthwhile. He takes the occasional violent madness of anti-protestors very seriously. I can’t say I always agree. But I know that seeing numbers of diverse people you respect as they stand up, willing to expose themselves to the violent ire of the unbalanced, can be persuasive. We should admire bravery and self-restraint. Once people begin suspecting they’re on the wrong side of common sense or goodness, whatever you’re doing to help their vision clear is helpful. So-called bad guys never believe they’re wrong, but that doesn’t mean they deserve to be followed. No one wants to feel foolish or evil.

Our way of life and all we hold dear are in danger and many of us know it. Protesting becomes necessary when serious, truthful, fair negotiation ceases to be an option, but protesting can have different guises—even humor. We have no choice but to disagree if we want to maintain the values of our nation plus our own integrity—be against fascism, cruelty, and corruption. We want to rattle the cages of good people who’ve been duped and hope they suddenly realize the quicksand sucking their virtue down.