At the Wall Street Action last October, the police were on one side of the sawhorses. We were on the other. We were blocking Wall Street workers. The police were blocking us. One of them was very interested in solar housing. Our solar expert explained the science and economics of it all. Another cop from Long Island worried a lot about the Shoreham nuclear power plant. “Can’t do anything about it,” he said. “They’ll build it. I hate it. I live there. What am I going to do?”
That could be a key to the police, I thought. They have no hope. Cynical. They’re mad at us because we have a little hope in the midst of our informed worries.
Then he said, looking at the Bread and Puppet Theater’s stilt dancers, “Look at that, what’s going on here? People running around in the street dancing. They’re going every which way. It ain’t organized.” We started to tell him how important the dancers were. “No, no, that’s okay,” he said. “The anti-war demonstrators were like this at first, mixed up, but they got themselves together. You’ll get yourself together too. In a couple of years you’ll know how to do it better.”
Earlier, about 6 a.m., two cops wearing blue hardhats passed. One of them looked behind him. “Here come the horses,” he said. “Let’s get the hell out of here!” And they moved at top casual walking speed in the opposite direction.
Also at 6 a.m., but about fifteen years ago, we would walk up and down before the White Hall Street Induction Center wearing signs that said I SUPPORT DRAFT REFUSAL. It wouldn’t take more than a couple of hours for the system to gather up its young victims, stuff them into wagons, and start them off on their terrible journey. At 9:30 on one of those mornings, about twenty women sat down all across the street to prevent the death wagons from moving. They sat for about thirty minutes. Then a plainclothesman approached an older gray-haired woman: “Missus, you don’t want to get arrested.” “I have to,” she said. “My grandson’s in Vietnam.” Gently they removed her. Then with billy clubs, a dozen uniformed men moved up and down that line of young women, dragging them away, by their arms, their hair, beating them, I remember (and Norma Becker1 remembers), mostly in the breast.
Last May at the rainy Armed Forces Day Parade, attended by officers, their wives, and Us, some of Us were arrested by a couple of Cops for Christ. At the desk, as they took our names, smiling, they gave us “Cops for Christ” leaflets. We gave “Disarm for Human Life” leaflets.
Another year, one of the first really large antidraft actions—also at the Induction Center at dawn. We were to surround the building. The famous people, or Notables as the Vietnamese used to say, sat down to bar the front entrance. That’s where the TV cameras were. Our group of regulars went around to the back of the center and sat down. Between us and the supply entrance sat a solid line of huge horses and their solemn police riders. We sat cross-legged, speaking softly as the day brightened. Sometimes someone would joke and someone else would immediately say, Be serious. Off to one side, a captain watched us and the cavalry. Suddenly the horses reared, charged us as we sat, smashing us with their great bodies, scattering our supporting onlookers. People were knocked down, ran this way and that, but the horses were everywhere, rearing—until at a signal from the captain, which I saw, they stopped, settled down, and trotted away. That evening the papers and TV reported that a couple of thousand had demonstrated. Hundreds had been peacefully arrested.
At Wall Street too: A gentleman with a Wall Street attaché case tried to get through our line. The police, who were in the middle of a discussion about Arabian oil, said, “Why not try down there, mister. You can get through down there.” The gentleman said he wanted to get through right here and right now, and began to knee through our line. The cop on the other side of the sawhorse said, “You heard us. Down there, mister. How about it?” The gentleman said, “Damnit, what are you here for?” He began to move away, calling back in fury, “What the hell are you cops here for anyway?” “Just role-playing,” the cop called in reply.
There were several cheerful police at the Trident nuclear submarine demonstration last year. One officer cheerily called out to the Trident holiday visitors to be careful as they trod on the heads of the demonstrators blocking the roadway. “They’re doing what they believe in.” He asked us to step back, but not more than six inches. He told a joke. He said he hated war, always had. Some young state troopers arrived—more help was needed. They were tall and grouchy. A black youngster, about twelve, anxious to see what was going on, pushed against the line. One of the state troopers leaned forward and smacked the child hard on the back of the head. “Get back, you little bastard,” he said. I reached out to get the attention of the cheery cop, who wore a piece of hierarchical gold on his jacket. “Officer,” I said, “you ought to get that trooper out of here, he’s dangerous.” He looked at me, his face went icy cold. “Lady, be careful,” he said. “I just saw you try to strike that officer.”
Not too long ago, I saw Finnegan, the plainclothes Red Squad boss. I hadn’t seen him in a long time. “Say, Finnegan,” I said, “all these years you’ve been working at one thing and I’ve been working at the opposite, but look at us. Nothing’s prevented either of us from getting gray.” He almost answered, but a lot of speedy computations occurred in his brain and he couldn’t. It’s the business of the armed forces and the armored face to maintain distance at all times.
(1980)