intently the urgent traffic moving past. The white manila banner hanging from the table’s edge proclaims in large red and black letters: “ MARCH ON WASHINGTON: SIGN UP! ” His pocket transistor is tuned to mellow WBZ-FM . Beside it on the table a ballpoint pen, coupons for bus reservations (seventeen dollars per round trip), an envelope full of money, a pile of pamphlets from the Mobe, the group that has organized the march. And he’s also allowed a liberal space at one end for pamphlets left by assorted radical groups. You just can’t refuse them, even the completely screwball ones (“The story of Dick the little Prick with BIG DREAMS ”) or the cockeyed onesdemanding a STOP or END to almost everything. Before you know it you are part of the movement, you learn to live with the differences. The important thing is to end the war.
High on the white marble walls of this great hall, to either side of him, is a reminder of the two world wars: etched in gold, a roll-call of the Tech’s contribution of lives. Only names on the walls now, all those young lives that once hustled through these very corridors twenty-five, fifty years ago. Where will
I
be a quarter century from now? … Bright sunlight pours in refreshingly through framed doors and windows behind him, beyond which lies a peaceful, lush green lawn.
Two Afghanis mind the stand to his left, their tape recorder playing lilting string melodies. And to his right is the SDS table crowded with its assortment of causes: support the dining workers’ demands; support Maria Delgado, fired from the libraries for her political views; join the rally against Poseidon- MIRV - ABM ; etc. Behind it sits an amiable guy with small goatee called Eddie Shapiro. The two Afghanis are fair green-eyed men, soft-spoken and polite. They have an open album of photographs on their table depicting the victims of torture carried out in their country, an article cut out from the
New York Times
, and for some reason pamphlets in Afghan. Eddie walks over to them every now and then to ask pointed questions. Finally they look at each other in exasperation as he arrives, and he walks back to his post guiltily, and stays put. But when the Afghanis have netted another interested party, he leans over and says to Ramji: “ CIA — they work for the CIA , you can bet on it.”
“Really?” Ramji replies. Just when he was thinking how nice they were, how as a fellow Asian he could identify with their reserve and politeness, even their music.
Two of the YAP s from the other night, Chunky Crewcut and companion, have passed by with the day’s traffic, perhaps too many times, and he’s met their looks squarely. He’s filled with a new confidence, there’s not going to be another instance of physical aggression from them, not without his making such a noise, they’ll be sorry.
I’m going to D.C., he said to Ginnie when she phoned him last, three days before. And he told her what he’d been up to the past month. First the Moratorium, now the March. And she, bubbling over with her usual enthusiasm: Chris is home, he twisted his ankle playing lacrosse.…And Junior should get married to his girl by springtime. You can’t hold back the hormones, Mormon or not.
What did she think of the war? What did
they
think of the war? They never mentioned the subject, expressed no opinion in front of him. He assumed that John, veteran and former intelligence gatherer — his job had been to cut clippings from newspapers, he once told Ramji — must support the military. And Ginnie would simply want the war to be over, regardless of the politics.
“Call me when you get to Washington,” she said. “Call collect. You should come and see me before I go to the hospital.”
“You’re going to the hospital?”
“A minor operation, the doctor thinks I could do without some parts of my body and be no worse.”
“I’ll call.” His heart sank.
Thursday, November 13, 1969.
Buses waited at Freedom Square
High on the white marble walls of this great hall, to either side of him, is a reminder of the two world wars: etched in gold, a roll-call of the Tech’s contribution of lives. Only names on the walls now, all those young lives that once hustled through these very corridors twenty-five, fifty years ago. Where will
I
be a quarter century from now? … Bright sunlight pours in refreshingly through framed doors and windows behind him, beyond which lies a peaceful, lush green lawn.
Two Afghanis mind the stand to his left, their tape recorder playing lilting string melodies. And to his right is the SDS table crowded with its assortment of causes: support the dining workers’ demands; support Maria Delgado, fired from the libraries for her political views; join the rally against Poseidon- MIRV - ABM ; etc. Behind it sits an amiable guy with small goatee called Eddie Shapiro. The two Afghanis are fair green-eyed men, soft-spoken and polite. They have an open album of photographs on their table depicting the victims of torture carried out in their country, an article cut out from the
New York Times
, and for some reason pamphlets in Afghan. Eddie walks over to them every now and then to ask pointed questions. Finally they look at each other in exasperation as he arrives, and he walks back to his post guiltily, and stays put. But when the Afghanis have netted another interested party, he leans over and says to Ramji: “ CIA — they work for the CIA , you can bet on it.”
“Really?” Ramji replies. Just when he was thinking how nice they were, how as a fellow Asian he could identify with their reserve and politeness, even their music.
Two of the YAP s from the other night, Chunky Crewcut and companion, have passed by with the day’s traffic, perhaps too many times, and he’s met their looks squarely. He’s filled with a new confidence, there’s not going to be another instance of physical aggression from them, not without his making such a noise, they’ll be sorry.
I’m going to D.C., he said to Ginnie when she phoned him last, three days before. And he told her what he’d been up to the past month. First the Moratorium, now the March. And she, bubbling over with her usual enthusiasm: Chris is home, he twisted his ankle playing lacrosse.…And Junior should get married to his girl by springtime. You can’t hold back the hormones, Mormon or not.
What did she think of the war? What did
they
think of the war? They never mentioned the subject, expressed no opinion in front of him. He assumed that John, veteran and former intelligence gatherer — his job had been to cut clippings from newspapers, he once told Ramji — must support the military. And Ginnie would simply want the war to be over, regardless of the politics.
“Call me when you get to Washington,” she said. “Call collect. You should come and see me before I go to the hospital.”
“You’re going to the hospital?”
“A minor operation, the doctor thinks I could do without some parts of my body and be no worse.”
“I’ll call.” His heart sank.
Thursday, November 13, 1969.
Buses waited at Freedom Square
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