A Barrister's Tales

Chapter 6 — A Spectator's Peril

Incline your ear to me, rescue me quickly. 1

Anti-war protests on or around campus seemed to be happening with increased frequency as we moved into 1972. The good news was that Nixon seemed sincere in his intent to bring the war to a close. The bad news was that my draft number came up that year, which strongly suggested a combat tour in Nam could very well lie in my future.

This was also the year Jane Fonda made her infamous visit to Hanoi shortly after urging the rest of us back home to burn down the ROTC offices on our campus. Who knows? Maybe she left the country thinking she needed a vacation after learning that it never did go down in flames. Whether that was because of the police intervention, or because the ROTC happened to be in a brick building that she and I both failed to realize wouldn’t burn so easily is anybody’s guess. Go figure! On to the next protest.

One thing for sure is that Jane’s hijinks in North Vietnam definitely raised the subject of treason in our late-night dorm debates. The flip side of that same coin was that her actions and those of others like her seemed to embolden other protesters at schools like mine to step forward and publicly speak what they firmly believed was their truth to those in power. 

It was all pretty intoxicating stuff that was occupying rent-free more of the space between our ears than our pea-brains could afford. The result was a lot of confusion with many on both sides of the war argument feeling they had a lock on a truth that even today remains elusive.

Perhaps this is one reason why one day several hundred students at my school decided it would be a good idea to protest the war by taking over the school’s administration building. The school administrators and police strongly disagreed as to this being such a good idea, but that didn’t seem to stop anyone.

A number of young adults entered the building, interfering with the work of employees and asking them to leave. To my knowledge, nobody lawfully in the building was injured in the process of being removed by protesters, but they were all forced to leave.

Other protestors surrounded the building, blocking the entrances and engaging in what by then had come to be known as a “sit-in.” Burning draft cards and the like also helped pass the time between speeches—read rants—being given by anybody with access to a hand-held megaphone. 

The theoretical point of bringing "business as usual" to a halt at the school seemed to be a vain hope that somebody far, far away in Washington, D.C. would be told about it and agree forthwith to end the war. Few of the protesters were likely too optimistic their efforts would have that effect any time soon. But even if it didn’t bring the war to a close that day, for many it presented a fun and emotionally fulfilling way to spend the afternoon.

It wasn’t long after this particular sit-in began that the press and police arrived en masse at the scene. Consequently, news of what was being referred to as a "happening" spread across the campus like a wildfire being blown by a strong headwind. Given all this, I must ask, how could any normal person—like me—not want to go see what all the excitement was about? 

After my experience with Jane Fonda several months earlier, I did approach the area of the sit-in with what I considered much greater caution. From a safe distance across a vast grass quad, I could see several hundred students milling around the administration building. So far, so good. 

Even at this distance, I could hear the official-sounding voice of a policeman on a blow horn informing the protesters of the obvious—that what they were doing was unlawful and that they needed to leave immediately. Presumably, they were all to just go home and do something like—I don’t know,  watch T.V. or read a book? 

Of course, telling protesters to leave is like telling a bunch of alcoholics to go home when the bartender has just announced that all drinks that day are on the house. The police pronouncements only served to make official the excitement these students were already feeling about being exactly where they were and doing precisely what they were doing. They weren't about to leave.

Then again, neither were the police. And, therein lies the rub.

Such was the recipe for what promised to be an interesting afternoon of action and adventure for all concerned—like me—regardless of which side of the argument you happened to fall. In response to my curiosity, I couldn’t resist moving forward through an alleyway several buildings from the sit-in. This opened onto a winding street that fronted the entire eastern perimeter of the campus, which I knew would offer a better view of the police response to the current upheaval at the administration building.  

What I saw when I emerged from between two buildings shocked me. As far as I could see from one end of the street to the other, dozens, if not hundreds, of helmeted police in riot gear stood shoulder-to-shoulder in lines two and three deep. Their face shields were in the down position, and their billy clubs were held out at the ready. Behind them, a whole host of paddy wagons—i.e., police vans—were lined up with engines revving.

photo: Adam Bezer

In short, a lot of cops. And they meant business. It was obvious these guys were not going to be fooling around once they were given their marching orders.

Even so, I can remember to this day thinking that somehow I was okay because I wasn’t actually involved in the protest. In other words, I can remember exactly how stupid and naïve I was to even be thinking like that.

Then I heard the officer in command shout out into his own megaphone what sounded like the start of a countdown. “Anybody who has not dispersed in five minutes will be subject to immediate arrest!”

That's when I made the decision to return to my initial "safe space" and regain the distance from which I’d started my surveillance. As I scurried back between the buildings and re-merged onto the vast expanse of the quad area, I could hear the officer’s countdown continue.

“Anybody who has not dispersed in four minutes!”

“In three minutes!”

“Two!”

By the time the bullhorn announced one minute, I considered that I’d applied more than an abundance of caution would dictate for me to comply with the order to disperse. Of course full compliance would have involved just going home to the dorm. But that was beyond the limits of what my youthful curiosity would permit. 

Not wanting to miss out on this “moment in history," I compromised by electing to get off the lawn area of the huge quad and enter a nearby building in which I often had classes. Interestingly, if not ironically, this was the building used mostly by students interested in social studies, which is exactly what I thought I was there to do that day. The building was a safe distance from the administration building but conveniently had windows in each lecture hall that would allow me to see the probable path of retreat most protesters would have to take if those columns of police officers in combat gear actually started heading west across campus with their billy clubs.

Which they did precisely sixty seconds after the officer with the blow horn had given his final countdown of one minute.

To say this police march for all practical purposes ended the students' sit-in experience for the day would be an extraordinary understatement.