The Endless Possibilities of Paper Maché
*
Imagination vs. Armageddon
in the Cold War
By Jo Swanson
History is often in the eye of the beholder. I have tried to recreate events, locales and conversations from my memories of them. As a storyteller I have made a few changes to help with the aesthetic flow of the tale, but have tried to the best of my ability to make it true to the events and characters as I recall them. Some names have been changed to protect the privacy of friends. Some identifying characteristics and details such as physical properties, occupations and places of residence may have been changed or remembered inaccurately. For any such mistakes I apologize and hope that the overall narrative will make up for such lapses. Thank you for your interest in my story.
Copyright 2012 - Jo Swanson
Smashwords Edition
Chapter 1
The right combination, so I’m told,
Of the elements will make gold.
Fire, water, earth and air
In a vessel, mixed with care,
Transforms ingredients into treasure,
Rare and valued beyond measure.
So many try and many fail,
Misunderstanding the truer tale:
Alchemical recipes yield not mere metal;
Life is our gold and the world is our vessel.
Memorial Day weekend, 1980: The bluegrass band twanged out a Pete Seeger song. Heads bobbed in time, some people sang along. Littered among the audience on the grass lay home-made shields, bolt cutters, climbing equipment, gas masks, medical supplies and a multitude of signs. ’No Nukes!’ they proclaimed, ’Shut it down!’ ’Save the children!’
To the left of the stage, beyond a thin line of trees, rose a chain link fence topped with barbed wire. On the other side of the fence stood an impressive line of police officers, each one neatly in place; six feet apart, legs slightly splayed, hands on hips. They watched us impassively; on the lookout for any wrong move.
Brian and I lay next to each other on the warm earth, dozing in the sun, surrounded by hundreds of other exhausted people. Most of us were dressed in white with colored bandannas around our necks. The kerchiefs smelled sharply of lemon juice, meant to mitigate the effects of tear gas. Skeptical of holistic remedies, I also brought a gas mask but it was bulky and hard to see through, so it remained in my pack - to serve as extra weight and a very uncomfortable pillow.
Looking back, I think we were pretty naïve. We had come up from Boston all ready to take over and occupy the construction site for Seabrook’s new nuclear plant. We were organized in small ‘affinity’ groups. Each group was prepared to stay indefinitely once we crossed the fence, but that first step was proving to be much harder than expected. Anyone who got within reach was instantly gassed, clubbed or both. The lemon-soaked kerchiefs were useless against direct hits and fingers are easily bashed when they grab chain-link. A few daring affinity groups succeeded in clipping holes in the fence, only to be swarmed by dozens of cops, who poured through the opening with clubs waving and cans spraying. Having spent the past twenty-four hours in a series of painful failed attempts, we now understood that, regarding occupation strategy; pacifism is no match for violence.
Thus enlightened, the demonstrators were now rethinking their plan. Voices buzzed around us as people huddled together to brainstorm new strategies.
“Do you think we should try to find the others?” I pulled off my kerchief and lay it over my sun-burnt face. Brian and I had been separated from our affinity group in the morning’s chaos.
“Mm-mm,” Brian replied, unmoving. “We’ll find them later. This is good right now.”
Neither of us noticed the tight knot of men worming through the crowd, heading our way. I only turned at the last moment because of the worried looks on the musician's faces. I followed their gaze just in time to see the men surrounding us. They wore non-descript work clothes, not police uniforms. Wasting no time, four of them scooped up Brian and began dragging him back towards the road.
"Hey!" I shouted, scrambling to my feet. I ran at them and threw my arms around the one part of Brian I could reach, his rapidly receding legs. Digging my steel-toed boots into the soft earth I made like a human anchor and did slow them down for a minute or two. Then one dropped back, grabbed me around the waist and yanked me off. With Olympic ease he hurled me into a nearby couple's picnic. By the time I had extricated myself, Brian was being tossed into an unmarked, white van. He didn't struggle. I and the other protestors, all thoroughly trained in passive resistance, could only stare in shock as the van drove away.
I found the rest of our affinity group and told them what happened. For the next twelve hours we searched frantically but Brian was not to be found. The police said they didn’t have him and, from the tone of their response, couldn't have cared less. Seabrook's small-town judicial system was not fond of anti-nuclear protests; processing hundreds of prisoners is expensive and time-consuming. Their new policy was merely to beat us back until we went away. As far as they were concerned, a missing protestor was one less problem.
Finally word reached us that a single policeman had been inadvertently struck with a grappling hook, which had been thrown at the fence by a young man whom they now had in custody. The officer was fine (his helmet repelled the hook), but this was considered a serious offense. The suspect had been arrested at the concert, we heard. He had medium-length brown hair, short beard and was dressed in white clothing. Since Brian fit that very broad description, we crossed our fingers and waited.
Sure enough, Brian was released the following day, but not before they threw the book at him. He was charged with ‘Felony Assault on a Police Officer,’ possible sentence? Up to seven years.
Why they chose Brian to be the scapegoat I couldn't imagine; he wasn’t near the fence when it happened and no one in our group had even brought a grappling hook. The perpetrator’s description could have fit half the men at the protest. The only thing that possibly set Brian apart from the other look-alikes was familiarity; as a regular Clamshell organizer, he had been to other Seabrook protests. If they were going to pick their suspect at random, it might as well be a face the police recognized. Too bad for Brian it was the wrong one.
*******
In my dream, I am speaking with Jerzy Grotowski, legendary theatrical genius. He is silver from head to toe, shining like a god, but that doesn’t seem unusual to me. We are having a long, detailed conversation about life and theater. He is answering all my questions and I am listening as hard as I can, but his words are going in one ear and out the other.
“I can’t remember all this!” I cry in frustration. He nods understandingly and leans in close to whisper,
"Meet me at the Orson Welles at eleven o'clock."
I woke up on my bedroom floor; must have dozed off while meditating. In the hallway outside Mom was vacuuming, bumping the walls as she passed. I looked at my watch, two o'clock. The dream poked into memory. "Eleven o'clock," I mumbled, "Grotowski wants me to be at the Orson Welles Theater at eleven." OK, I thought, what the hell else is there to do?
Of course, there was plenty to do. I could look for a real job for starts. I could admit that my dreams of being a great actor were complete fantasies. You see, I met Grotowski the year before. He was looking for young actors to invite to Poland for a theater workshop. I wanted desperately to be chosen but didn't make the cut. So now it was time to face facts, pick a trade and take a place in the rat race but… not yet. I groaned and rubbed my face to wake up.
"Jo?" Mom cracked open the door and looked down at me. "Are you all right?"
"Mmm yeah, I just fell asleep for a minute. Do you want any help with cleaning?"
"No thank you dear, I'm just tidying up a bit. Are you cooking tonight?"
You could hardly call it cooking. Prep Chef was my pretentious title but grunt labor was more apt; I had an evening shift at a natural foods restaurant, chopping vegetables. If I stayed long enough they would teach me how to make the soups.
"Nah, I have acting class, then I might go to a movie."
"That's nice. Would you like some dinner? I'm making spaghetti. Stephan and Nina are going to join us, and Hamid..." she looked around the hall at the closed doors and up toward the attic, as if seeing her possible guests through wood and plaster. Almost every room in my childhood home was now rented to Harvard students. I slept on the study floor. I wasn’t planning to stay long, only until I recovered from the break-up with Eddie. As soon as the storm of loss faded I would certainly pull my life together; find a real home and a real job and get on with it.
“No thanks, Mom, I'll eat in the Square." She looked disappointed.
"I could make you an omelet," she offered.
“Really… I’m not hungry, but thanks anyway.”
“Maybe tomorrow morning for breakfast?”
“Sure, that would be great.”
Satisfied, she smiled and moved down the hall, vacuum cleaner merrily crashing against the baseboards. I reached for my journal to jot down the dream.
*******
Between the branches of passing pine trees, grey-green glimpses of Fresh Pond rolled by. Joggers ran along a path and dogs, noses pressed to the ground, pulled their owners onwards around the water. I watched for while from the bus window, then settled back into the molded plastic bench, closing my eyes, inviting the dream to memory’s surface.
It didn’t need much encouragement, almost instantly I was there with Grotowski, nodding and saying, “mm hmm,” and “I understand,” though I still couldn’t hear him clearly. My comprehension was purely visceral: I just knew that, whatever ‘it’ was, I wanted to spend the rest of my life doing it. How unfair that it wouldn’t be recalled! All I could remember was the time and place of Grotowski’s invitation.
The bus rumbled into Harvard Square’s underground station, releasing us in a dank, dimly-lit tunnel. I jogged to the Red Line, token in hand, to slip smoothly through the turnstile and onwards to the platform… too late. The train had just left. Its departing tail-lights receded into darkness, leaving the station eerily quiet. Giddy after running, enveloped in the rare and momentary stillness of that space, I launched into a monologue:
“Wheels have been set in motion!” my voice echoed down the tunnel, “and they have their own pace; to which we are … condemned. Each move is dictated by the previous one - that is the meaning of …”
A shrill giggle cut me short. I hadn’t noticed a passel of teenage girls leaning against the far wall;. I cleared my throat loudly and slunk to a bench, hoping that more people would come soon and make the space normal again; at the moment it was a little embarrassing.
“Better get over your self-consciousness,” I mumbled, “or you’ll never be much of an actor.” Still, I sat on that bench and stared at my toes, not once looking at the girls in case they were looking back, until the next train arrived.
My destination was one of Central Square’s grand old buildings. Its large, low-rent offices housed many creative enterprises, including the Coalition for Direct Action at Seabrook and my acting class. I ran up the wide, wooden stairs and on down the hall, towards a room from which resounded thudding feet. I slipped inside, kicked off my sandals and took a place in the back of the group, loudly counting out jumping jacks.
After another twenty minutes of workout, our teacher, Steve, instructed everyone to lay on the floor and he led us through a visualization exercise: We slowly traversed our bodies from the toes on up, imagining light in each joint, breathing into it, stretching it and then moving on to the next joint. These exercises were much harder for me than the running and jumping because they required patience. But it was worth it; when the white light in our crowns shot straight up to the universe, my heart was finally at rest. For an instant my head was completely clear, no thoughts, nothing to fret about and then…
“Take five minutes,” Steve said, “then meet back here with your objects.”
“Objects?” a puzzled voice inquired. It was Harley; tons of creative energy - short memory for assignments. He was not alone in forgetting, several heads wagged in confusion. Luckily I remembered that we had been instructed to ‘bring an object that meant something to us but nothing valuable or irreplaceable’ (sometimes these theater exercises got rowdy). Tucked in my pack was a slightly battered Barbie doll. It wasn’t even Barbie, it was Midge, Barbie’s freckled friend. I had suspected the object would be used as the basis for an improvisation and I already had a character in mind for Midge.
“Yes, objects,” Steve replied patiently. “Never mind, just find something around here and meet back in five.” I felt a little bad for Harley until we were back in a circle, objects in hand, and Steve said, “Everybody pass your object to the person on your left.”
“What?” I blurted. Steve looked at me evenly. He had a shock of red hair above and an equally red beard. His eyes were grey and unnervingly observant.
“This is an improvisation exercise. It’s meant to be spontaneous, just in case you had anything in mind, Jo.”
Reluctantly I handed Midge to the woman next to me and reached for whatever item Harley (who was sitting on my right) had found. He plunked a large rock into my hand. I glowered at him.
“A rock… really?”
“I like rocks,” Harley said. “At least you’re not working with a pencil,” he said pointedly towards the person on his right, but she did not notice; too busy contemplating the sneaker in her hand.
“Quiet please,” Steve pushed himself to his feet and walked around the circle behind us, delivering instructions. “You will each have three minutes. Your goal is to let yourself be moved by the object you now have. Don’t plan anything,” (a glance at me) “and don’t let your head get in the way. This is not about being clever, it’s about being real.” With those enigmatic words he sat back down. “All right, who wants to begin?”
The woman on my left, Lizbeth, raised her hand. She was usually pretty quiet, it was not her style to be so assertive. I think Midge inspired her.
“Lizbeth?” Steve smiled and pointed to the center of our circle, “please take the stage.” Lizbeth walked to the middle, took a deep breath and, clutching Midge to her chest, began to skip around the circle.
“I’ve got a dolly, I’ve got a dolly,” Lizbeth sang in a high, thin voice. After a few rounds she stopped and just stood there, gazing down at the doll.
“What does it make you feel, Lizbeth?” Steve asked quietly.
“Sad,” she replied in the same small voice. Then, with a look of panic, added, “I don’t know why.” Steve nodded encouragingly.
“Ask your heart, not your head,” he said. Lizbeth looked back down at the doll.
“Poor baby,” she murmured. Then, in one smooth motion, she popped Midge’s head off. I stifled a squeal as Lizbeth methodically pulled off all the doll’s arms and legs until only the well-endowed torso was left. This she hurled across the room, where it bounced off a wall and rolled under a table. I made a mental note of its location and turned back to see Lizbeth cradling Midge’s remaining body parts.
“There there,” she cooed, “all better.” A moment of silence followed as we stared, transfixed by the odd Madonna and (pieces of) child.
“Thank you Lizbeth, very good,” Steve said. “Who’s next?” One by one we took stage with our items. At the beginning of each improv the audience waited, in a moment of pure unpredictability, as actor and object faced each other. Then, when inspiration arrived, the actor leapt into the abyss with it… at least that was the goal. For some it was easier than for others. For example; when my turn arrived I sat cross-legged with the rock in my hand, completely unmotivated. The longer I sat, the less I felt like doing anything at all. After a minute my back began to hurt. I curled over the stone and became a stone myself, feeling oddly safe and unconcerned about my performance. The seconds ticked by.
“Is that it, Jo?” Steve asked.
“I am a rock,” I sang, “I am an eye-yie-yie-yie-land.”
“And a rock feels no pain, eh?” he prodded.
“And an island neeeever cries.”
“Thank you, Jo,” he sounded supremely unimpressed. “Feedback anyone?”
“That was boring,” Harley said. Several heads nodded agreement. I was a little hurt.
“It doesn’t have to be clever,” I argued, “it just has to be real.”
“Was it? Real?” Steve asked.
“It’s what I felt,” I insisted but my improv was just a cop-out and everyone knew it. What I felt when I looked at that rock was the same emotion I always felt, all the time. I was sick to death of it. A lump rose in my throat. I tried to swallow it back down.
“Well it was boring,” Harley had to have the last word. My fist tightened over the rock and, just for an instant, I wanted to hurl it at his head.
“You wanna see boring,” I asked, tears rising unbidden (which only made me madder), “I’ll show you boring. Crying is boring. Every improv the same old thing; anger, sadness, blah blah blah. I was only trying to be interesting. Here, take your stupid rock.” I thrust it back at him and he took it, nonplussed.
“It’s what I feel,” he muttered. Steve cleared his throat loudly.
“Let’s keep our criticism constructive, OK Harley? Thank you Jo, that last part was interesting. Next.”
*******
After class I walked down Mass Ave to the Orson Welles Theater. I had only been away for a couple of years, living in Texas with Eddie, but when I returned my hometown seemed very different. The pinball cafés and pizza joints where I used to hang out with my gang were all gone, along with the second-hand clothing stores selling cheap cotton dresses from India. Now the strip was lined with gourmet restaurants, red brick bank branches and glittering boutiques whose frocks would cost me a week’s pay. I passed them all without looking in the windows.
At least the Orson Welles was still the same. Its white stucco exterior stood out against the night. Bare bulbs lit classic movie posters displayed at the entrance. Humphrey Bogart embraced Ingrid Bergman. King Kong embraced Faye Wray with one hand and the Empire State Building with the other. I took a spot between them on the sidewalk and waited.
What was I waiting for? I wondered. A sign perhaps; a tip of the hat from my unconscious, a signal to let me know that dreams do come true, that there was something worth waiting for just down the street, coming my way. The clock struck eleven. I stood completely still, barely breathing for a minute and then….
The formerly quiet street suddenly burst into activity. Young men appeared from the shadowy alleys, from cars pausing to drop them off, from the adjoining arcade. I didn’t know any of them... but I might like to, I thought. Almost a year had passed, eleven and a half months, since Eddie had walked out of my life. Surely it wouldn’t hurt so bad to try again. The young men swirled around me like leaves, all in passing. They moved on in their different directions and left me alone again in front of the theater, a one-woman show.
I shrugged and looked at my watch, 11:02. That was probably it; the message that silver Grotowski intended to convey: Men come and go. Eddie was gone and he certainly wasn’t coming back. Time to get on with it. Life is short and it ends alone. I turned to leave but then saw one more young man coming across Mass Ave straight towards me. This one I knew.
“Brian!” I called. He looked at me curiously. “It’s me,” I persisted, “Jo Swanson... from Seabrook?” A slow smile spread across his face, the look of recognition and remembrance.
“Jo SWANson!” He exclaimed, spreading his arms wide for a hug. “How are you?”
“Great Brian,” kind of a lie, “Wow it’s good to see you again. I guess we lost touch, huh?”
“Yeah, that’s my fault. I’ve been moving around a lot,” he said, not entirely cheerfully. “School, work, attorneys... say, are you doing anything? Want to join me for an ice cream?”
“Sure,” I replied. “I was actually waiting for you, I think.” He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “It’s a funny thing. You’re not going to believe this but...” I told him about my dream and we had a good laugh, then headed down the block towards the ice cream parlor.
"So how's your case coming along?" I asked, when we were seated with our sundaes. Brian shrugged.
"Pretty good I guess, it's hard to tell. I have an excellent legal team. The Lawyers Guild and ACLU both offered to help. We have a great case but if they want to make an example of me, they will.” Brian was a law student himself, he must have had a pretty good grasp of his chances. "Whatever happens I'll make the best of it. Say... You should be one of my witnesses, of course! Here..." he scribbled a number on a clean napkin and slid it across the table. "This is where you can reach me. What's your number?" I waited for him to grab a napkin but he only looked at me, then nodded once, encouragingly.
"Aren't you going to write it down?"
"No need, I have a great memory for phone numbers, a regular human rolodex."
"Wow, that's quite a talent. I'm impressed."
"It comes in handy," he said. We finished our ice creams and went our ways, promising to be in touch soon. On the subway back to Harvard Square I pondered why Grotowski, a man of the theater (and probably some kind of father figure) wanted me to run into Brian, a man of law and politics? It didn’t make sense. But dreams care not for sense. I would be a witness at Brian’s trial and then…
“Keep your eyes open, see what happens next,“ I instructed myself, “It’s as good a plan as anything else right now.”
*******
On the morning of the trial I borrowed Mom’s car and stopped by Porter Square, to pick up a couple of Brian’s friends. It was very early when I pulled up in front of Dunkin Donuts, the sun was just rising and the streets were still a shadowy grey. I scanned the empty sidewalk for my passengers. Two likely figures were just emerging from the bustling doughnut shop, each toting a large cardboard cup and waxed paper bag. One was slender, with thick brown hair and a trim beard. He looked a little out of place in a three piece suit, but I guessed he was trying to look respectable for Brian’s sake. The other young man was more casually dressed, slightly round at the middle, blonde and bearded as well. I waved tentatively. They both waved back and came over to the car.
“Hi, are you Brian’s friends?” I asked.
“Yes. I’m C.T. and this is Keith,” the dark-haired one said.
“Nice to meet you, I’m Jo. Hop in.”
They climbed into the car and we headed towards the freeway. C.T. sat up front, Keith stretched out comfortably in the back. They had brought an extra coffee for me and a honey-dipped doughnut, which happened to be my favorite.
We drove north, getting acquainted. Keith and C.T. were longtime friends of Brian’s through the Clamshell Alliance. Like me, they both worked in restaurants and spent their free time organizing and pursuing their passions. We all loved one form of art or another and so we gabbed steadily about the finer points of painting, theater and cuisine all the way to New Hampshire.
Two hours later we pulled up at the Hampton District Courthouse. It was one of those old, white wooden buildings that makes you think of New England; surrounded by orange-gold foliage under a crisp blue sky, looking like a picture on a maple sugar box. Brian was waiting for us at the front steps, with his attorney, his mother and a handful of other friends and supporters. Mrs. Feigenbaum looked worried but she smiled stoically and shook our hands then we all went into the courthouse.
Most of us filed onto the spectator’s benches, which were otherwise empty that morning. As we took our seats at the back of the room I noticed that C.T. went to the front and sat between Mrs. Feigenbaum and Brian’s attorney. Brian himself was sitting on a bench behind me, chatting nonchalantly with Keith.
“Brian, how come you’re not…?” I whispered but he cut me short with a look, eyebrows raised in innocence. He made a slight shushing noise without moving his lips.
“All RISE!” The court clerk bellowed. We shuffled to our feet as the judge entered. Silver-haired, spectacled, he sat and banged the gavel. “BE seated!” We plopped back down, eyes ahead, no more whispering.
Brian’s attorney and the prosecutor approached the bench and spoke quietly with the judge. At the opposing table sat a handful of police officers, one of whom must have been the victim. The judge gestured that they too should approach and they did. The group huddled in conversation for a few minutes. I didn’t dare look around to see how Brian was faring. Instead I watched the officers intently as they turned, one by one, and pointed towards C.T.
It was then that I understood why Brian was sitting behind me and not up front with his mother: the police had mistakenly identified their assailant at Seabrook and they just did it again. I held my breath as the judge waved a curt hand to send the police back to their table. He spoke a few more words to Brian’s attorney and then addressed the clerk, who intoned,
“Will the defendant please RISE!” The bench creaked behind me. A very surprised table full of police officers turned to see Brian, standing there at the back of the room. The judge looked disgusted. He banged his gavel with an air of exhaustion.
“This case is dismissed,” he sighed, then promptly left the room. Even the clerk was caught by surprise. He barely squawked directions for us to rise before the door to the judge’s chamber snapped shut. We didn’t need any orders though, we were already jumping, cheering, jostling Brian to shake his hand.
“This is a courtroom, not a CIRCUS!” the clerk shouted. The policemen stood, menacingly, whereupon we instantly left the room. Stifling giggles, we hustled along the hall and burst outside, running down its wide stone steps to gather on the Courthouse lawn.
Brian’s mother, who didn’t run down the steps but was very happy nonetheless, hugged Brian and C.T. repeatedly. She even hugged the lawyer, who smiled awkwardly and assured her that it had been no trouble at all. Indeed, he now had another funny story with which to regale his colleagues. The police officers must have gone out the back. We didn’t see them leave, but we heard the siren as they pulled away. That Brian was with us and not in that cruiser was the sweetest moment of the day.
“Let’s meet at Rosie’s,” Brian proclaimed as we split up in the parking lot. “I feel the need to celebrate.” So we took our hug-filled leave of his mother and drove back to Cambridge, straight to Rosie’s Bakery, to talk over strong coffee and rich pastries, hatching plans for our new affinity group.
Chapter 2
“Jo, we need more garlic and parsley!” Khalid poked his turbaned head into the back room, where I was already rushing through a bucket of carrots. The processor’s grind pretty much drowned out his voice, but I could read his lips, especially when he pursed them on the final “now!” I switched off the Cuisineart and hustled to the walk-in fridge.
The Golden Temple was jammed as usual on a Friday night. Outside howled the winter wind but in here the temperature was positively toasty - with ovens afire and warm bodies crowded together over steaming platters of food. In the dining room dozens of conversations buzzed gently above the strains of sitar music. Back in the kitchen, much louder voices shouted orders and called for extra supplies. We had been slammed for hours and there was still a line out the door. Luckily, for me it was quitting time. Khalid would give me that sad face when I left, that “Why-don’t-you-stay-and-help-us-through-this-rush?” face, but I had a good excuse.
“Sorry, I have to get to a house meeting.” I handed him a bowl of garlic and three bunches of parsley. “I started early today, remember?” He scowled in an effort to recall, as if this morning were already ancient history. “Leave me the late-night prep, I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“All right, I understand, you have to go to a house meeting.” Khalid knew about the importance of house meetings. He was a member of the Sikh sect that owned and ran the Golden Temple. They all worked AND lived together. I don’t know how they did it and managed to stay so eternally upbeat. It must be the religion part, I reasoned, or maybe it was the food; mouth-watering aromas swirled by as I hurried through the dining room and out the door, past heavily-dressed couples waiting in the cold.
Friday night, New Year’s weekend even. It seemed odd to schedule a house meeting but this was the only night we all had free. My new collective household; Brian, Mira (his girlfriend), Leah (Mira’s sister), David (Leah’s boyfriend) and Keith all maintained busy lives, none of which included such frivolities as going out on the town.
I liked my new roommates. We were all young, in our early to mid-twenties, and we shared a penchant for grassroots political action. Leah, a blonde with short hair and a strong streak of practicality, kept the household organized. David, Leah’s partner, was the opposite that attracted her; tall, slim, dark hair tied back in a long ponytail, an easy-going musician. Mira was physically petite but made up for it with her passionate commitment to social justice. Brian, who was continuing his legal studies, stayed involved in several groups and was also an excellent cook. Keith appeared to have boundless energy. When he wasn’t at work or political meetings, he sat on the front steps and sketched landscapes, managing to make our surroundings look so much better than they seemed to the naked eye.
We lived in Dorchester, one of Boston’s southern neighborhoods where Irish and African descendents dwell side by side but not necessarily together. The old house needed much repair; our furnace had been broken for weeks. On the up side, rent was legally free as long as the residence was “uninhabitable,” so we layered on clothes and waddled about like Eskimos. When it got too cold we would ride the T back and forth on the Red Line, reading books, pretending to be commuters.
On this particular Friday night the train was blessedly hot. I soaked up as much warmth as possible on the trip from Harvard Square to Fields Corner, then ran the four blocks to my new residence; a narrow little house crammed at the back of a skinny lot. Its cracked concrete path divided a rectangle of dirt that was our front ‘yard’. Broken bottles and dog feces lined the lot’s chain link fence, through which a few bits of trash had made it further in, probably thrown by our neighbors. I plucked a single, intact bottle from the debris as I passed and placed it carefully on top of the piled-high recycling bin by the front steps.
Inside, my roommates were gathered in a tight cluster around the oven, sipping tea, staying warm. Brian, in a woolen hat and gloves with the fingertips cut off, was chopping vegetables by the sink. His breath made a cloud above the cutting board.
“Hey Jo, glad you could make it,“ he said. “I think we can call this meeting to order.” He put down the knife and pulled a chair to the table. “Does anyone else want to facilitate?” We all shook our heads so he continued, “Let’s start with a check-in. I’m fine, classes are going well. I aced my mid-terms and I’m getting ready to go to Deerfield this weekend for a workshop on non-violence. Would anyone like to join me?” Mira nodded, the rest of us made our excuses; work, classes, previous commitments.
“I know it seems far away, but Earth Day is coming up in a April,” Mira said next. “Would anyone like to help me celebrate?”
“What’s Earth Day?” I asked.
“A day to foster awareness of the earth,” Mira stated the obvious. “It’s been happening for about ten years now. It’s to educate people, you know? To get them to do more recycling, plant trees, that kind of thing.”
‘It’ll never catch on,’ I thought, but instead said, “how do you want to celebrate?”
“I thought we could take all the bottles and cans to the recycling center,” Mira replied. “Thanks for volunteering.”
“Boy, you walked right into that one,” Brian laughed, but then he volunteered to help as well. “And how’s life with you, Jo?”
“Not much, just working … there’s that BAARD protest at the Federal Building on Monday, the anti-draft demo. You going Keith?” Keith shrugged,
“I’m not sure yet, maybe.”
“Anyway, I might check it out…“ I searched my memory for anything else interesting on the horizon… “Oh, and I signed up for an acting retreat this spring, I’ll be away for a couple of weeks, somewhere in Maine.”
“That sounds like fun,” Leah said.
“Kind of… sometimes…” I mumbled. I could never find a good way to describe Steve’s workshops. On the outside they were theater, but seemed to cover much more than I could easily say. “That’s all for me. How about you Keith, what‘s happening?”
“Well… I’ve been working on something…” Keith said slowly. He held up the piece of paper he had been scribbling on. It was a poster featuring a pleasant picture of food.
“What’s it say?” David asked, squinting.
“It’s for the next meeting of the shareholders for First National Bank,” Keith replied, handing it to David. “At the end of March. This is an invitation to the public to attend.” We passed the poster around. The First National Bank of Boston had many ties to the nuclear industry. First National’s board of directors shared members with the board of Babcock and Wilcox, Seabrook’s construction company. Many of them also sat on the board of Seabrook’s purchaser, the Public Service Company of New Hampshire (whom we referred to as Pissco).
“How are we going to get in?” Mira asked.
“We’re not going in. We’ll be outside, serving lunch.” A moment of silence followed. We all looked at Keith and waited.
“C.T. and I were thinking,” he continued, “of doing a little street theater; a soup line in front of the bank, to point out that their policies and investments are going to drive us all into bankruptcy, kind of a ‘Great Depression’ theme, you know?”
“That’s a great idea,” Brian nodded slowly. “They don’t see the people who lost their jobs and homes. They need to see those people, then maybe they would think twice about their investments.”
“That IS a great idea,” Mira confirmed. “A soup line in front of the bank, let’s do it!“ We all agreed to help and a plan was made to schedule another meeting at C.T.’s house the following month.
Our discussion turned to the usual subjects; what chores needed to be done, bills to be paid, irritating habits to be curbed, etc. Afterwards we cooked dinner and remained in the kitchen, closer and closer to the stove as another frigid night set in. We brainstormed about the bank protest until our eyes drooped and our ideas took on the fantastic proportions of dreams. When we finally retired to our sleeping bags the seed was planted deeply enough to take root in our subconscious minds, to bide its time until spring.
*******
The McCormack Building’s security staff were doing their best to repel invasion. Every time an anti-draft protestor marched into the lobby the staff promptly marched them back through the door and, in some cases, tossed the intruder into the hard, grey snow banks along Milk Street.
“Yah! You deserved that, you Commies!” shouted a construction worker from the neighboring building. He had taken it upon himself to be a one-man counter protest, aided by a brass bell which he clanged energetically whenever anyone tried to make a speech. Luckily, we had a megaphone.
“Hey! Hey! Whaddaya say? We will stop the draft today!” OK, it was an overstatement, but we had little more than bold words with which to make our stand. This was the first day of America’s newest mandatory draft registration law and the demonstration’s turnout was poor. It was a frigid afternoon and only the most zealous anti-warriors were willing to march around on a windy city street in early January.
“No draft! No war!” we shouted, some holding frozen fingers in front of their mouths. Clangclangclang went the bell. The glass doors opened and another demonstrator was hurled out. He tumbled a few steps before being caught by some of his fellows and half-carried down to the rest of us.
“They’ve pretty much cleared the lobby,” he reported. “A few people made it up to the second floor, where the registration office is. I think they’re still up there.” He rubbed a sore elbow and scowled at the building. “The guards recognize me, can’t seem to make it more than a few feet in…”
Of course he was easily recognizable, dressed in an old army jacket with ‘No War’ spray-painted across the back. I, on the other hand, was wearing a very bland outfit; down jacket, woolen hat and jeans. Noting the difference between us, I got a sudden urge to take up the challenge. Until that moment I had not been planning to do civil disobedience. I would just ‘check it out,’ I decided. If the guards caught me I would pretend I was lost and walk out peacefully - no need to get injured.
Thus self-assured, I stepped out of the picket line when it passed the corner and walked casually around to the side entrance. Up the steps and in the door I strolled, pretending to be another bored urban drone. No one tried to stop me.
Once inside I could see that our protest was having very little impact on business as usual; people were lined up at the teller’s windows or waiting for the elevators, much the same as any other day. Occasionally a shout would ring out and a couple of security guards would intercept a noisy demonstrator and eject them out the Milk Street door, but all the other doors were unimpeded. The people inside showed absolutely no interest in the protest, as if unruly invaders were just another thing to ignore on a busy downtown day.
Wearing an expression of mild contempt, I walked through the cavernous lobby, stepped onto an elevator and rode to the second floor. The doors opened on an empty hallway. I got out and stood there for a moment, wondering if I had the right floor. It was so quiet, not what I expected. I walked slowly along, looking in open doors, until I found the draft registration office.
There they were, sitting on the floor just inside the doorway; my fellow protestors. I didn’t know them very well, actually. The demonstration had been organized by a group called BAARD, the Boston Alliance Against Registration and the Draft. I had only attended their first few meetings. So much of the time was spent arguing and re-hashing previously made decisions that I soon lost interest. Keith had more patience than me, he sat through the meetings each week, perhaps because he had agreed to draw their posters, but he didn’t think much of BAARD’s primary three leaders - nor they of him.
Ironically, none of them - Regina, Iris or Gordon, were sitting on that floor. They were outside, shouting down the construction worker through their megaphones. Their absence perhaps contributed to the peaceful atmosphere in the registration office. I walked to the doorway and leaned in to have a look.
“Hey Jo!” A familiar woman waved at me. I waved back, trying desperately to remember her name. I had seen her at lots of political events and meetings. She was a Quaker… darn, what was her name? She patted the floor beside her. “Join us,” she said.
Whatever plans I had to just check it out dissipated in the moment’s reality. What was I going to do; say ’no thanks’ and walk away? I half-hoped that a security guard would appear and escort me back to the elevator but they were busy downstairs. Only one stood nearby, keeping an eye on things. He didn’t seem to be interested in stopping me, so I stepped carefully over the other protestors - who slid aside to let me pass - and sat down next to the woman whose name I could not remember.
“Eve Renzeler” she re-introduced herself. “I’ve seen you at a couple of meetings. How are you, Jo?”
“Fine thanks, it’s nice to be warm.” I unzipped my coat and stuffed the woolen hat into a pocket. “How long have you guys been up here?”
“About an hour,” Eve replied, “What’s going on outside?” I told her about the picket line and the many failed attempts to reach the second floor. She chuckled when I described the scene of shouting protestors rushing the door, only to be thrown out minutes later.
“It’s all symbolic anyway,” she observed dryly, “but if they would just shut up for a few moments and walk in like civilized people, they would probably be able to get up here. I didn’t find it that hard.”
“True,” I agreed, “all I had to do was pretend not to care.”
“Sadly so,” Eve sighed. “I really hoped we would get a bigger turnout, but people don’t seem to be interested in political action anymore. Nobody wants to get involved.”
“They’ll get involved when their asses are dragged off to war,” grumbled the young man sitting in front of us. I recognized him from the BAARD meetings; Gavin. He was one of the group’s more vocal members, whose arguments and ‘points of order’ had bogged down many a seemingly simple decision. But at least Gavin had the conviction to put his own ass on the line, I reminded myself; his contentious counterparts had not even attempted to enter the building.
To be fair, BAARD also had a number of very committed, very hard-working organizers. They facilitated the lengthy meetings with strict attention to process, allowing everyone a chance to speak and debate each other if they wished. Looking around, I could see several of these BAARD members present; Evan, Veronica, Julie… I waved to each, hoping they didn’t think badly of me for skipping so many meetings. They waved back, smiling.
We sat there for another hour or so, chatting amongst ourselves and occasionally singing favorites like ‘We Shall Overcome” and ‘Down by the Riverside.’ Only one young man came to the doorway to register. When he saw us he just shrugged and turned away, promising to come back when we were gone.
Soon after that, a handful of police officers arrived to arrest us, which they did without much incident. Some people went limp and had to be carried out. Not me. When my turn came I stood up and walked down the hall, into the elevator and then out to the squad car, to sit of my own accord in the back seat and watch through the wire mesh as those much braver than I were dragged and thrown into other cars. Some, like Gavin, argued and shouted about fascism as they were hauled along. Others were silent, eyes fixed forward as if they could see a better place ahead, towards which their painful mode of transport was just another step on the path.
*******
“Peaches! Getcha Peaches! Five for a dollah, don't make me hollah!”
“Clams! Scallops! Dollah Pound! Best damn price you'll find around!”
Accompanied by a chorus of circling seagulls overhead, the Haymarket vendors sang their ageless song of the marketplace. They sparred with each other through catchy rhymes or impromptu commentary on passers-by (especially the pretty women). They haggled non-stop with their hardened weekly customers, many of whom had known them for decades. Wizened old women in black dresses with sparkling eyes pointed out even the tiniest bruise or blemish. Haymarket was open every weekend Thursday through Sunday. By that final afternoon the vociferous vendors were ready to go home; motivated to negotiate some pretty sweet deals.
“I'll give you a dollar for the case,” I said, pointing to a lone crate of tomatoes at the back of a stand.
“Five dollah,” the thick-waisted proprietor shot back, pulling a tarp-roof from its frame.
“Tree dollah,” I resorted to my native accent, long ago trained away in speech classes. It worked.
“Tree dollah, OK,” he grunted, reaching for the money. I carted my prize back to the van, where C.T. was poring over his finds; a case of onions, one fifty pound bag of carrots, two boxes of cabbages and a relatively small sack of garlic, parsley and cilantro.
“All for under ten dollars,” he grinned, “what have you got?”
“Tomatah, tree dollah,” I slid it towards him. He piled the crate on top of the others and we both returned to the dwindling market. We took the alley behind the stalls now, a thin strip of sidewalk that ran between the stands and street, where idling trucks awaited their owners much as horses probably stamped in their harnesses a hundred years ago. Along this curb the best finds still waited; the free food, cheaper to throw away than to drive back to Chelsea. Here Brian and Keith were busily picking through teetering cartons, tossing their chosen fruits and veggies into a box they carried between them. C.T. peered inside.
“Wow, mangoes!” He plucked one out and sniffed it. “We could make a salsa, you know? With these and the tomatoes.”
“Sounds good,” Brian said, “help me with this, OK?” He and C.T. pulled the box down to the next pile, where Keith was sorting oranges.
“We can juice these,” C.T. continued, “maybe make some kind of pasta salad.”
“I know a good recipe for rice salad that uses orange juice, we make it at the Golden Temple all the time,” I piped up.
“Indonesian rice salad, of course!” C.T. exclaimed. “We'll have to buy some olive oil....”
He created the menu in his mind as we drove back to Dorchester, occasionally climbing to the rear of the van to root out possible ingredients.
We spent the next two days preparing rice salad, a spicy carrot soup and marinated cabbage slaw, using every pot in the kitchen plus a few more bought last-minute at the Goodwill store. Finding serving utensils was more of a challenge; we had to pay for paper cups, bowls and towels (for napkins). I ‘borrowed’ some plastic spoons from the Golden Temple.
Our plan was to dress in rags to portray an old-fashioned soup line, and hand out pamphlets about the economy of war, hunger, etc. to passers-by, including the bank’s board shareholders. I don’t recall who came up with the idea of integrating real homeless people into the protest, but, as a last minute idea it seemed worthy of a try.
On the eve of the shareholders’ meeting, when everything was packed safely in the front hall, most of us went out with posters to paste around town, while Keith and C.T. went down to the Pine Street Inn, one of Boston’s biggest shelters. There they spoke with the residents about our action and invited them to join us for lunch on the following day.
*******
The plaza by South Station was bustling with pedestrians when we drove up the next morning. C.T. pulled the van over by a fire hydrant, the only available parking spot, and we jumped out to unload it. We carried sawhorses and detached doors to the center of the square, where we constructed our tables.
The bank’s employees watched from the windows. Most of them had seen us before. We had each stood in front of First National on different occasions, sometimes marching in a picket line or handing out fliers, often chanting our enemy's crimes. For them we were a minor disruption, a mere annoyance or vaguely interesting spectacle. As we brought out the steaming pots of soup and vegetables, however, their skeptical faces took on a tinge of curiosity. This was new. This was different.
We set out the meal and literature on the tables and waited. Everything was ready; food and utensils arranged neatly on one table, stacks of pamphlets on the other, topped with stones to keep them from blowing away.
“Now what?” I asked no one in particular. C.T. busied himself checking the flame on the propane stove. Keith and Mira went in search of more rocks for paperweights. Brian leaned back against a stone wall, eyes closed.
“Now we let it happen,” he said. “Didn’t I see your new drum in the van?”
“Um… yeah, it’s under the table. I though I might maybe play it… sometime today.” It was a conga. I bought it from ‘Conga Jim,’ a dreadlocked drum maker in Central Square, to play in protests and spontaneous musical jams. “It hasn’t really been broken in yet,” I hedged.
“No time like the present,” Brian murmured, then he closed his eyes and appeared to fall asleep. I pulled it from the boxes and buckets under the table and tapped the skin hesitantly.
“Maybe I should tune it?”
“Sounds fine to me,” Mira said. She deposited a handful of rocks on the literature table and settled down next to Brian. “Come on, give us a beat.”
“Yeah… OK.” I had never played in public before but I needn‘t have worried; my stage fright lasted only as long as it took my hand to move through space and hit that skin for the very first time.
BOOM - BOOM - BOOMbabaBOOM! Intoxicating sound echoed against the surrounding buildings, instantly transforming the atmosphere from dull to dynamic. People started walking our way just to see what was going on. From the table, C.T. flashed a big thumbs-up, nodding encouragement. I played harder.
One by one, from the street and subway below, our guests showed up. Some pushed shopping carts piled with their belongings, others carried their treasures in garbage bags, many wore blankets over their shoulders. Thus loaded with all their worldly possessions, they made their way to the table. Mira and David poured tea, C.T. and Brian ladled soup and salad into bowls, Keith handed out fliers and I played the drum.
Soon the shareholders began to arrive for their meeting. Unlike their heavily burdened counterparts, they traveled easily; springing from taxis and limos at the curb, bearing only lightweight briefcases or designer pocketbooks. They talked intently with each other, looking straight ahead or down at their own shiny shoes as they walked by, trying to ignore the party to which we loudly invited them.
No matter; the lunch line had plenty of willing takers. This unusual sight drew more passers-by. At first just curious, when they understood what was happening many stayed for a free meal. The line of people swelled out from our table and snaked onto the sidewalk.
Over my flying hands, I saw Keith offering leaflets to the passing shareholders. Some of them accepted only to crumple the paper into a trashcan before stepping in the door. A very few folded it into their pockets, nodding a quick thanks. Only one was brave enough to stop and take a cup of tea. She talked to C.T. and Brian for a while and dropped a donation into the can before continuing on.
We stayed all afternoon. I played that drum until my fingers cracked knowing that, even if the shareholders refused to look at us, they would hear us… unless they were sitting in that meeting with their fingers in their ears. Did they get the message? If they did, they didn't do anything about it. The bank voted that day for their usual array of shameful investments and corrupt representatives. But, and this is much more significant, WE got it. As we cleaned up the trash and carried our pots and tables back to the van, we talked about how this had been the most powerful protest any of us had attended in ages.
“I think we should do it again,” Keith suggested. We all nodded vigorously.
“Soon,” we agreed, “very soon.
*******
“So Betty... Welcome. Thank you for joining us today.”
“Thank you!” I gushed.
“What can you tell us about yourself, Betty? Why are you here? What would you like to accomplish?”
“Well...” I put a finger to my chin and posed like Shirley Temple. “I'm here to meet Archie of course!”
“Of course.” The video camera whirred. “And what's that you brought with you?”
“A picnic.” I dangled the basket invitingly. It had taken no small effort to find the right prop. Luckily Mom had one she was willing to loan me. A red and white checked tablecloth protruded from its lid.
“So you and Archie are going to have a picnic?”
“Yes!” I squealed excitedly. “I've been waiting all week!”
Our instructions for this workshop had been to bring a costume and whatever props necessary to act the part of a comic book character that we identified with. Many had chosen superheroes to enact. I had come as Betty, Archie’s ever-naive backup girlfriend, wearing petal pushers and a sweater set, blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. I had been hoping to use the opportunity to work off my heartbreak over Eddie but, as usual, my improv didn't go as planned.
“Where's Archie?” Steve asked.
“Oh... he'll be along any minute now.”
“Do you see him here?”
My eyes searched the room. A dozen or so people sat on the floor in front of our makeshift stage. They were actors like me, here not to develop roles and masks but to remove them. We were all hoping to discover ourselves after years, maybe a lifetime, of trying to be someone else.
“No.”
“Are you sure he's coming?”
“He said he'd be here.” I sounded anything but sure.
“How are you feeling right now Betty?”
“Great!” I started to cry.
“Then why are you crying?”
“Because...” I sniffed and wiped my nose with the picnic cloth, “... I know he's with Veronica, I just KNOW it!”
“This isn't the first time he's broken a promise is it? Left you waiting?” Steve asked. I covered my face and sobbed. He continued, “How old are you Betty?”
“Se... Seventeen.”
“You seem a lot younger than that. How old does she seem to you Adam?”
“Maybe eight,” replied a young actor dressed as Batman.
“Betty..” Steve took a pull on his Sherlock Holmes pipe. I don't know if he did it only for effect, he didn't smoke outside of these nightly theater sessions. Each day began with exercises; yoga, running, chores and meditation. After lunch came writing, artwork and warm-ups. Then, on a light dinner, we retired to whatever stage we had designated and began the real work; the acting.
“Betty,” Steve continued, “what are you going to do? Archie dumped you.” I thought for a minute, sniffing, staring at my saddle shoes. The picnic basket weighed heavy in my hand.
“The heck with Archie!” I blurted with false bravado. “I'm giving this food to someone else!” A few in the audience clapped but Steve waved them quiet.
“Who?” he asked. I looked around the room at my fellow cartoon characters.
“Everyone. Come on everyone, let's eat.” I flipped open the basket and yanked out the cloth. No one moved.
“Everyone?” Another pull on the pipe. “Do you have enough food in that basket?”
“I'll get more.”
“Everyone is going to need a lot of food Betty. Are you sure you don't mean just someone else?” He fingered a photograph. I knew who it was, my father. We always got down to this in the end. My monumentally poor judgment in relationships was inherited, it went back for generations. I needed to look beyond this most recent broken heart at the ‘bigger picture’ as Steve would say, but I didn’t want to. Rapidly regressing, I stamped in rebellion.
“Everyone! I'll get the food. I'll feed all the hungry people and everyone will love me, not just someone,” I spat. “Because someone never shows up. Someone breaks their promises. Someone is a real shit!”
“Betty!” Steve feigned surprise, “are you sure that’s what you feel?”