Project 1968

In the News: July 15, 1968

No Repeats

July 15, 1968
by Amy

I don't want to work on the Permitting Committee. It brings up terrible memories from April, when we all got screwed by Dick Daley and his merry men. I don't want to deal with forms, the Sanitation Department, meetings with squares and city men who scowl at me. I don't think that's too much to ask. Viva la revolucion, except when it comes to that. My wrist hurts every time a rainstorm comes close to Chicago. April sucked, and I don't want a repeat of it.

Glasses tells me, quietly, that it won't be a repeat. He's trying to give me confidence, despite every appearance that we're being blocked by the city. Again.

Little Toe from the Yips called to meet me in the park. She asked me how things were going at my end, because the Yips are having problems with the city. She wanted to know if Glasses would be open to going in together and dealing with Daley that way. I had no idea. Glasses can get weird about the Yips. He's often said that he doesn't like their rhetoric. The Yips fuck with reality too much, and bureaucrats can't handle it.

Not everyone feels that way. I certainly don't, though I can understand it. Dad doesn't get their sense of humor. He thinks they're juvenile.

Glasses said that Tom will probably go over to talk to the Yips. Maybe even the city itself since no one is returning our phone calls. He's also getting a jump on contacting the ACLU. They have a preliminary meeting tonight. Just in case....

Alone on a Sunday

July 14, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

I went to church alone today. Baby John must have gone to an earlier Mass. Becca hasn’t been to church in months. She’s staying with Craig now, so I spend a great deal of time by myself. It’s alright, though I wish it wasn’t that way.

It’s good to be alone. It gives me time to think about everything that’s happened and everything that might happen for the rest of the year.

After Mass, I went out to breakfast at a neighborhood diner. The place was filled with church-going couples, mostly older folks. They looked so sweet, drinking coffee and chatting with each other. It made me feel like I was back in the old days, maybe the 1940s after the war. I tried to imagine what it would feel like. Then I thought of my parents, and then I thought about how I haven’t called them in a long time. Then I felt guilty.

Then I wondered why we couldn’t be a part of their society. Why they have a right to tell us how to behave, when our life isn’t anything like theirs. Craig would say that we’ve inherited an imperfect world, and it’s our job to perfect it. We have to make it better.

I don’t blame them for being imperfect. Unlike Becca, I don’t know if they could’ve done anything about segregation or poverty or the war. After all, they had their own wars to fight. But I don’t see why they should stop us from changing things, from making things better. And I don’t understand why they’re angry about it.

In the News: July 14, 1968

In the News: July 13, 1968

A Counter Spy

July 13, 1968
by Amy

The spy is in place. I don’t know how it happened, and Glasses would prefer not to talk about it. The room was filled with people. Artists and writers constructing fliers. Lesley was standing over by the files.

Glasses passed me a note: “Ssshhhh! We got our boy. Information will come our way. Until victory always. Set fire when done.”

I understood exactly what it meant because I know what Glasses means. But set fire when done? Surely he didn’t mean that. I must have flashed him a look because he soon dropped a matchbook on my desk.

So I did what I was told. As quietly as possible, I went to the ladies room. I struck a match and set fire to the note. When the last of it burnt, I dropped it in the toilet.

It’s hard not to wonder about the details. But I also know that it’s best to stay out of it.

Favorite Sons

July 12, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

Our new job isn’t going well, at least not for me. Becca and I are working a telephone hotline where The Senator’s workers can call in and get information. The calls are usually for questions about the convention, but every now and then, we get a phone call about the process itself.

Remember back in New Hampshire, when I said that I had no idea about delegates and what they do? We get those types of calls, often quite a bit.

For example, a man from Arizona called today to ask about “favorite sons.” He wanted to know if I could explain why there is such a thing and did the Democratic Party have anything in place so that the convention wouldn’t be tied up with such nonsense.

Now how am I supposed to answer that? I’m not the Democratic Party. I’m just a girl from Wisconsin. I know there is such a thing as favorite sons at the convention, but I don’t know what they do.

Since I didn’t know, I tried to make it up. Which is very bad, I understand. If you don’t know something, you should never try to pretend you do, except on a test or exam. Then you should at least guess an answer.

So I told the caller that favorite sons would kept to a minimum at the convention because the favorite sons would gather together at the end and elect someone. Then he asked me who they’d elect and for what. I didn’t know, so I told him that they would elect a most favorite son. That’s who they’d elect, the most favorite son.

He was more puzzled then ever, but at least I got him off the phone. I wish I didn’t have to guess at these things, but the campaign doesn’t have any literature to train us. There’s no Election 101 Booklet and everyone seems to think that we know everything. I don’t, but I don’t want to get fired so it’s better to guess. I hope I did the right thing.

In the News: July 12, 1968

In the News: July 10, 1968

Spies and Narcs

July 10, 1968
by Amy

There is so much work to be done. We now have clusters of committees around our office. Several artists hang out during the day, smoking cigarettes and drawing flyers. Today, one of them went to light up a joint. Glasses quickly put a stop to it.

We know we’re being watched now. It’s hard to ignore the narcs who come through the door. We don’t confront them. Instead, we put them to work and watch to see if they’ll blow their cover. In particular, we’re looking for eye contact. Say, if one narc gives a peculiar look to someone else in the room.

That is what happened today. We have one guy who started showing up this week. He says that his name is Bill and that he’s a student at University of Chicago. But his hair is a little too short and he holds a cigarette like a g-man from the movies. No one else on staff has caught on. Glasses and I are hoping no one does.

It was cool to spy on the narcs. It made me feel like them, for once. Glasses and I decided that we have to figure out a way to throw their methods back them. Instead of allowing ourselves to be spied upon, we have to do the spying. We have to figure out who stole our files, and who the spies are in the office.

I wonder if we can find someone to infiltrate them.

In the News: July 9, 1968

New Assignment

July 9, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

We haven’t seen Baby John in several days, which makes me sad. He’s now spending time with a D.C. poverty project. I think he’s moved in to their boarding house as well. He was discouraged by our efforts being wasted. At least that’s what he called it.

I don’t feel as wasted anymore. The campaign is inefficient, true, but I can’t complain any longer. For the month of July, we’re going to help out on the election question hotline. This is a special line that delegates, volunteers and staff can call into if they have any questions. I’m so excited about it.

Plus, it means that we’ll get to meet people instead of staying in a conference room folding brochures. Which is especially good because my fingers were getting too many paper cuts.

Convention Plans

July 8, 1968
by Amy

It’s all about the convention now. Committees, more volunteers and plans. We need marshals and parade routes mapped out. Press people to put out the call and artists to make the signs.

Most importantly, we need everyone to get along with everyone else.

Which is not happening, of course. Have you ever seen peace activists have a civil disagreement? Me neither. Coleman and Bea are engaged in a silent war, giving each other dirty looks. Everyone else is pretending that they don’t see what’s happening, which is making it worse. When I complained to Glasses about it, he said that I should ignore it. After all, our challenges are far more important than petty in-fighting.

A minister connected with the Rangers has announced that his community plans on disrupting the convention and possibly even breaking down the door to the Amphitheater.

Glasses told the newspapers that there will be a million people outside the convention. Have I mentioned that we need to coordinate housing and food for all those people?

If we don’t do it, there’s no one else who will.

In the News: July 8, 1968

Sermons Not Profound

July 7, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

During church today, we heard a sermon comparing servicemen entering the military to the Apostles leaving their lives for Jesus. I was horrified. Baby John had the same reaction. His face lost all color. I knew if we made eye contact, we would’ve made a mutual on-the-spot decision to walk out of church.

He sighed and picked up his rosary. Then he prayed, ignoring the rest of the sermon.

I couldn’t stand listening to it, so instead, I looked around at the rest of the parishioners. It was easy to see who they were. They worked in Washington. They have never been to Indiana or Wisconsin or New Hampshire. It made me sad, to think that our country is being held hostage by people who really don’t know us. And we really don’t have much of a say in what happens here.

I remember when I started working for The Senator, how excited Becca and I were. Now, Becca is all but married to Craig. I still go to church, but I’m stuck here wondering if the past seven months wasn’t an exercise in futility. I don’t want to think that.

After church, Baby John and I took a long walk. He began to cry. At first, he didn’t want me to see. He kept turning his head. I told him it was okay. I had the same reaction to the sermon.

He shook his head and said that he was a child of God first; an America second. And there was nothing Christ-like about what is happening to our country.

Crispus and Crackers

July 6, 1968
by Amy

I had the unfortunate pleasure of being called a dopehead hippie two nights ago. Coleman and I went out for a picnic and to see fireworks over the Lake. My hair is long and Coleman’s is not quite to his shoulders yet.

Some cracker with a beer gut hanging over his chinos began talking real loudly about how hippies shouldn’t be allowed to watch fireworks. We thought this was remarkably funny because anyone can watch fireworks. They’re up in the sky, asshole. Then the guy shouted that all gooks should die. His wife or girlfriend tried to grab him by the pants and yank him back to the ground. I thought he was going to come over and start a fight.

That’s when a policeman came over and gave us the eyeball because he thought we were causing the trouble. We looked away and ignored the whole situation. The cop settled the cracker down and told him that if he didn’t straighten up, he was going to go sit in a police car for a while.

I’m sure Crispus Attucks is wondering why the hell he fought for that idiot. Or what the hell happened to his country since.

The Remnants of Resurrection City

July 6, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

We went to see the remnants of Resurrection City. You would’ve thought that we would’ve gotten there already. It wasn’t that far away from the office, but no. You can’t miss the top of the Capitol Dome, and if you are busy looking up, you won’t see the remaining poor people gathered on the ground.

Other people milled about, walking along the freshly exposed dirt. It made the air smell musty. You can still see the deeply embedded tracks from the bull-dozers.

I couldn’t help but wonder if the people who took part in all this were the same people who were at the March on Washington. It seems to me that bad elements have taken over.

Craig says that the same people have taken part all along; they are just angrier. If you’ve been demanding change for so long, working hard for it, and nothing changes, wouldn’t you get frustrated?

And if you add hunger to that equation…

That was Craig’s argument. I think the problem with hunger is that it weakens people and makes them more vulnerable. Hungry people will do anything for food and they will listen to terrible dictators, like Hitler. All common sense goes away.

I think Baby John would’ve agreed, but he decided to meet with a poverty project this morning. He says he’s tired of sitting in a room in Washington, not doing anything. Time is too precious to waste. The country is falling apart.

Fireworks and Fear

July 5, 1968 by Janine Stephenson
We had a lovely July 4th, albeit a somewhat boring one. The Senator had a campaign stop the night before, and then he went back to Minnesota for a short vacation. Since Ron has become an “aide” for the summer campaign, he stayed here in Washington.

Craig, Baby John, Becca and I walked near the famous Cherry Trees before settling down for dinner at a restaurant. Becca and I had to dress nicely for eating, since restaurants here are used to getting harassed by hippies. They won’t serve you if you don’t look right.

That is a form of discrimination, I think, but hippies are notorious for not paying their bills and leaving a mess behind. The hippies we’ve met on the campaign have been quite considerate and pleasant. I have no doubt that they would pay their bills, if they owed money. But the thing about hippies is that they would make sure that they didn’t buy anything to begin with.

After dinner, we went to see fireworks over the Washington Monument. It was beautiful, but it also made me feel very melancholy.

I wish it was 1965, when everything seemed good. People were still sad, but we all felt safe at least. Now, it feels like everything is falling apart. I don’t know what life will look like months from now. Riots, murders… All of it. How will this country survive? Are we every going to stop fighting with each other?

What if there is no country next year? Are people going to start killing each other, like they did in the Civil War? Are we going to be safe in our own homes? How many people do I know who will die in the war?

But what scares me the most is this: We have no control. The people we elect lie to us. No one can be trusted. How can we vote for men who lie to us?

We have no say in what happens to us. And that goes against everything I’ve ever learned about America.

In the News: July 3, 1968

Thinking about the Break-in

July 3, 1968

by Amy

Glasses and I are keeping quiet about the office break-in. He directly asked me not to breathe a word of it, so I haven't. Instead, I spent the day looking around to see if anything else was missing. When people turned their backs, I checked to see if our volunteer files were still there; which they were. Our petty cash hasn't been robbed. No other vital things missing. Keys to important locks, equipment - it's all still there.

Glasses asked if, without making it obvious, I could see if someone "borrowed" the missing files. So I checked with Lesley and Bea, the only two others who would've known the location of those files. They said they hadn't taken them anywhere. Maybe Glasses took them home to do some work. I covered and said that they were right. He obviously took them. Forget it.

When everyone finally left, Glasses and I checked the door for evidence of a break-in. There isn't one. No crowbar marks, and the lock doesn't look like it's been picked. We chatted about suspicious volunteers until the conversation turned into gossip.

We don't want to alarm anyone. He thinks that the office bug conversation set everyone on edge anyway. There's no need to talk about break-ins unless someone actually broke-in, and we can't verify it. Both of us think that it might be the Red Squad, but neither of us wants to appear overly paranoid. He would hate to think it was someone who is working for us. Me too.

I think the only way to know if someone is spying on us is to set up a dummy file with false information. He liked the idea and asked me to think about it further.

In the News: July 1, 1968

Stolen Files

July 1, 1968
by Amy

Our files have been taken. Not all of our files, but a good many of them. We've always been afraid of something like that happening, but like everything else, we didn't think it would actually happen. Glasses discovered the theft this morning. He estimates that our donor files, some correspondence with groups in other cities and, of course, convention notes. All gone.

The first thing he has to do is report it to the Board. This involves phone calls, which he didn't want to make at our office. We went back to my pad, so he could use my phone. He's concerned about phone taps. I asked him if he needed privacy, but he said no. I overheard several calls, each repeating the same thing: Donor list, member list, maps of convention sites and correspondences with the Civil Liberties Union - gone.

We do have mimeos of some files. After all, it would be foolish not to have that. Recreating other files will be a hassle - and I will most likely be in charge of that. I'm not looking forward to it.

Right now, I'm too stunned to deal with the utter feeling of violation. I imagine it will come, coupled with outrage.

Glasses and I made a pact that we wouldn't tell anyone else about the theft. The reason? There was no sign of break-in. The door was locked, like always, when he arrived this morning. In fact, we're not even sure it happened last night/this morning. It could've happened on Saturday. We really don't know.

He's got plenty of thinking to do about how we should handle this problem. Hopefully, the Board will have some insight.

Still Hiding at National

June 30, 1968

by Janine Stephenson

Who knew that an important place could be so boring? I called Mom collect last night and told her that we were having a wonderful time here in Washington. I told her that Becca and I had learned a great deal about how this country works, and that we're very proud to be a part of The Senator's National Staff. She said that they were all so proud of me and that I had grown up quite a bit over the past few months. She could tell because I don't call her as much as I used to, and though she wishes I could call more, she understands that I'm an adult. Have I found a boyfriend yet?

Her question made me think of Benjamin, who I haven't written or called since leaving Indiana. I wonder if he thinks about me at all anymore. Becca said that last month isn't so long ago and that I should drop a dime and call him. Or a note, a postcard. Anything. But then I told her about what happened with his family, and how they didn't want us seeing each other at all. Her eyes grew very wide. She kept shaking her head and saying, "Screw them."

I don't think that's right. I don't think I could disregard their fears, which were very real. I just don't know if sending a postcard would get his hopes up.

Baby John says that, from the sound of things, Benjamin liked how I could get him out of his circumstances. People living in poverty often dream of winning the lottery or marrying their way out of their misery. While that might be true for poor people, Benjamin had a steady job. I don't think he was poor; not in the way Baby John thinks.

So that's what we talked about yesterday. In fact, that's all we do at National. We're talking and we're hiding out. Ron told us that we might get a job, talking to other people. Maybe working a phone bank. Part of me still feels useless, though seeing Ron's smile lifts my spirits.

At least we're not in a rough space like Craig, who is forced to follow Ron around from meeting to meeting.

We're staying at a hotel with other volunteers. The hotel is nothing fancy, though I am grateful that it's not a dorm room. I just wish we could be more useful to the campaign.

Our time will come.

Saying No

June 28, 1968
by Amy

Bea pitched a fit. I guess it was predictable. She's infinitely more aware and conscious than we are. She said that taking our clothes off at the demonstration would be akin to spreading our legs for peace. Why do it?

Nothing good can come from degradation. There's nothing positive about humiliating ourselves. It won't make them take us seriously. In fact, the only reason we would do something like that would be for the enjoyment of men in the movement. And any fucker who enjoys seeing a woman humiliate herself like that deserves to have his balls taken from him. Literally.

When we went back to Glasses and Coleman to tell them no, Glasses kind of shrugged and said it was a bad idea anyway. But Coleman wouldn't let up on it. "Who told you not to do it, Bea? She's just jealous of you." And on and on and on. He was really pissed about it. I told him that if he really wanted to see a woman go topless in public, I knew of a good strip joint where Lenny Bruce once appeared. He could certainly get an eyeful for the right amount of money.

So there it is. Bea, Lesley and I made a pact that we would meet with each other before considering any other action like that. We're also going to keep an eye on how they treat the girl volunteers. It's counter-revolutionary and illogical to pass oppression along to other folks.

Stripping for Peace

June 27, 1968

by Amy

Coleman and Glasses think that we (Bea, Lesley and me) should go to the Induction Center tomorrow and undress in protest. In their minds, they believe stripping would distract cops and young boys appearing in front of the draft board.

At first, I didn't think they were serious, but they are. Coleman says that Bea is too flat chested to be truly effective, but since Lea and I are stacked we could put ourselves to good use.

I don't know how I feel about this. I don't know what we should do. Lesley thinks we should agree to do it, because we'd be using our special skills to help stop the war.

I don't know if all this is in response to the Yips and all their hijinks. Under normal circumstances, Glasses wouldn't entertain this kind of idea because he thinks that the Yips have made things difficult for the rest of us. But then, sometimes he feels badly that we end up getting criticized for not being any fun. He would like people to know that we're not stuffy like Progressive Labor.

I understand all this, but I'm just not sure. Lesley and I told them that we'd think about it. Coleman asked if it was because we were afraid. "Baby, I'd never let anybody hurt you," he kept saying to me. "I won't let anybody attack you or anything."

But that's not the problem. I don't relish the idea of a bunch of strangers seeing me naked. I don't know of any woman - besides a slut - who would get excited about it.

Lesley thinks we could do it, but I want to talk to Bea first. We'll see what she says.

Stranded at National

June 27, 1968

by Janine Stephenson

I find Washington to be a drag. It's dull and white and too self-important. It's also very exciting being around power. So I guess that makes me confused.

We're sitting here in the national McCarthy headquarters. The air conditioning is running high, which makes the office cold and barren. Whereas before, when we were surrounded by heat and sweat and young people who serenated us while we stuffed envelopes, now it's cold and professional. It's also too quiet. People talk in whispers, as if they're afraid of disturbing the peace.

It's all very serious. Baby John thinks that he hasn't brought the appropriate clothes for a place like this. I'm inclined to agree. He does look quite dumpy, even though he's from California. Not hippie-dumpy, but grubby dumpy. There is a difference. Someone here would think that Baby John's dirty. Really, all he needs to do is take assemble himself correctly. For instance, he probably should wear the same color socks. Whenever I've asked him about this, he tells me that there are somethings that are more important than socks. While that's certainly true, it doesn't take away from the idea that if he can't pay attention to his own feet, then how will he know where he's going?

So we sit here at National Headquarters where everyone is serious and older and far wiser than us and debate whether or not socks should match each other. We talk in whispers and try not to create a scene or make noise or be noticeable. Even Becca is quiet, which is quite a change because she's usually pretty loud and racuous. She brings a magazine to read and then slips it into a U.S. News & World Report, so it looks like she's studying world events.

When I see Ron - if I see Ron - he has his business face on. The last time I tried to talk to him while he looked like that, he told me that I should be a dear and leave him alone. He didn't say it exactly like that, but you get the idea. It was thoroughly unpleasant. Craig spends most of his time being Ron's assistant, which means working on special projects. They have yet to figure out anything special for the rest of us.

Which is funny, in a way. It's our campaign, but as Baby John says, our campaign isn't in this building.

Excitement and Dread

June 25, 1968
by Amy

There's a feeling of excitement coupled with dread. The vibes are off and then they're on again. I can go into Grant Park right now and find ten people who swear they're going to the convention. They aren't leaving the city... Oh no. They're definitely there and, in fact, we should all come too. But then there's this rumor...

That's how it goes. Everyone's coming but they've heard a rumor that there's going to be some kind of violence. Usually something preposterous like sex gas, which is a certain kind of tear gas that makes you want to have sex with the people around you. There is no such thing, as far as we've heard. And then, there's the rumor about the cops emitting an atrocious noise that will make you piss your pants involuntarily. That discussion sparked a debate as to whether it would just make you piss or if it would make you do something far more sinister in your underwear.

Most of these are scare tactics. Coleman is full of them. "Did you hear the latest..." I've taken to tuning him out. It's the only way.

Mostly I wish the Yips would hang loose on their rhetoric. Glasses won't say it, but he wishes the same thing. Daley's goons are trying to pin us down on their statements to the papers. We're trying to spread the word that we're two different groups. The Yips want Lincoln Park. It's not the same thing.

(Though I have to admit, it is funny how tied the city gets everytime the Yips talk to the papers. Disguising Yip girls as sex pots to seduce delegates is my favorite, though it makes Bea crazy to hear it. The only reason it makes me smile is that I keep picturing Little Toe having sex with a square from Cleveland. Funny, though I know it's counter-revolutionary.)

Dad called me last night to tell me that he's feeling the pinch, the slow turning of a large knob. He feels that he's a victim of it, but he's not sure how or why. Maybe it's time to introduce him to my good friend, Mary Jane. Though with the way things are going, he might already have her phone number.

Arriving in D.C.

June 25, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

The only thing we could see for miles were the white buildings. Everything here is white. It looks Roman, I think, and Craig says that's the point. Everything is based on something else, only we call it our own.

The area around all the white buildings is despicable. Poor, run-down, they are still recovering from the April riots. Baby John said it was 'deplorable.'

How can human beings live like that? How can we stand by and allow people in our own country to live like that? We watched a couched being dumped out of third story windows. The tenements are beaten down and the residents are beaten up. Baby John says that it's like that in every city, not just D.C. Maybe it's just me, but the irony of seeing the God-forsaken surrounding all those white buildings is just too much. Symptomatic of what's wrong with the country.

If more people saw what we did, then they'd understand. Too bad that will never happen. As soon as we got to Virginia, we kept hearing people say things like, "Those people like living that way."

That's just not logical, though it is certainly Darwinian.

- Intermission -

(For both girls and the project, this is where intermission takes place. It won't last long. In fact, it will be quite short.

Intermissions are the only reason why you will see me commenting on this front page.

Storywise, Janine is arriving in Washington D.C. Amy is about to receive some troubling news. This second part will involve the lead-up to the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago.

Please note that the Associated Press raised Hell with bloggers last week about quoting from their stories. I stopped the news segments until I could figure out what action to take regarding the news. In the beginning, that segment was merely to provide footnotes to the story. People have enjoyed those news updates, and I look forward to continuing them after the Intermission.

As well, I've received a number of inquiries as to whether this project will take other forms at some point down the road. Short answer: Yes. Although this web project stands on its own, I plan on either bringing it back to the stage or publishing it as a book.

As always, I'm available by email at magentagreen2000 (at) yahoo.com if you have any questions or would like to talk about 1968. If you know anyone who you would like to see interviewed, please contact me.)

in Amy's Notebook, Janine's Journal | Permalink | Comments (0)

What Will Happen Next

June 20, 1968

by Janine Stephenson

I'm writing this in the back of the car. Craig is driving again, with Becca in the passenger seat. Baby John and I are in the back. We just passed Nebraska.

For a while, Baby John was awake. But he has since fallen asleep with a rosary in his hand. I think he's been praying. I'm not sure.

All of us have been listening to an AM radio station. A priest was being interviewed on the topic of "What's Wrong With America?"

I think that's what caused Baby John to take his rosary out. He needed to pray.

Some people say that there's too much violence on the television and in movies. They think that we get all of our ideas from what we see acted out in front of us.

Other people think its our upbringing, that we're allowed too much freedom. It's all Dr. Spock's fault.

But I think it's because we're taught that violence equals power. We see the war on the television and we hear about it in the news. We're told that it's alright to go to other countries and kill people. Murder is right under certain circumstances.

It's not. I don't understand anyone who believes in God and thinks that it's okay to kill people. It's never acceptable.

Craig says that the violence in our country is karmic. Becca nods her head in agreement, like she knows what he's talking about. Maybe she does, but I have no reason to think so.

I don't know what karma is. Baby John says that we're just reaping what we sow. He's said other things too lately, about how we're a violent society who solves all of our problems by clubbing and killing people. If we're really a democracy, or even a partial democracy, why do we have to kill people who are different from us?

I guess self-defense is okay, but Craig says that even that is iffy. After all, how many threats are just our imagination? Fear is a part of the Monkey Mind.

I don't know what Monkey Mind is, but if it means something like "it's all in our head" I can believe it. I don't think it's human nature to beat and kill people. I don't think that civil war is inevitable.

I just hope that the country can continue to exist. I'm just not sure what will happen next.

All the Way Without LBJ

June 18, 1968

by Janine Stephenson

The primaries are just about finished now and here we are, still in California. The good news is that we received our marching orders to go back east, to Washington D.C. The bad news is that we have to leave California to get there.

I do love it here. I love the weather, the pebbly beaches and how everyone looks so fresh-scrubbed and clean. It's fun here. Playful and happy. It's hard to be sad when it's always sunny. Plus there are so many young people like me around. Everyone seems to be from somewhere else. There's lots of good bands in town. It's so alive here.

But now, we're on our way back east. Baby John is coming with us, even though he doesn't know what he'll do when he gets there. Craig is relieved that someone else will be driving, though he keeps asking Baby John if he's steady on the wheel. "How good are you? How fast will you go over the limit?"

Craig's hair is getting long and he doesn't want to cut it. It's past his ears and, he says, there's no need to cut it since the primaries are essentially over. He might talk to people, or he might talk on the phone. But either way, he's not going to cut his hair for anyone. It's pointless.

It's easy to say that here in Los Angeles, where all the hip people are wearing their hair long. But when he goes back east, it's going to be different. I'm willing to bet that we'll all get our hair cut when we go back. I don't think long hair is in style in Washington.

In fact, I might even have to start wearing stockings again.

Tomorrow, we leave. Bright and early. Ready or not. And no stopping at hotels this time. It's going to be a straight through, all the way.

What Moratorium Really Means

June 16, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

Things have been utterly confusing, mostly because the campaign continued without us. Although we were supposed to be on a moratorium, everyone traveled and got ready for the New York primary. Everyone except the few who took the campaign at its word that a moratorium meant stopping.

As Craig says, we didn't realize that the campaign moratorium was like the bombing moratorium. If we had known, we would've left for New York days ago.

Instead, we're still here in Los Angeles waiting for our next assignment. The New York primary is about a week away now, so driving there is pointless. Even if we flew, we would only be lending a minor hand to what should be a monumental effort. Chances are, we'd only be getting in the way.

So we've been hanging out with the local California staff, which includes Baby John. I have to admit, I like him, though I obviously can't like him the same way I liked Benjamin. Still, everyone assumes he and I are together and to be honest, neither of us are fighting it. When people say our names together, we don't argue. When Becca nudges me and winks, I know it's because she's waiting for Baby John and I to collapse into bed together any second. But that's not going to happen.

Still, I find Baby John to be sensitive and deep - and not in a phony way. He spends most of his time thinking about others, or trying to figure out how God wants him to be in the world. Over the past few days, he's told me that original sin has messed him up inside and that he feels permanently stained. He feels guilty for not fighting in the war, but then, he doesn't think there should be a war. He prays a whole lot, carrying his red rosary in a leather pouch in his pocket.

He'd like to do something for soldiers coming back from Vietnam, the ones with partial limbs or who cry alot. But he's afraid because he feels like he should be the one to die or be maimed instead of them.

I asked him if he wanted to go into the priesthood and he said he thought about it but doesn't feel worthy. There's only so much a priest can do in the world. Too many priests and not enough spiritual lay people.

Hopefully we'll find out today where we should go next. I'd hate to have to go back home, especially when there's so much more work to be done.

Sister Bitches

June 13, 1968
by Amy

I arrived back at Dearborn yesterday afternoon, liberated from my cast and ready for work. Glasses handed me a stack of permit applications so we could secure Grant Park during the convention. Lesley was on the phone with a donor, careful not to use his name in case anyone was listening. We still haven't located bugs, but then again, we're still looking...

Bea and I were shuffling file folders around, when Coleman poked his head in to say howdy. "How does it feel to be a two-fisted Amy?" Since Bea doesn't like him, she stiffened visibly then left the room. He continued, "So I guess you can do a whole lot more now that you have both hands back."

"I can," I replied. There wasn't much point in elaborating. I knew exactly what he meant.

"Oh yeah, when?"

I hate how presumptuous he is, how he feels like he can demand just about anything and get it. And at that moment, it annoyed me. "I don't know Coleman. You'll have to make an appointment. I'll see if I can fit you in."

"Funny, very funny. Seriously. When can I come over?"

I looked at him for a full moment. "Maybe I don't know. Maybe I don't feel like it."

"Maybe you shouldn't pester a sister, Coleman." Bea stood behind him with her hand on her hip. "It's distracting."

Coleman turned. I could tell from Bea's reaction that he had a growl on his face. "You know, I'm getting tired of your bitchiness. Why don't you mind your own business? This doesn't involve you."

Bea stiffed and gritted her teeth. "Revolution is made by bitches like me, comrade. Pardon us, we've got work to do."

Their eyes were locked in some kind of stare-down. The phone rang, so I figured it was a good time to answer it.

Cast Off

June 12, 1968
by Amy

Getting my cast off was a trip and a half. In a strange show of slight humor, Glasses said that they take a chain saw and slice it off you at an angle, so as not to nick your arm. Since he doesn't really crack a smile all that much, I wasn't sure if he was kidding. I guess it was the look on my face that made him clarify things.

What really happens is this: A crazy buzzing thing vibrates the hell out of the plaster. Then it sort of cracks a bit, and they gently peel it off you. There is no danger that you're going to get cut. At least that's what they tell you. Since I have zero trust in authority, I flinched quite a bit. Lucky for me, I was sitting next to a window when the whole thing was done. I could look out the window, onto the street and watch people going by.

After the cast came off, I washed my arm for the first time in a month a half. There's no sensation like lukewarm water rolling down your arm. I felt whole again, like I can start fresh from the disasters of spring.

As the doctor looked at my arm, he checked the records and saw the date that I broke my arm. "So, you got into a fight with the police."

I cleared my throat and explained that the police fought with me. I was minding my own business in a crowd. He smirked as he listened to my story and then closed the file. "Am I to presume that we should have a cast ready for you in August?" The nurse laughed and he told me I could go.

We left the room quickly. As I gathered my purse, the nurse tsked me and said, "Well, now that your wrist has healed, I hope you learned your lesson."

Maybe it was the point of her nose or the way she looked so prim in her uniform, but I couldn't help myself. "Bobby Kennedy is dead. I hope you learned your lesson."

She scowled, but at least I got my message across.

In the News: June 12, 1968

Post-Haste

June 12, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

We're on our way back to Los Angeles post-haste, as they say, since The Senator has now declared that the campaign moratorium is officially over. Baby John is driving just a wee bit over the speed limit. He says that since he makes this trek quite often, he knows where all the police hide to catch speeders.

It's hard to beat the scenery, the vineyards and fields of fruit. Avocadoes, maybe. Every now and then we pass a fruit stand. I can't tell how much they're charging because we're going too fast. Part of me wishes we could stop and then part of me knows that we need to keep going.

In between, Baby John and I talk about poverty and working for national. He's very curious as to what we do. I told him it was the same thing that he does, except we travel around the country to do it. Occasionally we train people, though I haven't been in a situation where we did that.

Baby John asked if we planned on going to Chicago and I assured him that we would be there. After all, we've come this far. There's no point in stopping now.

I don't know where we'll end up next - probably New York. I asked him if he's like to come with us. I'm sure it would be fine. Craig probably wouldn't mind the extra driver. He smiled and said he'd think about it, which surprised me. But he's never been to New York and besides, what chance will he ever get again to go?

"And I guess I'd like to continue working for McCarthy," he said, almost as an afterthought.

I laughed, and he shrugged, then laughed too. If nothing else, Baby John is honest.

Download McCarthy_Resumes_Campaign_Audio.ram (Courtesy of Minnesota Public Library)

Scene from a Bus

June 11, 1968
by Amy

I get my cast off tomorrow. Can't wait. It has hurt, itched, and otherwise prevented me from getting normal things done quickly. I can't wait.

Today while riding the bus to Lincoln Park, I tried talking to a woman on the bus about poverty. She told me that she didn't see poverty around her, but she did see a whole lot of "other people" who didn't want to work. I explained to her that it wasn't a question of wanting to work. There were people who most definitely wanted to work, but had grown up in segregated school systems and didn't have the opportunities to learn.

She sniffed and said, "You're one of those, are you? Well, that's alright honey. Those people wouldn't know gratitude if it spat in their faces. But I guess you'll have to learn that on your own."

Then she rang the bell and got off the bus.

In the News: June 11, 1968

Labels

June 11, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

When Baby John came back from the induction center, he was steamed. "Why didn't you tell me that they bombed the Berkeley center? I would've left home earlier."

Linda sighed. She thought she left a note on the counter for him to find, but maybe it was thrown out. Then she asked him if it was settled. He told her it was.

I overheard everything from the living room, and it made me wonder if that happens here a lot. You know, things getting bombed. It doesn't happen in Madison, but then I've heard stories about San Francisco and Berkeley and the whole area. Maybe it really is as wild here as they say.

Nevertheless, Baby John was anxious to get going. We loaded ourselves into the car and he took me for quite a ride. Across a big bridge (not the Golden Gate Bridge), we rode all the way into San Francisco. I didn't ask him about the induction center, yet. He seemed relieved that he was finally done with "the matter" as he called it, and I didn't want to be a downer.

We drove all the way past Market Street and then went on a roller-coaster of a ride. Through steep hills where we were almost vertical to absolutely breathtaking views of the Bay. We could see Alcatraz at certain parts, and it seemed so tiny in the distance. Colors are more vivid here - the blue of the sky, the beige of the buildings. Baby John thinks that has to do with the percentage of water in the air.

He showed me North Beach and we went to City Lights Books. I had hoped to see Jack Kerouac there, but no luck. We ate pastries at a cafe and then took off on another long roller-coaster ride. He dropped the car off near Golden Gate Park, and we walked to Haight Ashbury. People laid across the sidewalk, some asked for money. A bus of old people rolled by, staring out at us. Baby John shook his head and shrugged. A few hippies made peace signs at the bus, but got no response.

It made me think of how we've all become a spectacle, how adults don't even see us as people. Instead, we're just cartoon characters to them. Like animals in a zoo, except the zoo is us. We're not even human to them. No wonder they can send us off to war and kill people in foreign countries. They're the ones who aren't human. They've lost their humanity. All they can do now is observe and react.

Seeing that bus put me in a bad mood. We stopped at another restaurant, this one run by Hari Krishnas. I had no idea what a Hari Krishna was, and I still don't. All I know is that they don't eat meat, wear orange, gauzy robes and shave most of their hair. Except for a little pony tail in the back, which was rubber-banded.

When Baby John sat down, I figured it was time to ask him what happened at the induction center. At first, he was very vague about the whole experience but he did say he was relieved it was over.

"How is it over?" I asked him.

He sighed a bit, sounding just like Linda.

"I'll kill myself before I kill anyone else. Since they're putting the screws to conscientious objectors, I had to do something else. I don't want this thing hanging over my head. I can't deal with that either. Sooo... I told them that I had a... certain thing, that I did a certain thing in the past."

Drugs? A felony?

"No. I told them that I had a homosexual experience. I told them that I was a homosexual."

I gasped. I couldn't picture doing anything like that, especially in front of a bunch of strangers. "But that goes down in your permanent record," I told him.

He shook his head. "I feel at peace with it."

"But it's a lie. They'll find out that you're lying to get out of the draft. Lying is a sin."

He looked down. "I told them the truth, about the past. I told them what they needed to know. I made a public confession of a sin to prevent a greater sin from happening. I told my parents what I was doing, and they understood. I promised them that it would never happen again."

A period of silence came over us, as a Hari Krishna filled our water glass. He stared at me for a moment. "You understand what I had to do, right? Why I did it?"

I told him I did, and I guess I do. It made me think about those guys who purposely got arrested for felonies so they wouldn't be drafted. Which is worse, being labeled a felon or a deviant? And how messed up is it, that it's the ones who don't want to kill people who have to get labeled at all.

Starting Today

June 10, 1968
by Amy

I arrived at Dearborn bright and early. When Bea came in, she was shocked. "You're here this soon? Isn't this a little early for you?"

No. It's time. Now is the time. If anything is going to change, it's going to happen now. Things can't continue. People see it. I see it. People are getting killed and wounded and beaten. Now is the time. We need to work right now.

They want us to mourn and be sad. They want us to grieve, but we have too much work to do. And not just with those permits. Everything from the bottom up needs to be changed. It's not just about peace, it's about a different way of life.

Every day I'm going to talk to a stranger. I'm going to tell them what's going on; why we believe what we do and why they should stand with us.

I also think it's important to read more. Bea and I were talking about it. We have horrible patches of knowledge where we don't know enough theory. We believe what we believe, but we're not scholarly about it. Bea thinks - and I agree - that we need to watch and learn from our current leaders. Glasses is an amazing organizer, for instance. The man is a genius when it comes to working behind the scenes, setting things up, getting speakers. He's alright as a strategist, it's not really his strong suit. But he can see the whole picture, and that's exactly what I need.

So, I pledge to talk more, read more and learn more. Starting today...

In the News: June 10, 1968

Oakland, Zen and the Selective Service

June 10, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

All the way to San Francisco last night, I kept thinking about everything that's happened. I thought about Mrs. Stoutmiller in New Hampshire, and how we used to watch the Smother Brothers and drink hot cocoa. I thought about Dr. King and the Indiana odyssey with Benjamin and his family. I even thought about the Dow protests and how Becca punched that cop. It seems like a million years ago now.

I feel like a far different person, older and more tired. I can barely remember who I was, and that scares me. I used to want to be more experienced, and I still do. But no one told me that when you gain experience you lose something. Maybe what I lost was never mine to begin with.

Baby John brought me to his parents' house in Oakland last night. It was a large, sprawling white house on top of a steep hill. As we drove up, I got slightly nauseous. For all practical purposes, we were vertical, which was a scary sensation.

As he opened the door, I saw his parents in the living room, with drinks in their hands. They introduced themselves as Tom and Linda. I'm not used to calling adults by their first names, but they insisted.

His Mom was Twiggy-like, with a red mod dress and plastic white glasses. I felt so plain, just looking at her. His Dad wore a v-neck sweater and baggy pants. They just looked like the coolest parents ever.

We got in late, so Baby John directed me to the guest bedroom. It was quite sparse, with a bed very low to the ground. Baby John said that his parents had recently redesigned the room with a Zen motif. I have no idea what Zen is, but I do know that my Mother would kill me she ever knew I was sleeping in a bed like that. He called it a platform bed, and it had no box spring.

It's a strange experience to squat down to get into bed, but in the end, it didn't matter. I was tired.

When I woke up, Baby John had left already for the induction center. His Mom, Linda, wore a very pretty lime green mini-dress, with knee high go-go boots. I wish I had her wardrobe. She made me breakfast and told me all about how she ended up in California. Tom and Linda were high school sweethearts, and then he got drafted, so they quickly married. After the war, he ended up with a job offer in San Francisco, so they moved. Linda says that they've been happy ever since. Unlike most women, she's not bored with her lot in life. There are plenty of activities in the Bay Area, like book discussions at the public library. If they want to go to a poetry reading, they go to San Francisco. "It's heaven on earth," she said, "and you'll see when John comes back."

They all seem so confident that he's coming back, that he won't be drafted. I wonder why.

In the News: June 9, 1968

Going to San Francisco

June 9, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

No one knows what to do. We don't know when the campaign will start again - not that I'm anxious for that to happen. National doesn't know what to do because The Senator hasn't decided. They'll get back to us when they know.

Some people are scared that The Senator is going to drop out of the race. Then what will we have? Nothing. No candidate to represent us. Then what will happen? I don't even want to think about it.

Some people are going home because they're scared. What if they get shot during an assassination attempt? Even I know that's silly, but the girls down the hall from us were talking about it this morning. They're scared of seeing blood in real life.

I'm not scared of any of that. I just don't like indecision.

Craig, Becca and I have been trying to figure out what we should do with ourselves. Since we're not supposed to be working on the campaign, they would like to go on a tour of Los Angeles. Becca wants to see what the beaches look like, especially since we've heard so much about them. Maybe we could even go on a tour of movie star mansions.

Normally, I'd love to do something like that. But now, it just doesn't feel right. Not after what happened.

They left to go hang out in Hollywood, which made me feel even worse. I guess Baby John overheard our conversation. He asked me why I didn't go and I told him. I don't want to go look at glamorous homes when everything around us is falling apart. It doesn't seem right.

He was surprised because he thought I was a "Rat Pack Radical" whatever that means. I do love the Rat Pack, but not right now. Not today.

So he asked me if I wanted to go with him to San Francisco. Northern California is very different from Los Angeles, and since I'm here, I might as well see what it's like. He's from Northern California and he has to go home to get his physical examination for the draft. He's not nervous about it because he has a plan. He didn't want to tell me what his plan was, but he was very certain that he'd be able to drive me home in a day or two.

"San Francisco is beautiful. It's a city governed by the people for the people. There's very little hypocrisy there, unlike LA. It will definitely cheer you up, and maybe it will help you decide what you want to do next. You do need to get out of here for a bit, I think."

So we're leaving in an hour. I'll write Becca and Craig a note so they don't worry. Baby John says it should take us about six hours or so to get to San Francisco. He promises that he's a careful driver. I hope he's right.

1968 in 2008: An Article Wrap-Up

In the News: June 8, 1968

Homefront

June 8, 1968
by Amy

I went home to my parents’ house to watch the train ride and the funeral on the television. Dad didn’t say much. Mother kept smoking cigarettes and shaking her head and saying, “Such a shame. Such a crying shame.”

It’s upsetting to see Dad tearing up. Mother left the room when she felt like crying. That was a relief.

I still have bouts of anger, especially when I hear commentators or politicians talk. I hate Eugene McCarthy. He’s such a prissy ass. Yesterday, he said that Kennedy’s death was everyone’s fault. We’re such a violent country, and on and on. Asshole. If it’s everyone’s fault, then it’s also his fault. Especially his fault.

If he wasn’t such an arrogant man, if he didn’t co-opt the Movement and try to funnel everyone’s hopes for peace into his lousy, weak campaign, then maybe there would be real change.

Why doesn’t anyone see the connection between death, murder, war and suppression? Why don’t they understand that corruption breeds violence?

June 8th, 1968. Robert Kennedy is dead in a box, settled now in Arlington. He’s no longer a threat, but make no mistake. This is war.