Seems like political demonstrations are an everyday thing now. When a democracy is at stake, this should be the norm. It's got me thinking back to the days of the late 1960s when that was also the case. As US involvement in Vietnam became increasingly unpopular, the opportunities to protest became frequent and the number of people involved grew exponentially as well.
In November of 1969 the largest political demonstration in US history took place in Washington DC. Called the Vietnam Moratorium, as estimated 500,000 people took to the street. This event took place over two days, a Friday night and the following Saturday. I was there. This experience was probably the most significant thing (of which I'm aware) I have ever done.
While the Saturday march and rally featured speakers and musicians, and a march through the streets of Washington, the smaller march the night before is what I remember most. On a rainy night, about 100,000 people participated in a candle lit march with a very specific objective. By November 15, 1969 it was estimated that 32,000 Americans had been killed in the Vietnam War. One of my closest high school buddies was one of them. Each marcher in this march was to carry the name of one of the 32,000. The march wound its way over a bridge on the Potomac River and eventually to the White House. Our instructions were to stop in front of the iron gate, face forward looking directly into the windows, and shout the name you were carrying. We then marched to the steps of the Capital Building where large coffin shaped plywood containers were set up. Once there we would remove the name sign we carries and placed it in one of the giant coffins. That's where and when our participation in the march ended. Congress would have to deal with the coffins because they were left there on the steps.
Here is how I remember those events>
In November of 1969 I was living and working as a VISTA Volunteer in Huston, Texas. Most of us on this project were recent college graduates. We were not strangers to political demonstrations, and because many of us had lost family or friends in the Vietnam war, our sensibilities were raw. We all wanted to go to Washington and simply announced to our supervisors that were were taking a week off to go. There was very little they could do and most of them wanted to be there too. With that settled, the problem go getting there soon arose. We wouldn't get our second $180. check until later in the month so we had to pool our limited resources for gas and food. Most of us had very little savings, but had sqirreled away a 10 or 20 dollar bill somewhere for emergencies. This was an emergency.
One of my colleagues had a friend in Gaithersburg, Maryland, a few short miles from DC. Whence gave us the use of her one bedroom apartment for 3 days, the excitement grew. We could easily sleep 10 people in that space using the living room floor and any other space available. With gas at 35 cents a gallon, the 20 hour trip definitely seemed doable. We could take turns driving and go straight through with no lodging needed until we reached DC.
Our route fromTexas to Washington would take us through parts of Mississippi, Alabama, Tennessee and North Carolina. 6 young men traveling through parts of the rural South, with hair a bit longer than usual needed allow profile. Pat was from Kansas and his Polara had a Kansas plate, so that might help. Pat warned us that his old Dodge had a few quirks, but he felt it would get us there.
When all the details were finalized, I let some family and friends know where I was going and then set out to convince my girlfriend who was in Chicago that she needed to come to Washington too. Kim, an ex-VISTA was doing social work in South Chicago but was able to get a week off. She easily secured a ride and was to meet me in Maryland he evening of my arrival.
Our trip was fairly smooth until we arrived within an hour of Washington. I managed a little sleep in the night hours and marveled at the beauty of the countryside in Mississippi and Alabama and Tennessee. Previously I had only images of racial hatred from these Southern states. We picked out stops carefully and kept that low profile stopping only for gas and cheap hamburgers and fries.
On the outskirts of Washington, Pat announced that he was going to turn on the headlights. His batter had a tendency to overcharge, so by turning on the lights it would help stabilize it. Ironically, there was a small counter march in support of the war scheduled to begin that weekend too. Supporters of the war were urged to drive into Washington with their headlights on. Bummer! We had no choice. Many in that old car slumped down and avoided eye contact, lest we be identified as war supporters.
Arriving at the apartment, we soon staked out our sleeping areas. I knew I couldn't grab the bedroom because it would contain 3 or 4 other people. Therefore, I laid claim to the only place where we might have some privacy--the kitchen. This narrow little kitchen had barely enough room for a sleeping bag on the floor but did have a slatted semi-door that mostly closed. It would have to do. The floor was hard and there was a pot on one of the stove burners that seemed to hang precariously overhead. Any sudden movements could lead to a sharp conk on the head.
Kim arrived on time and we made camp in the kitchen. No meals would be cooked so we could leave our things there. That first night someone told us about the march for that evening. We jumped on the chance to get outside after being cooped up in a car for two days. From the sound of this march I'd get to see some of the iconic buildings in the nation's capital as well.
The march was extremely well organized. I recall tables set up in a park and monitors all wearing arm bands as a form of identification. My friends and I all received a placard with a name neatly printed on it. There was white string tied on so that we could slip the name sign over our heads and walk with the name displayed in front of us. We were given a candle inside a paperclip with the bottom cut out. When lit the cup protected the candle from the wind so that it would stay lit. Our march would cover about two miles going by the White House and ending at the Capital steps. On a bridge over the Potomac I recall it started raining. Occasionally, someone's candle would be extinguished. It was quickly re-lit by another's candle. This happened repeatedly. Cold and wet, but burning bright we persevered. A rumor spread among the marchers that the parents and family members of many of the names we carried were along the route looking for the names of their loved one. I saw what appeared this happening every so often. I carried the name Gary Lyle Richardson. I knew nothing else of this fallen soldier.
Finally, the white house came into view and the line slowed as each marcher would stop face the front door and shout the name. When my turn came, I solemnly did the same, though I was so cold why voice sounded as if I was in pain. I remember the iron bars on the gate, and some dimly lit windows of the house. Word was that Nixon was not in town. He was going to a football gamethat weekend and had already departed for another state.
By the time we reached the Capital, I was cold and tired. But the sight of the building itself and the oversized coffins soon woke me. As those before me, I removed my name sign and placed it in one of the coffins. Before I rejoined my friends, I turned around and took one last look at the gleaming white Capital and the long line of marchers placing names in the coffins. I wanted to sear that moment in my mind.
With very little sleep, and one defy poignant march behind us, many of us watched the next day's rally on a small black and white TV. The singers and anti-war activists put on quite a show. before we hit the road for home, heard of an incident in Du Pont circle, where a small group of activists encountered riot police and were tear-gassed. Other than that, the hundreds of thousands in town remained peaceful confident they made a statement.
In the years that followed, it became known that the 1969 Vietnam moratorium had made a difference. Some of Nixon’s closest advisors reported that he realized just how unpopular that war was as a result of the amount of the people in the street. Nixon had announced he had a “Secret plan to end the war.” His advisors said that plan involved the use of tactical nuclear weapons in Vietnam. He changed his plans because of that march, they said.
Two weeks after we returned to Texas the draft lottery was held. When one of my colleagues, originally from England, received number 2, he soon left the project and returned to the UK. Others, like myself made tough decisions based on the number they received. I was in limbo for 4 years.
Twenty five years after that march I returned to Washington DC. As aparticipant in a summer institute for educators, I had very little free time. Finally one afternoon I found a couple of hours when I could do as I pleased. I made a beeline for the Vietnam Memorial. First I located the name Bill Garcia, my high school friend. After a meditative 30 minutes or so, I returned to the directory and paid a visit to Gary Lyle Richardson, the name I carried.
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