It was the final ERA March, in Washington D.C. I was traveling with a friend, my Heartthrob, and a group of people from Ithaca, whom I really did not know, but who were all committed. Men, women, children, we were on an adventure in history, together, on a bus, going from upstate NY to Washington, D.C., in a single day and night's journey.
It was summer: the worst weather in D.C. (Tropical, without the tropical breezes.) Unsure of what to wear, except that it should be green or white, the tee-shirt and shorts uniform was the preferred garb of the day. When we got off the bus, a sea of human beings dressed mostly in white tee-shirts and sun-glasses, stretched out for miles. Not only from the Capitol Building, but also coming in on every side-street in the city.(We looked, for a second, like sneakered aliens, disembarking from our silver space-ships.)
The Press had predicted a couple hundred-thousand of us. It was summer, it was hot and humid, women and children were less likely to come from far away, or to be actively engaged in a physical protest, etc. Boy, were they ever wrong! Over a million people came to the nation's capital--the first "million person march"--yet, even as it unfolded, the press tried to cover the numbers! (Why?)
Across a green parkway, I heard my name called by a familiar voice: "Minns, is that you?!"
It was Dr. Kate Livingston, my old advisor: brilliant anthropologist, socialist worker and supporter of Indian Rights. She had been one of the reasons I'd committed to Wells College in the first place. (When she quit, because of the politics and narrow-minded views of the college, she had told me NOT to organize any protests or actions: "Some day, we will meet on the street, during a time of revolution--I know you'll be on the right side, Karen!") This was our first reconnection since her leaving the college.
It seemed her vision was coming true! We embraced, after three years of absence, and it was warmer than when we were in class every single day. What were the odds, to bump into her, so far from "home", in the midst of a million protesters? But mysterious, indeed, is the Universe; and so it was.
Immediately, the Flame-of-my-heart was furious! Jealous (even as we were in this on/off point in our relationship), sardonic, cold, my relationship with my ex-Advisor was cast in murky light.
"I just bet she's glad to see you again!" came the first sarcastic remark.
"She's a brilliant person! We're only colleagues--maybe friends--I just admire her..."
"Yeah, I bet you do...seems that the admiration is...mutual..." My Heart-throb walked away from me, blending into the crowd of white-shirted ERA supporters, before I could so much as reply.
I didn't follow.
We were supposed to stay with the group from Ithaca. Our bus was shuttled far from the parade route. When it was time to leave, in late afternoon, we'd be found, as a group, and escorted back, to board. I didn't know Washington, D.C., at that point. And there was only this transformed city in front of me. Taxis, cars, buses--hell, even bikes were having difficulty maneuvering through the crowds. So, I stayed close to the Ithaca Young Socialists sign and its coterie of supporters, hoping my friends would return after their little "side-trip".
Our group waited, trying to find relief in each other's shadows, for hours, until the protest march could untangle itself, like a garden hose. Finally, we were allowed to move into the parade route. It was a glorious sight: the first march in all of U.S. history to feature so many people supporting such a radical (to the conservatives) cause! Rapidly, our group began to chant. I was so full of emotion, my voice carried like a cheerleader! I was thumped on the back, encouraged to go to the head of the group, continue the vociferous call. Soon, the group in front of us, and the one following us, joined us in the rallying cries. (Years later, I've often marched in huge protests: everything from Native rights to anti-racism marches and anti-nuke parades...but that first time in Washington, with a million people on the same page, at that precise moment, together, will always be a peak experience!)
By the time we hit the Capitol steps, my voice was gone--vanished--not even a whisper...
I had never experienced this condition in my entire life! I looked around me for help...Everyone had dispersed when we arrived. Now they were searching out porto-potties and water, or some kind of sustenance. All I could do was to move through the crowd, gesturing like a mute. Luckily, in such a group of people, there was compassion. People actually moved when I tapped them on the shoulder and asked where the water lines might be--in crude pantomime. While it was a bit unnerving, at twenty-one, to be in a city where I knew no one, and couldn't speak, midst a million strangers, and wasn't exactly sure even where I needed to be, I tried to tough it out. Tried not to revert to that terrified five-year-old, lost in a grocery-store, separated from Mom...sigh. (In an era before cell phones or Internet connections, I was a country-rube with limited funds...)
As the day progressed and the brightest speakers emerged on-stage, I kept a close proximity to the public watering spots--and the porto-potties. (Nature doesn't panic...Nature wants what nature wants...). I kept praying that I would recognize someone--or somebody would, me. By now, I knew enough never to leave campus without a twenty dollar bill stuffed into my sneakers, but there was no way to flag down a cab. I wasn't even sure where the buses were parked. I couldn't ask because my voice remained lost. It was clear, my lover had split with my friend, right after meeting Dr. Livingston, and had abandoned me to the young Socialists Party, from Ithaca. (Whether the two of them even marched was debatable.)
I figured, if I couldn't find the buses by myself, in an hour or so, I would need to swallow what little pride I still possessed and find a cop...Ironic, eh? (Long gone were my fantasies of backpacking Europe or exploring Tibet, alone...)
As I wandered through the crowd, a flood of scenes poured through my memory. All of the intense kindnesses; all of the passion; all of the sweet meetings, the gifts, the moments carved between us--which, to me, had defined an on-going relationship. People do not bail out when things get a little complicated, especially not when the relationship, itself, was built from a foundation of complications--did they? But this scenario, of trusting someone enough to travel with them, to an unknown destination, only to have constant dramatic exchange, and then, to be abandoned--especially when it is known that one is the less experienced...Was this a relationship of trust? My Lover had once reveled in being my "Teacher"; celebrating bringing new experiences into my life. I had been sincerely grateful for those experiences--had sincerely tried to share what my youth could offer, in return. (To be dismissed in such a cold way...and by my "friend", too, who was not clear about my secret relationship--what had I done to either of them to deserve this? I never abandoned a friend in an uncertain situation...)
Yes, as an artist, with friends who were also "artists", we needed periods of space and privacy...however, I had never invited anyone anywhere and then dumped them, alone, without a way home--let alone in a different state! This was the second time this had happened...this time, I couldn't even ask for help...
Suddenly, I saw a big sign that stated ITHACA WOMEN'S COLLECTIVE. I didn't know who they were or what their group was about, but I knew they had to be heading back upstate... I pushed my way to their circle. I mouthed the phrase: I've lost my voice--where are the Ithaca buses?
One of the women smiled. Thankfully, she recognized me, from the march. She took me to the edge of the park and pointed down the street, to a huge parking lot, filled with all sorts of small-company vehicles. I gave her a quick hug, hoping I wasn't too sweaty, and jogged to the lot.
Never have I been so happy to see a bus! Amid the hundreds, I found two with "Ithaca, NY" placards. The second was the very bus we'd ridden in, on. Already, it was filling up. Better yet, the driver had been running the air-conditioning. Relieved, I fought back tears, unwilling to let anyone know how miserable I was feeling.
As I entered, someone handed me a root beer and slapped my hand. A quick cheer rose from those inside. "Girl, you were the bomb! You chanted all the way to the Capitol! Go, Girl!"
All I could do was blush.(If they only realized what was in my heart...) Lots of women and men and kids had chanted...Then, at the back, I saw my two, lost "compadres"--seated together, giggling, sipping something from cans.
I made my way to the back of the bus.
My friend looked up, surprised at my arrival:"Hey, uh, we got carried away..."
My Lover added: "Don't lie... the march was hot-- and boring...We peeled off to see the museums...besides, you didn't seem to need us..."
My friend, her own face beet-red, moved from her seat and offered me the vacancy.
Exhausted, emotionally as well as physically, still unable to talk, not even caring if something was brewing between the two of them, just wanting to get back to New York...to a shower and my bed...to a cool lake evening and other friends who would welcome me and want me at their sides...
I slumped in my seat, for the silent ride home.
I pretended to sleep--as did my friends. (We knew it was fake.) As I was climbing off the bus, back at school, one of the women from the Young Socialist Party, in Ithaca, asked me to be on the local radio show, to talk about the march, later in the week. She gave me her card, and a wink and a handshake. "You were inspiring...seriously...we were all running out of adrenalin in that noon sun, but you wouldn't let us forget why were were there...I'd love to have you on the show. Do you think you can make it?"
I nodded, even as my Lover stood behind me, in the bus aisle. (I knew I'd have to find my own ride...)
The streetlights buzzed in the parking lot. The night air was cool. No one said "bye". We simply went our separate ways, depressed and exhausted.
(More alone than I had ever been.) When would I learn?
Should I have realized, long ago, that this relationship was a doomed ship, just edging closer and closer to the rocks? (Should I have never entered that place of honesty--admitting my feelings, not wanting to pretend that there was nothing between us?) Should I have run away, from the first, and shoved truth down, swallowing what was the most overwhelming connection I had ever had with another human? Who had ever prepared me for this event? We were in a secret alliance--us against the world--together--or so I'd been convinced. There was no one to ask and no one to process the betrayal with...It was all a shadow-play. No records; no shared memory.
Was this the price to pay for becoming "an adult"?
I walked to my room, more alone than I'd ever been. Washington seemed a million miles away.
It was summer: the worst weather in D.C. (Tropical, without the tropical breezes.) Unsure of what to wear, except that it should be green or white, the tee-shirt and shorts uniform was the preferred garb of the day. When we got off the bus, a sea of human beings dressed mostly in white tee-shirts and sun-glasses, stretched out for miles. Not only from the Capitol Building, but also coming in on every side-street in the city.(We looked, for a second, like sneakered aliens, disembarking from our silver space-ships.)
The Press had predicted a couple hundred-thousand of us. It was summer, it was hot and humid, women and children were less likely to come from far away, or to be actively engaged in a physical protest, etc. Boy, were they ever wrong! Over a million people came to the nation's capital--the first "million person march"--yet, even as it unfolded, the press tried to cover the numbers! (Why?)
Across a green parkway, I heard my name called by a familiar voice: "Minns, is that you?!"
It was Dr. Kate Livingston, my old advisor: brilliant anthropologist, socialist worker and supporter of Indian Rights. She had been one of the reasons I'd committed to Wells College in the first place. (When she quit, because of the politics and narrow-minded views of the college, she had told me NOT to organize any protests or actions: "Some day, we will meet on the street, during a time of revolution--I know you'll be on the right side, Karen!") This was our first reconnection since her leaving the college.
It seemed her vision was coming true! We embraced, after three years of absence, and it was warmer than when we were in class every single day. What were the odds, to bump into her, so far from "home", in the midst of a million protesters? But mysterious, indeed, is the Universe; and so it was.
Immediately, the Flame-of-my-heart was furious! Jealous (even as we were in this on/off point in our relationship), sardonic, cold, my relationship with my ex-Advisor was cast in murky light.
"I just bet she's glad to see you again!" came the first sarcastic remark.
"She's a brilliant person! We're only colleagues--maybe friends--I just admire her..."
"Yeah, I bet you do...seems that the admiration is...mutual..." My Heart-throb walked away from me, blending into the crowd of white-shirted ERA supporters, before I could so much as reply.
I didn't follow.
We were supposed to stay with the group from Ithaca. Our bus was shuttled far from the parade route. When it was time to leave, in late afternoon, we'd be found, as a group, and escorted back, to board. I didn't know Washington, D.C., at that point. And there was only this transformed city in front of me. Taxis, cars, buses--hell, even bikes were having difficulty maneuvering through the crowds. So, I stayed close to the Ithaca Young Socialists sign and its coterie of supporters, hoping my friends would return after their little "side-trip".
Our group waited, trying to find relief in each other's shadows, for hours, until the protest march could untangle itself, like a garden hose. Finally, we were allowed to move into the parade route. It was a glorious sight: the first march in all of U.S. history to feature so many people supporting such a radical (to the conservatives) cause! Rapidly, our group began to chant. I was so full of emotion, my voice carried like a cheerleader! I was thumped on the back, encouraged to go to the head of the group, continue the vociferous call. Soon, the group in front of us, and the one following us, joined us in the rallying cries. (Years later, I've often marched in huge protests: everything from Native rights to anti-racism marches and anti-nuke parades...but that first time in Washington, with a million people on the same page, at that precise moment, together, will always be a peak experience!)
By the time we hit the Capitol steps, my voice was gone--vanished--not even a whisper...
I had never experienced this condition in my entire life! I looked around me for help...Everyone had dispersed when we arrived. Now they were searching out porto-potties and water, or some kind of sustenance. All I could do was to move through the crowd, gesturing like a mute. Luckily, in such a group of people, there was compassion. People actually moved when I tapped them on the shoulder and asked where the water lines might be--in crude pantomime. While it was a bit unnerving, at twenty-one, to be in a city where I knew no one, and couldn't speak, midst a million strangers, and wasn't exactly sure even where I needed to be, I tried to tough it out. Tried not to revert to that terrified five-year-old, lost in a grocery-store, separated from Mom...sigh. (In an era before cell phones or Internet connections, I was a country-rube with limited funds...)
As the day progressed and the brightest speakers emerged on-stage, I kept a close proximity to the public watering spots--and the porto-potties. (Nature doesn't panic...Nature wants what nature wants...). I kept praying that I would recognize someone--or somebody would, me. By now, I knew enough never to leave campus without a twenty dollar bill stuffed into my sneakers, but there was no way to flag down a cab. I wasn't even sure where the buses were parked. I couldn't ask because my voice remained lost. It was clear, my lover had split with my friend, right after meeting Dr. Livingston, and had abandoned me to the young Socialists Party, from Ithaca. (Whether the two of them even marched was debatable.)
I figured, if I couldn't find the buses by myself, in an hour or so, I would need to swallow what little pride I still possessed and find a cop...Ironic, eh? (Long gone were my fantasies of backpacking Europe or exploring Tibet, alone...)
As I wandered through the crowd, a flood of scenes poured through my memory. All of the intense kindnesses; all of the passion; all of the sweet meetings, the gifts, the moments carved between us--which, to me, had defined an on-going relationship. People do not bail out when things get a little complicated, especially not when the relationship, itself, was built from a foundation of complications--did they? But this scenario, of trusting someone enough to travel with them, to an unknown destination, only to have constant dramatic exchange, and then, to be abandoned--especially when it is known that one is the less experienced...Was this a relationship of trust? My Lover had once reveled in being my "Teacher"; celebrating bringing new experiences into my life. I had been sincerely grateful for those experiences--had sincerely tried to share what my youth could offer, in return. (To be dismissed in such a cold way...and by my "friend", too, who was not clear about my secret relationship--what had I done to either of them to deserve this? I never abandoned a friend in an uncertain situation...)
Yes, as an artist, with friends who were also "artists", we needed periods of space and privacy...however, I had never invited anyone anywhere and then dumped them, alone, without a way home--let alone in a different state! This was the second time this had happened...this time, I couldn't even ask for help...
Suddenly, I saw a big sign that stated ITHACA WOMEN'S COLLECTIVE. I didn't know who they were or what their group was about, but I knew they had to be heading back upstate... I pushed my way to their circle. I mouthed the phrase: I've lost my voice--where are the Ithaca buses?
One of the women smiled. Thankfully, she recognized me, from the march. She took me to the edge of the park and pointed down the street, to a huge parking lot, filled with all sorts of small-company vehicles. I gave her a quick hug, hoping I wasn't too sweaty, and jogged to the lot.
Never have I been so happy to see a bus! Amid the hundreds, I found two with "Ithaca, NY" placards. The second was the very bus we'd ridden in, on. Already, it was filling up. Better yet, the driver had been running the air-conditioning. Relieved, I fought back tears, unwilling to let anyone know how miserable I was feeling.
As I entered, someone handed me a root beer and slapped my hand. A quick cheer rose from those inside. "Girl, you were the bomb! You chanted all the way to the Capitol! Go, Girl!"
All I could do was blush.(If they only realized what was in my heart...) Lots of women and men and kids had chanted...Then, at the back, I saw my two, lost "compadres"--seated together, giggling, sipping something from cans.
I made my way to the back of the bus.
My friend looked up, surprised at my arrival:"Hey, uh, we got carried away..."
My Lover added: "Don't lie... the march was hot-- and boring...We peeled off to see the museums...besides, you didn't seem to need us..."
My friend, her own face beet-red, moved from her seat and offered me the vacancy.
Exhausted, emotionally as well as physically, still unable to talk, not even caring if something was brewing between the two of them, just wanting to get back to New York...to a shower and my bed...to a cool lake evening and other friends who would welcome me and want me at their sides...
I slumped in my seat, for the silent ride home.
I pretended to sleep--as did my friends. (We knew it was fake.) As I was climbing off the bus, back at school, one of the women from the Young Socialist Party, in Ithaca, asked me to be on the local radio show, to talk about the march, later in the week. She gave me her card, and a wink and a handshake. "You were inspiring...seriously...we were all running out of adrenalin in that noon sun, but you wouldn't let us forget why were were there...I'd love to have you on the show. Do you think you can make it?"
I nodded, even as my Lover stood behind me, in the bus aisle. (I knew I'd have to find my own ride...)
The streetlights buzzed in the parking lot. The night air was cool. No one said "bye". We simply went our separate ways, depressed and exhausted.
(More alone than I had ever been.) When would I learn?
Should I have realized, long ago, that this relationship was a doomed ship, just edging closer and closer to the rocks? (Should I have never entered that place of honesty--admitting my feelings, not wanting to pretend that there was nothing between us?) Should I have run away, from the first, and shoved truth down, swallowing what was the most overwhelming connection I had ever had with another human? Who had ever prepared me for this event? We were in a secret alliance--us against the world--together--or so I'd been convinced. There was no one to ask and no one to process the betrayal with...It was all a shadow-play. No records; no shared memory.
Was this the price to pay for becoming "an adult"?
I walked to my room, more alone than I'd ever been. Washington seemed a million miles away.
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