THAT NIGHT, NOT A SCRATCH ON HIM, WHILE HE PUT ON his porter jacket, the noise of the protest still played in TJ’s head. Screams, sirens, barking dogs, the thud of the billy clubs, the songs. You didn’t go to war with songs. Over there in Korea it had been only the sounds of heavy weapons. Jeep motors. The clank of tank treads turning over. Cold and fierce snow like he’d never seen nor felt before. Men sobbing for their buddies. You didn’t go to war singing. The flag of war was khaki stained with blood. This was better.
Not pretty, no, he wouldn’t let himself say that when he pictured the fire-hose water blasts hitting the backs of huddled children. The blood on that woman’s face, the hose scouring the pavement with her body. Children squatting on the ground, their heads tucked down. One girl, on her knees but straight up, tall, had pressed her hands together, praying. The water toppled her over, hurt, screaming, her hands spread to catch her fall. The savage barking of the dogs. The enthusiasm of the police cocking their clubs. Not pretty at all. All that colorful clothing. A giant freedom flag. Noble. That was the word he wanted.
Glory! Glorious on our part. All the colors of the rainbow.