Project 1968

The Envelope

August 29, 1968

by Amy

Time - unknown

I'm huddled in a church basement right now, looking at a manila envelope. Glasses wanted me to pick it up. I don't even know where he is, so I don't know where I can bring it. Nor do I know who left it. I'd like to look inside, to see what's in the envelope, but it's sealed.

Outside I hear pigs. I an hear yelling and sirens and chanting. I'm just off the  Loop, which has been fierce for the past few hours. I can't believe no one else has found refuge in here. I also can't believe that the church didn't volunteer the space for housing young people. We could've easily fit about 50 kids in here.

I just wish I knew what was in this envelope. Maybe I should take a look.

Hube the Pube

August 29, 1968

by Janine Stephenson

 

12:30 a.m.

I hope Hubert Humphrey feels awful because he won. Someone from the Wisconsin delegation tried to start a chant: "Hube the Pube!" It didn't go far. Some people were upset by the foul language. Others were afraid that security would crack heads.

 

It's over for tonight. The convention, that is. But no one knows what to do now. The delegates are still walking around, with lots of people muttering. I haven't seen Craig or Becca and I'm starting to get worried.

 

Ron has invited me to the Drake Hotel. They are having a big meeting to determine what we should do, what the next step is. But then, some of the delegates are gathering to talk about having a candlelight march to speak out about what happened outside.

 

I personally am scared to go outside. Some alternates report that the police violence has subsided, but I just don't know. Are they going to attack us like they did everyone else? I was stupid enough to wear heels tonight too. I don't think I can run fast in bare feet.

 

Right now I'm waiting for Mrs. Stoutmiller outside of the powder room. We'll figure out what to do in a few minutes.

 

I just feel awful... about everything.

 

In the News: August 29, 1968

Unstoppable

August 28, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

5 p.m.
Craig is gone. He yelled at Ron that he was going to burn his convention pass in the park. It's horrible. She told him that it was important not to give up, but he just kept saying over and over again that it was all a set-up. The entire convention was a big fake, phony exercise and that the whole thing was rigged.

I have to admit, it looks like he's right. It doesn't matter what the people want. We have no say in our own government. "IT'S A SHAM! THE WHOLE GODDAMN THING IS A SHAM! WE'VE WASTED OUR TIME!"

That's what he screamed before he left. Becca followed him, but then she turned back and looked to me to see if I'd come too.

But then I looked back at Ron, who looked so tired and awful. He was sitting in front of his clipboard, so hurt and wounded. I asked him if he was going to leave for the park as well. He shook his head. "It's too easy."

So I stayed. Becca was disappointed and I admit, part of me wanted to go with them. But I couldn't. So I stayed.

7 p.m.
They are getting ready for nominations. Why does everything move so slow here? It takes forever to get anything done.

I haven't been down to the floor of the convention. Ron says the place is depressed, but most people behind the scenes look angry. I told Mrs. Stoutmiller what happened to Craig and Becca. It was very upsetting. She is very worried that something is going to happen to them. It is like a war zone outside and some of the delegates are making provisions in case they can't go back to their hotel. Is there a back room where people can lay down?

I'm angry at Becca. And I'm also afraid for her. What if she gets arrested? She hit that policeman in Madison. What if she does it again?

9:30 p.m.
We're standing by a television watching what is happening outside. I can't believe it. No one can. Mrs. Stoutmiller says that some delegates are planning to protest inside the convention. I certainly don't want to be on the floor when that happens.

Ron keeps trying not to stare at the television. He's talking with people, chatting up The Senator's aides. We wonder how The Senator will get to the Amphitheatre. What kind of security precautions are there?

I just saw a cop hit a demonstrator across the legs. It was a blonde girl. He broke his baton.

Disgusting.

10 p.m.
They're going to try to move the convention. I don't know where yet, but everyone is saying that democracy can't happen under this kind of threat. You can't shut people up by force.

Ron is sitting next to me, his eyes glued to the television. "It's an historical moment, blondie. Let's get this convention moved."

10:30 p.m.
We can't get enough organized quickly enough to get it through. The Humphrey/Daley people are ramming it through.

We can't stop them.

An Arrest & a Black Eye

August 28, 1968

by Amy

 

6:10 a.m.

I don't know the specifics yet, but they've arrested Glasses for littering. At around 3 this morning, Glasses was at the Grant Park band shell. He was with four other people, including his two pig tails. He put a stack of pamphlets on the ground - just for a moment - so he could grab a clipboard and the tails walked over and arrested him. People around him were stunned. They started yelling. Glasses instructed them to calm down and call Legal Aid. So that's where we are, at the Legal Aid storefront near the park, trying to spring Glasses out.

 

I feel like I'm walking around under water. Maybe it's lack of sleep, but this week feels like forever.

 

10:20 a.m.

It's going to take a while to get him out. Legal Aid figures that they'll hold people until after the convention. Lesley has offered to step in and try to stage manage the speeches, etc. I'm going to try to help out as well. My original plan for today was to try and do some organizing with the McCarthy sock hop kids and young hippies.

 

The problem, as we originally thought it would be, is that people have no place to stay. Not as many have shown up as we thought. But the people who are here have built a community. I love being with them. I love talking to other women about their experiences in the Movement. I love helping kids find a place to crash. It's the community, the sense that we can have a community without the government. The police have done everything they could to break us up. I know it's because they have no power in our community. They could join us and be with us. The invitation is always there. They won't join us because they see us as a threat. ... A community that has no right to exist.

 

12:10 p.m.

Kid's left eye is blazingly blue from the hit he took from a PL member. Coleman happened to be there, interviewing a member when Kid arrived. He began screaming "RED COMMIE" to the PLs. While Progressive Labor makes no bones about who they are and what they represent, they didn't like the scene. Kid also mentioned that he's the son of a pig. So they kicked the shit out of Kid. Coleman saved him.

 

That's Coleman's version, though Kid doesn't deny any of it. I had my doubts about Coleman's story, since he thinks Kid's a pest. At one point, Coleman called him Piglet but that pissed off a nearby hippie. "Leave Piglet alone, man. He never did anything to you."

 

2:30 p.m.

Lesley says that Glasses is getting out of the clinker. I don't know how it happened or when he will show up again. He asked me to go to a church to pick up a sealed envelope for him. I also need to make sure that no one follows me. I wonder what it is.

Aftermath

August 28, 1968
by Amy

12:10 a.m. - Lincoln Park

They were beaten. We watched them from afar. They beat the priests who gathered to protect us. Coleman asked Glasses if the priests knew what was about to happen. Glasses assured him that they did. They sent him away, and they stayed.

I turned away when it started. Everyone around us screamed. It was awful. Horrible. I saw one girl go into the bushes and vomit. It wasn't from tear gas. I, too, felt like throwing up.

They love their violence. They love it in their wars and in their movies. They don't see themselves as murderers. They have no connection to the human spirit. They all look alike because they lost their humanity. They wear the same haircut and have the same job to go home to the same wife with a different name. They kill and maim because they've lost their souls. Whatever it is that makes us all human. It no longer exists in them.  They can't see others as fellow humans because they aren't human.

The pigs didn't even give the priests a chance. They beat them down until they were on their hands and knees. The medics were shocked that no one was killed.  Maybe it was because the priests submitted to it. They didn't fight. I would've fought, on instinct alone. But they didn't.

It's not something I'll ever understand. I'm not that good. It's the reason I'm afraid sometimes. Because I know that inside me, there is someone who will fight back. I can't submit like they did. I don't know if I ever could.

I realize, too, that all this time we've been hoping that when people act inhumanely to each other, that they will wake up and see what they're doing. That their violence will wake them and make them see that they aren't being themselves. But I don't think that will ever happen. Evil sleeps a sound slumber, from which it will never awaken.

Peace Platform Vote

August 28, 1968

by Janine Stephenson

 

At 1:30 a.m.

 

There's a huge demonstration going on right now in the hall. They are fighting over the platform. Hump and his friends are trying to get the platform voted on tonight. We are trying to get them to agree to have a platform of peace. But Ron says that the only way we can get them to agree to peace is through brute force. That's what he says, but he says he didn't say it. We absolutely cannot let them vote on the platform now. Absolutely not. No one at home is watching television.

 

Can you hear the booing? It's loud. So much so that when people come out of the hall, we can hear it echo and reverberate all the back where we are. Becca is wondering if there will be a riot inside the hall. If so, will anyone get killed? She's scared.

 

I am, too. But I'm tired of being afraid.

 

****

At 2:30 a.m.

 

We're back at the hotel. . It's too noisy to sleep. It feels like it's broad daylight outside, but it isn't. I can't see the people out there, but we can hear them. They chant and yell into bullhorns, or maybe that's the police. I hear cars beeping their horn. It feels like the world is focused on our hotel. That the crowd thinks that if only they can persuade us, then maybe we can stop the war. But they don't understand. We don't have the power to stop the war. We're not in control.

 

Becca keeps flicking the lights in response to the chanting. They want to interact with us. They want us to hear them. We do, but it isn't going to help.

 

****

Noon

 

I feel much better. As soon as my bed hit the pillow, I feel asleep. I woke up with the hot sun shining right into my face. Becca was already awake. She asked me if it was possible to get a tan through the window. I wonder...

 

Ron said that he went to bed around 4 a.m. After the session ended, he went into the hotel bar and gulped a few. He always wanted to do this politics game, but maybe he needs to do something else, like advertising. But then, you can't have a heart if you go into advertising so he isn't sure what he wants to do. Usually politics is as exciting as hell, but now it's just hell.

 

We'll have to stop the convention, if we want to stop the war.

 

Mrs. Stoutmiller came by again to say hello.

 

****

At 1 p.m.

 

Becca and I went down to the floor of the convention to be with Mrs. Stoutmiller. It seems that security is extra tight if you support the wrong person. Anyway, Becca and I hung out with Mrs. Stoutmiller for a while. It was sort of fun and exciting and sort of boring. It's hard to hear people talking down there and carrying on a conversation is close to impossible. It's like everyone is jammed into a place, such a tiny place, so they're agitated. If you brush up against someone by accident, they get upset. And if you're wearing the wrong button, they stay upset.

 

I'm the first in my family to be at a political convention, so I can't wait to call home to tell them. Becca wanted to wave to the television men, but I thought that was silly. Though we did get to see Chet Huntley. How exciting is that? It's hard to believe that people you see on television really exist, but sure enough, Chet Huntley does!

 

****

at 3:30 p.m.

 

They're voting on the platform. Craig and Becca are tracking the total. Ron is sitting quietly. He looks like he's going to cry. I feel so bad for him, and for all of us. Mrs. Stoutmiller came by. She's pursing her lips.

 

I feel sick to my stomach.

 

In the News: August 28, 1968

All the Live Long Day

August 27, 1968
by Amy

at 10:30 a.m.
Word is that Johnson is coming to Chicago. Everyone has been talking about it all day. "We have to make sure he isn't coming! He can't come! They want to nominate him!" The Yippies are going to have their Un-Birthday Party for Johnson, since it's his birthday. I don't know what the plan is with that, except it's going to be funny. That I do know.

I also know that we're going to march to the Amphitheater tomorrow. We plan on being nonviolent. Still. But honestly, no one is turned on by nonviolence anymore. No one wants to get their heads bashed in. They want to fight back. There really is no point in going to slaughter. Or, as Glasses says, "There's nothing more useless than a dead organizer."

So people are beginning to arm themselves, at least for defensive measures. They have vaseline for the tear gas, football helmets and padding. Women don't wear jewelry. There's a whole lot of people here who aren't regulars at our Induction protests. They tend to be the troubling ones. I don't know what we can do about this, as it feels like things are out of control. Glasses assures me that it isn't. It's only the illusion that things aren't in control. They want us to be afraid and confused, but it feels like this is far bigger than we are.

****
at 1 p.m.
I have not gone to many of the speaker rallies. We have had quite a few people give some great speeches about peace and nonviolence. I bumped into Lesley, who told me that our women's group will be meeting tomorrow afternoon. We want to use this time to talk to other women about how things are within the Movement. There is no time like now to reach out to women from around the country. There is a diverse group here.

****
at 6 p.m.
Glasses is still being followed and he's given his notes to Coleman and me. I'm still being followed by Kid, who wants to know (constantly it seems) if I need help. Or maybe we can go on a date. Good God.

****
at 9:30 p.m.
The ministers and priests who support us, who are appalled at how many people are being beaten up here at Lincoln are now gathering in the park. They are going to challenge the curfew. People have pleaded with them to PLEASE not do this. The police don't care about God or ministers or nuns or nothing. I'm so afraid someone is going to get killed. These people don't deserve this. They don't deserve it.

I don't want to know what happens next.

Surrounded by Rage

August 27, 1968 - Around 2:30 a.m.?

by Janine Stephenson

 

Oh dear God. I'm still at the convention. I don't know when people plan to sleep - maybe they don't - but you would never believe what just happened. There was an actual FIGHT on the floor!  Let me see if I can explain this right:

 

As I mentioned earlier, there were two Georgia delegations. One was official and the other had come to the convention in the hopes that the official group would be kicked out. The fight was over the official delegation had been elected through racist means. I don't understand the intracacies of all that, except that it's not a stretch to think that Georgia would try to cheat black people. So when they announced that the official delegation would remain seated, the challenging delegation rose up and started going after the official delegation!

 

I didn't see it happen. The only thing I know is that someone yelled "FIGHT!" into our room and everyone rushed out to see what was happening. Not all of us could get onto the floor or even see what was happening. There was a loud chanting and people running off the floor to talk to various people. Complete chaos.

 

I'm still trying to find out what's happening.

 

More on the Georgia delegation: The official ones were chosen. I'm not sure who chose the unofficial ones. Were they elected? I don't know. But I have heard that the official delegation is all-white and the unofficial one is black and white.

 

****

Around 5 p.m.

 

We finally made it back to our hotel room at 4 in the morning. Ron said that I would have a hard day ahead, so we should meet again at noon. Becca and I rode the passenger bus back to the hotel. It all seemed so eerie outside, so dark and quiet. I wondered what happened while we were inside the convention - if anything. I saw some things strewn in the street and there were people walking around. Otherwise, I don't think anything has happened.

 

I wonder if Baby John has been here.

 

Becca and I slept soundly and got up around 11 a.m. My hair doesn't look right, but I also know that no one is looking at my hair. I have a list of delegations that are supposed to get literature to pass to their delegations. Of course, not everyone is friendly to us, so we're not asking for trouble. We pass on the unfriendly ones and concentrate on the doves.

 

Everyone is still talking about the Georgians. Some say that they've never seen anything like it. Ron still wants me to go to the floor of the convention - tonight. He says it's an experience I have earned. But I don't know. I'm afraid of being surrounded by angry people. And everyone here is ANGRY!

 

In the News: August 27, 1968

Back Rooms, Again

August 26, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

Ron is still talking to people. Becca  and Craig are handling the process of passing out literature to delegates. But we’re having a problem getting them to the floor. Guards won’t let us in with them. Humphrey’s material makes it through security, but we can’t get our stuff in.

Someone has just shouted that there’s a problem with Georgia. I don’t understand what’s happening, but evidently, some states have two delegations. Craig says that it has something to do with how they’ve picked their delegations. There’s a racist way that they’re doing it and now the Democrats have to prove that they aren’t a racist party.

“Either you represent white folks or you represent everyone.” How this Georgia thing turns out will determine everything.

But we still don’t know how we’re going to get our stuff on the floor of the convention. And we still don’t know how we can fight against the President. Why doesn’t Humphrey just tell Johnson to go jump in a lake?

I hope Mrs. Stoutmiller stops by again. She’s been coming by to ask us if we need anything. Just like the old days. It’s nice to see her again.

Dad in the Crowd and an Arrest

August 26, 1968
by Amy

My Father is somewhere around. That’s what Mom said when she called me this morning. I’m supposed to look out for him. I guess he knows where to find me. After all, Kid found me quite easily. I swear, the little guy has to work for the police. He’s quite astute at figuring out our next move.

I think the biggest problem right now is up in Lincoln Park. They had a bad trip last night up there. The police cracked down on the curfew. Who the hell knows why they did it, since people who were there were just trying to find a place to crash. But it doesn’t matter, does it? It was bad. Quite a few people got hurt, and it was inexcusable.

A few hours ago, the Yips held a news conference and told reporters that they sent a telegram to the Secretary-General at the U.N. to try to get impartial observers here. At first, the idea struck me as funny but then I started to wonder what would happen if things got much worse. What happens when one of the richest and most stable countries on the planet goes crazy and tries to kill its citizens? What happens when the U.S. becomes a dictatorship? After all, these are OUR streets, not the Mayor’s.

How would the world react to the news that the U.S. is beating its citizens? Would they write condemnations like they’re doing to the Soviets? Or does the world think that everything America does is justified and wonderful?

*******
We just found out that Tom has been arrested. Or perhaps a better word for it is “detained.” They arrested him for “letting air out of tires.” Because he was out in the park – in a baseball field – it’s clear that he wasn’t anywhere near a car.

You can’t arrest someone without due cause. They want him off the streets. Lots of angry people around. No one is going to stand for this nonsense. Neighborhood parishes and churches have been woken up and now they’re on our side. Priests say that they will be going into Lincoln Park tonight to stand in the way of police beating people up. They are going to sacrifice their bodies for us. One girl began crying when she heard this. I, too, felt like hugging them.

All of us are going to march on the police station to demand Tom’s freedom. I don’t care if I get hurt anymore. Kid has been quietly following me, though he’s not nearly as boisterous as yesterday. Instead, he looks scared.

Back Rooms

August 26, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

There is so much swirling around of people and paper that I can barely keep up with it. I am in one of the back rooms of the convention right now. It’s a windowless room with bare lights on the ceiling. There’s a fog of cigarette smoke above me. Every now and then, I look up and watch the fog gather around the bare lights.

But there isn’t much time for that. All day, I followed Ron around as he tried to contend with people shouting at him about the platform. Is our proposal – what they call a “plank” – going to be nominated? What have you heard? How can we push it through? What words do they want changed?

It looked like things were going to go well until Ron got word that Humphrey was going to back out of any deals that we’re even on the table. There would be no peace plank. Nothing. President Johnson bullied his way in and that was the end of it.

I asked Ron if it was true and he said, of course. Johnson has been doing this all along. Why would he stop now? But why doesn’t anyone know this? Why isn’t anyone telling the newspapers? Ron looked at me like I was stupid and then apologized. “I’m sorry, sweetie. You don’t have any idea what is really going on, do you?”

Someone has just come in to tell us that the convention has started. I don’t dare go out on the floor of the convention. From what I understand, it’s difficult to walk. Ron says that he think it would be a good idea for me to go, and I agree. It would be a good idea, but it may not be a practical one.

Becca and Craig are walking around the hallway. Becca said she wanted to see what was going on. I sure wish she’d come back.

In the News: August 26, 1968

The Day Before

August 25, 1968

by Janine Stephenson

 

We are strongly discouraged from going to the park. The campaign has given us the strictest of orders not to go down - even for curiosity sake. But that hasn't stopped Becca from nagging me about it. Our room overlooks the park, which is filled with people just like us. It is tempting. We won't be fired from the campaign if we go, but Ron said that a bunch of weird people were there. If we do go, Ron says that we should take off our campaign buttons so we don't get harassed. Make sure that there is nothing that identifies us.

 

The police do look scary. Last night, we saw them gather up in a line around the perimeter of the park and announce the curfew. A man in a black sweatshirt got right into the face of one policeman and screamed at him. Then we saw the police officer take a swing at him. The man ducked and ran. Becca and I did a double-take at that. I asked her if she still wanted to go down to the park and she said that she just wanted to see what it was like.

 

Neither of us could believe that the cop tried to hit the man. Frightening.

 

Ron says that we should study a map to get acclimated to the city. Even if we've been to Chicago before, we should still know major Democratic areas. We should also know where the buses will pick up delegates to bring them to the convention.

 

So today, we spent most of our time on the 15th floor of the hotel, meeting other campaign workers and getting our papers in order. Ron stopped by to inform me of the schedule. He also said that both Becca and I would need to be careful at the convention. As the policemen and security were on edge.

 

He didn't have to tell us twice.

 

I haven't been to the Amphitheatre yet, and part of me is afraid to go. I've been told that there's barbed wire around the area, and that men will yell at you even if you have the right credentials.

 

It makes me wonder if something will happen at the convention. Maybe we won't even get to have a convention. But I don't want to think that.

Chanting in the Park

August 25, 1968

by Amy

 

Instead of staying at Grant Park, Glasses, Coleman, and I - with Kid in tow - walked all the way to Lincoln Park to see what was happening. Reporters mixed with Yips, Hippies and the rest. One old guy, holding a sign that said "NO BETTER RED THEN A DEAD RED," tried spitting on me but missed. The attempt made Coleman laugh. The misspelling made us laugh harder. Kid made a fist at him in agreement, but it looked like a Black Power fist. I'm not sure the old man knew what to do with that, so he made a fist back at Kid. It looked like they were going to fight, even though they agree with each other. I had to yank Kid out of the scene, fast.

 

Allen Ginsberg sat in the park, chanting with a group. Someone said that Allen thought the vibes could be changed. Maybe we could even alter the outcome of the convention. I don't know if I even care about that, since the convention is nothing more than an illusion. In the end, the only thing that really matters is that no one is hurt. In that way, I have to agree with Allen. There is something creepy about the way the police look at us. They aren't here for public safety, but have the police ever been?

 

Kid didn't understand what the chanting was about. I told him not to worry, it was something that makes people feel good. Like singing. He told me that he wasn't stupid, but I could tell that he really didn't get it.

 

Motor Scooter police rode around the park. One seemed to take particular pleasure in riding up close behind girls and then blowing his horn at them. The girls usually jumped or screamed. At around 10:30, they started warning people that curfew was coming. We decided to split, since it's no use getting in trouble so early in the week.

 

I asked Kid if he needed an escort home. After all, it was late. He said that he most certainly did not. His Mom didn't care where he was and his father was on duty. Crazy. He has to be lying.

 

In the News: August 25, 1968

Meanwhile, at the Conrad Hilton in the Chicago...

August 24, 1968

by Janine Stephenson

 

Dean Martin stayed at our hotel. So did President Kennedy and Lucille Ball, but not at the same time I don't think. Queen Elizabeth stayed at the Conrad in 1959. The busboy told me. I asked him if he ever met anyone famous and he said, "Of course!" Too bad I didn't have a chance to ask who it was he met.

 

The woman at the gift shop is snooty. Becca complained about it, but I told her that if she wasn't snooty then we wouldn't remember that we were staying in a fancy hotel. We are very lucky that we're not out in the park with the rest of the people. I haven't seen Baby John yet. But I can only imagine what it's like to sleep in a van under conditions like this.

 

But what's even better about everything is that Mrs. Stoutmiller found us! There was a knock on the door, we opened it and there she was. Exactly like I remember her. I missed her sooo much. She was very pleased to see us. She's staying with the rest of her delegation at the hotel next to ours, which I think is called the Blackstone or something like that. She was very proud of us for staying with the campaign. She said it showed commitment on our part... Even though we had our doubts.

 

Anyway, Mrs. Stoutmiller was very scared about the way the town looked. She hadn't been to Chicago in 20 years and it hasn't gotten much better since then. That, coupled with the wild people (that's what she calls hippies) and the barbed wire around the Amphitheatre... She told us to be sure to be very careful and to promise that we wouldn't go into the park.

 

We did. But as soon as she left, Becca told us that we have to go to the park. This is an extremely bad idea, especially in light of what happened at the Dow Protest. Becca punched a cop by accident. Or maybe it wasn't by accident. Either way, she could easily do something like it again, which is why we shouldn't go to the park. Besides, we promised Mrs. Stoutmiller and my feet hurt.

Coleman and the Kid

August 24, 1968
by Amy

I'm being followed by a kid. He's 15-years old, has blonde hair and carries Mad Magazine around with him. I'm surprised that he doesn't have a sling shot in his back pocket. I met him in Grant Park by the band shell. We were lining speakers up for the morning rallies, though technically we shouldn't have rallies. Sure enough this kid appears out of nowhere and starts hitting on me. He says that he loves my red hair and am I anyone's girl?

Are you kidding me? Am I anyone's girl? He's a freaking kid. I admit, I was slightly entertained by his gumption. I mean, here we are, surrounded by police (who mutter threats every time we pass too close) and this 15 year old wants me to be his girlfriend. He's not even old enough to be drafted.

But here's the kicker. His father is Chicago PD and he just tells me this like it's no big thing. Coleman asks him who his father is, and Kid says "Officer None of Your Business." But sure enough, his Dad is going to kick all of our asses.

Meanwhile, I'm wondering if this is my tail. If this Kid has been assigned to me to be "my keeper" during the convention. If so, how humiliating. I don't even rate a real cop.

Glasses laughs when I bitch about this. He tries to tell me that Kid is just a love-sick mutt, but I have a hard time thinking that this kid picked me out of a crowd.

Coleman decided that Kid would make an intriguing interview. Glasses doesn't think it's a good idea. After all, he's a kid. But Coleman insists.

*** Kid doesn't think that Coleman is a real newsman since he has no equipment like the others. Coleman assured him that he was a radical journalist, meaning that his body was his equipment. Kid thought about it for a moment before being skirted off by a radio reporter, who wanted a teenager's perspective on all this hullabaloo. His perspective was fairly standard. He couldn't wait for the police to come and beat us all up. Then he looked over at me to see if I heard. I pretended I didn't.

I don't need distractions this week. I wish Kid would get lost.

Washoi Snake Dancing

August 23, 1968
by Amy

Took part in a Washoi training. I bet you're wondering what a Washoi is. It is based on the Japanese student demonstrations. We stand side by side, link arms and waists move in unison. It looks like a giant snake dance. I imagine it's pretty from afar, though no one cares about the look of it. A guy I stood next to said that it felt like we were synchronized swimmers or something. The only thing we were missing was swimming caps.

Some of the younger folks showed up with football helmets and pads. It seemed like a good idea, though none of the pads I tried on fit me. We gathered afterward and talked about scheduling. People who are new to nonviolent protests have workshops they can attend. I'm surprised how many straights are going to these workshops. They must've had 30 straights at one of them. It made me wonder if they weren't narcs or something. But I spoke to a few of them, and they seemed to actually be real. One of them said that he decided to come - despite the bad vibes - but for his own protection, he shaved.

Very few McCarthyites are around. We've heard that they've been told not to go to the parks. I guess McCarthy is afraid we'll infect them. In a way, I feel sorry for the kids. But once they wise up, they'll be a force to be reckoned with.

****
Glasses was confronted on the steps to our office by 2 straights. They appeared out of nowhere and told him that they will be "his keepers" during the convention. And maybe afterward as well. He was warned to play nice, meaning submit to whatever they have planned.

So they go wherever he goes, which is crazy. But not, I suppose. Glasses is now viewed as a leader. Technically, I'm his assistant. But I haven't been confronted by anyone and I don't think anyone is following me... Yet.

Arriving!

August 23, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

WE ARE HERE! How exciting is this? Ron told us to go to the reception desk at the Conrad Hilton to get our room assignments. So as soon as we made it into town, Becca and I jumped out of the Galaxie and ran into the reception area.

I can't even begin to tell you how gorgeous the hotel is. There are chandeliers in the reception area and spiffy men in uniforms that open the front door for you. They look like toy soldiers. Such a fancy place, and we're going to be staying in it! The campaign gave Becca and I a room overlooking the street. Across the street is a park with a bunch of hippies milling about.

From the window to the hotel, we could see that Craig was impatiently waiting for us. So we ran back downstairs and into the car. A Chicago staffer offered to park Craig's car at his house. That way, no one will break into it during the week. Even though Craig tells us not to worry about security, I think he just wants to be sure that his car won't be damaged in a riot. The staffer will drive us back to the Conrad.

I wonder what this week will be like. I can't wait to find out!

In the News: August 23, 1968

Plans for the McCarthy Kids

August 22, 1968
by Amy

There are a number of organizations - ours included - that plan on organizing the McCarthy kids. We know that they're going to be good and pissed by the time the convention is done. We have to get to them before they throw their arms up and go home, only to do God know what. Probably nothing.

I hate our system. Really. What are the losers supposed to do? We all know that the Hawks are violent by nature. If they don't get their way by popular vote, then they'll crack heads and bones. Intimidation and the rest. We all know that, don't we? So they get their way. It doesn't matter.

Coleman's quibble with nonviolence is that life is, by nature, survival of the fittest. If that's the case, then the violent ones win. The violent ones have no humanity. The system is a *thing* and therefore, has no reason. I believe, strongly, that this is a dangerous philosophy. The system, as it stands, is backed by humans. Humans have feelings and families. When you deny someone's humanity, it gives you the right to do all sorts of terrible deeds.

He says that nonviolence will never stand up against violence. It just won't work.

As I write this, I can't believe that I'm even having this discussion. This is exactly why I put distance between myself and Coleman. It's the same damn conversation I've had with him, and it eventually ends with the idea that I'm an idealist and he's a passionate revolutionary.

He says he has things stockpiled "just in case." He, like others I presume. I don't know how many others. I do know that we're doing everything we can to make sure those others aren't involved in any of the actions that we're planning this week. Violence can be someone else's thing, not ours.

In the News: August 22, 1968

Safety in Numbers

August 21, 1968
by Amy

People are streaming into the city now. There's safety in numbers. Isn't that what they always say?

The press is calling it an invasion and warning people not to on Lakeshore Drive. Bea decided last night that she would like to help the Medical Committee for Human Rights. It doesn't surprise me, since Bea's Mom is a nurse and I think she'd like to go into that as well, maybe next year. It means that we won't see her all that much, except for our women's meeting. We plan on talking to Women for Peace and a few other local women to see if we can organize them into a Liberation enclave.

Glasses is entirely calm. I don't know how he does it. He's seen the circulars telling people that we're leading them to slaughter. On the other hand, the city thinks that we're getting ready to slaughter. There's no middle ground. Dave has been on the scene for weeks, assuring groups that our intention is demonstration and not disruption. "Positive relationships" is what he calling it.

I love Dave. I feel safe with him around. He's seen it all and done it all. He knows what to expect.

I still haven't phoned Dad. The idea of sitting down over a meal and hammering out our differences makes me sick to my stomach. He just doesn't get it, which is disappointing because I always thought he would. He did, for a long while. I don't know what happened to change his mind. Maybe it's about being comfortable. Whatever it is, I'm disappointed.

In the News: August 21, 1968

Death Threats and Connections

August 20, 1968
by Amy

I received a death threat today. The letter was addressed directly to me, though my name was spelled wrong. It said that if I kept embarrassing my family like this, then I could look forward to getting my skull knocked in and having my corpse... Well, you get the idea. The letter came in the mail at the office. The envelope was addressed in black ink. The handwriting looked spindly to me, as if someone with arthritis had written it. It was signed "A Family Friend."

I tried to think of family friends who would have arthritis, but Glasses said that it was useless. Chances are, the person who wrote the letter isn't a family friend. Besides, since my Dad is in the public eye, it could be anyone.

I guess I knew all that, though it's hard not to wonder if the letter came from someone I know.

We receive plenty of threats and crank calls, but I've never gotten one personally. I wanted to call my Dad at the paper and talk to him, but I knew that would be the wrong thing to do. Glasses said that if I told my Dad then he might write a column about it, provoking more threats. Plus, he's never gotten over the idea that we sued the Mayor. I haven't had a decent conversation with him since.

It's getting really hard not to hate people. We have to take care of ourselves because no one will do it for us. Lesley saw how upset I was about the threat and said that she's my family now. Bea is my family, and so is Glasses. Our group is my family, though it doesn't make me miss my Dad any less.

Glasses tried to assure me that we have our connection in place so we can get a hit on what the other side is doing. I still don't know anything about it, except that our connection will provide us with valuable information when the time comes. "He's gathering it right now, as we speak," Glasses whispered. "I haven't received a report yet, but it's coming." No one knows about the connection, but Glasses seems confident about the system he's set up. Somehow having an informant will make things easier. We'll get a line on what's going to happen before it does or maybe what they're planning. It could save people, if it works out right.

I wonder if this is what it felt like to be in the Resistance. Too bad I don't know French.

In the News: August 20, 1968

The Average Savage

August 19, 1968
by Amy

We lost the lawsuit. I guess I shouldn't be surprised since the deck was clearly stacked. No court in Chicago will rule against Dickless Daley. Who were we to think otherwise?  Glasses, Abbie and a few others have tried meeting with the city, but it's hopeless. I am thoroughly convinced that, at this point, they want a riot to happen. After all, there's nothing like violence to discredit a nonviolent movement.

They know that thousands are coming into the city. Some have already arrived. We've set up housing for people in church basements and anywhere else we can get it. But it won't be enough. They insist on kicking everyone out of the parks at night. So where are they going to go? The streets, of course.

Over the past few days, we've worked on training marshals. We've tried setting up toilet facilities. The Permit Committee has been tearing their hair out filling out forms in triplicate over and over and over again.

Rejected. Rejected. Rejected.

With the failure of the suit, Coleman suggested that we appeal to a higher authority, which made everyone wonder if Coleman got religion. But no, he said that we should take our case to the public, meaning my Dad. I'm not thrilled with that suggestion, especially considering the pressure he's been under to not give the Movement any press at all. They'll talk about us, but not to us.

Dad won't admit that he's been under anyone's influence. It goes against his ego as a newsman. In yesterday's column, he wrote about the possibility of violence during the convention and what Chicagoans thought about it. It contained quotes, and almost nothing more. Most threatened to kick our asses if we "tried anything." A few others hoped that we'd get what we deserved. Of course, we were called un-American. But what was worse is that I don't think they even saw us as being human.

"Vile," is what Lesley called the column. Does my Father know that these people are talking about me?

Maybe I've been wrong about people. The idea that somehow, they would wake up and become ashamed of the violence that they're committing against others and cease...

I'm beginning to think that the average man on the street is a savage who could commit violence against others without giving it a second thought. Maybe we've all got a good German inside, waiting to rationalize atrocities. Once you commit murder once, I think it probably becomes easier the next time.

What is it going to be like a year from now? Who are we becoming?

In the News: August 19, 1968

On to Chicago

August 18, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

Ron told me very quietly yesterday that if I was still afraid of flying, then we should arrange to drive to Chicago first thing tomorrow morning. The Senator will be arriving within a day or two and we need to get everything set up for him right away. I thought: Hallelujah! We can all finally leave this awful city. I was only too happy to track Craig and Becca down to give them the good news.

Craig agreed that we needed to leave sooner rather than later. He dropped us off at his room so Becca could get stuff. Then we went to my room so we could do the same. Becca kept grabbing clothes out of the drawers and throwing them into my suitcase. I asked her nicely if she would mind folding them. After all, I folded her clothes when I helped her pack. It's the least she could do. She apologized and said that she was just as anxious to leave as I was, but not nearly as neat about it.

Both Becca and Craig grabbed my suitcase while I stood there for a moment, thinking about Baby John. It made me really sad to think of him being outside the convention with the rest of the others. He worked just as hard as the rest of us, but Craig said it was his choice. In a way, none of us could blame him. Everyone thinks that this may be one of the most important elections in history. It may even be the last real election. America can't continue this way. Everyone feels that this is an ending, but what's really spooky is that no one senses a beginning.

Maybe humans aren't equipped to handle freedom. When they get it, they do stupid things with it. Things that aren't relevant to anyone but themselves. I've wondered that for a while, and it's terrible to think that way. I don't want it to be true. Ron says that our main problem is that Americans don't know what it means to be an American. They think they do, but they really don't. Since they have no identity, they're easily manipulated by anyone they deem trustworthy. The myth of America isn't really true, and people don't want to listen to us.

The campaign has tried to focus on solutions, ways that the myth could become a reality. But because people don't see that there's a problem, it's only going to get worse. America is sick, and maybe it's not going to ever get better again.

In the News: August 18, 1968

A Moment of Honesty

August 17, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

While I was taking dictation, Ron stopped and smiled at me. He said that he should've thought about making me his assistant a long time ago.

But I told him I was glad that he didn't because he can be annoying sometimes. He laughed and said that his Mom thought so too.

I told him that he really ought to fix that.

In the News: August 17, 1968

Shuffling

August 16, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

I guess with our sudden promotion, Craig is now Assistant Delegate Coordinator. He's just one of a number of Assistant Delegate Coordinators. I don't know what they all do. Craig still answers to Ron, for what that's worth. It would be easy for me to think that Becca and Craig are hiding in a closet somewhere making out, but I know that Becca is honestly trying to do right by the campaign, especially considering the hoops that we all had to jump through.

As it turns out, I learned quite by accident that Ron and Craig pledged that they would take care of us during the convention. Which struck me as very odd. Like we were a bunch of kids or something. If the campaign was going to go in that direction, I would've thought that our parents would be contacted. But no. Instead, they made some kind of promise to someone that we would not cause trouble or be affected by trouble. Something like that.

My new job being Ron's assistant is certainly not boring. When he's working he's a bit of a bully, but his feet up everywhere and demanding that I get this person on the phone or that person. I do have a special desk where I can sit now for the next few days. It's made out of boxes. Since the boxes are scheduled to be shipped out in a few days, I may have no desk at all. Or I might be shipped out with them.

But really, I think I'm happy with the arrangement. I now have something to do and the campaign is finally using my skills again. Maybe I'll even get to meet The Senator. That sure would be a gas.

In the News: August 16, 1968

With the People

August 15, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

I asked Baby John if he would like to come to the convention with us. He said he would rather not. He wasn't angry with us for rejoining the campaign and he understood why we wanted to be a part of the convention. But he also hoped that we would understand why he wanted to be outside it, with the people.

That made me think for a while, especially the part about being with the people. A year ago, I was going away to college. I thought all hippies were strange, dirty people who lived out in California. I didn't know that they cared about things. I just thought they were always stoned.

Then Becca and I found out that Dow Chemical wanted to recruit people on campus, and that their chemicals were actually weapons that burned the skin off of innocent people. We found out that they're making a profit on all of this death. Then we took part in that protest that turned very ugly, and Becca punched a policeman. We were so afraid that we'd be arrested. For a week we by wearing hats.

Then we decided to become part of the McCarthy campaign, because it seemed safer. For the most part, it has been. Becca hasn't punched a cop since then, and we haven't been in any riots. Though we cut it close in Indiana.

They keep telling us that we will have to be very, very careful. They don't know what's going to happen. I'm nervous about it, but if it's like everything else, maybe it will all work out.

In the News: August 15, 1968

Left Out

August 14, 1968

by Janine Stephenson

 

Becca insisted that we talk to Craig, as soon as we could find him. We figured out that he must have been attending a meeting with Ron across town. So we went back to our rooms and packed our bags. By the time we got to that point, we were good and angry over everything that happened. How dare some strange woman tell us to leave the campaign - just because we were young. We're adults in almost every way, except for the fact that we can't vote. Therefore, it doesn't matter if anyone offends us or fires us.

 

How hypocritical that the campaign is protesting how black people were left out of the primaries, but they're leaving us out of the campaign! Ridiculous!

 

So we gathered all of our belongings and met at a coffee house. We decided that we were going to stage a sit-in at the front door to the campaign offices. Because we know that there's nothing worse than bad publicity. So about thirty of us walked back to the campaign headquarters and lined up, careful not to block the front door. Immediately, the volunteer coordinator came out to talk to us. She invited us in, away from the public view. So we went to a big conference room (not ANOTHER conference room) and sat on top of our backpacks and suitcases. Then she left to go call someone.

 

That's where Craig and Ron found us, sitting in a conference room on top of our luggage. They called us out of the room and into the hallway. Becca gave them an earful. She told them that they had one hell of a nerve to dismiss us, after all the work we did. I didn't say anything, because Becca explained it for both of us. Craig kept telling her to settle down and that they would take care of things. We should give them a chance to straighten it out.

 

So we went back into the conference room. By that time, all the young people started singing "We Shall Overcome." It was off-key and occasionally no one knew the words, but it made us happy anyway. The parts we didn't know, we hummed. It took almost 15 minutes total for someone to come back to speak to us. I think it's only because we started chanting: We Count Too.

 

A man in a goatee came back to address us. He looked quite nervous, like he was afraid we were going to attack him. Just as he cleared his throat to speak, Craig and Ron pulled us out of the room again. This time, they said that not only could we stay with the campaign, we got a promotion. We were now their assistants. Becca was highly suspicious of this, especially since nothing changed. It's not like we suddenly aged. We didn't become 21 over the past 15 minutes. Craig finally admitted that they had to sign papers saying that we would "take care of us" or something like that, during the convention.

 

I didn't know what to make of that. Take care of us? Like we would never know what to do during a riot, assassination or mild confrontation. Ron said that the paper was merely a legal document, and it didn't mean anything other than that. But don't legal documents mean something? Then he added: "That's politics!"

 

We told them that we'd go along with it. Which means that Becca will be Craig's assistant, and I will be Ron's secretary, or something like that.

 

I don't know how I feel about any of this, especially since the campaign is still encouraging young people not to attend the convention. Baby John told us afterward that the campaign expects the convention will be rough and maybe even violent, though they hope that isn't the case. But it didn't change anyone's mind. Baby John said the convention won't be any harder than a war, and being there is the least we could do for the boys in Vietnam.

 

 

In the News: August 14, 1968

FIRED!

August 13, 1968

by Janine Stephenson

 

We were fired!

 

Oh, they tried not to call it that. A woman I've never even seen before pulled both Becca and I into a room and told us that the campaign was letting us go.

 

"The Senator is encouraging all young people like yourselves to go home and become involved with your community." Or something like that.

 

Becca and I looked at each other. She had that "Is this really happening?" look in her eye.

 

"But we've been with the campaign since the very beginning. We traveled all the way from Madison, Wisconsin and missed a semester of college. And we bartered and ate peanut butter sandwiches and spent our own money to travel with the campaign. And now, you're telling us to go home?"

 

She said yes. Since we were under 20 years of age, we could not go to the convention.

 

Arguing was useless. She had it clear in her mind that we were just too young to go to Chicago. Even though we are not too young to have our boyfriends killed in a stupid war.

 

We walked out of the meeting quietly.I began to cry. Becca tried to be very comforting, telling me that the woman was obviously some know-nothing jerk. Becca said she would talk to Craig.

 

But I told her. I said that maybe Craig can't save us. Maybe this is the end of the line. Clearly they didn't care about what we did while we were here in Washington. They don't know what to do with young people. Which is strange because this was our campaign.

 

I told her to forget it. That we need to go pack our bags.

 

Outside of the office, a bunch of younger volunteers had gathered. They were also being sent home. I was surprised to see Baby John there. He told me that he decided to stop by to see if we had been kicked out of the campaign too. I told him that we had, indeed. Then I began to cry again, which I hate.

 

Anyway, Baby John said that we could go with a bunch of his poverty program friends in a van to Chicago. That, in fact, we absolutely needed to go because this was our campaign and our convention. "They can't fire you from your own campaign. What kind of nonsense is that?"

 

I told Becca that we oughtta go with Baby John. He's a great guy. She seemed to give it some serious thought, especially since she likes vans.

 

So I said for certain that I'd like to go. Becca said that she would talk to Craig, but that she really wanted to go with Baby John as well.

 

Who would've ever thought that we'd be stuck outside of our own convention? Baby John says that like everyone else in the country, we're disenfranchised. And just like everyone else, we're locked out of the political process.

 

In the News: August 13, 1968

Cretans and Stumps

August 12, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

I still hate George McGovern. There is nothing or nobody in the world that will make me like him. He's a sniveling little creep. Or Cretan, as Craig calls him. I like creep, but Craig says that Cretan is better because all Cretans are liars. So says a guy named Epimenides. Then he laughed a lot, but I didn't understand why.

So he told me that if he said that all Americans were liars, and he was an American; would that make his statement true or not? I didn't know how to answer that, because I could tell that this was going to be another one of those confusing Craig conversations. Any answer you give is wrong, and for no apparent reason. I'm not a big fan of logic anyway. It's too tricky and I don't think it serves a useful purpose. Regular logic is just smart thinking. Hypothetical logic is dumb. Life is complicated enough without having to think of the answers to questions that have no answers.

He exasperates me sometimes.

The campaign issued a bulletin today that we are to prepare delegates for what Chicago "may be like." We're not supposed to alarm them, though we're becoming more aware of the hostility that we've created by existing. Simply put, the people in charge hate us. I don't understand why they hate us, but they do. Craig says that Ron says that it's Johnson all over again. Except this time, Johnson is dressed up as a big goofy guy named Humphrey. According to Ron, the Hump lacks a Stump, which is codeword for meaning a backbone. Becca interrupted and said that it actually means that The Hump lacks a male organ. That's what "stump" means. Craig blushed and said that at some point during the convention, we will shout it from the rooftops.

Hump lacks a Stump is far catchier than McGovern is a Cretan. Though both statements are true.

In the News: August 12, 1968

Busy Bees

August 11, 1968
by Amy

I keep forgetting that it's Sunday. All the days have blended in. Part of me is so very excited about the next few weeks. I can't wait until we are all together, all of our voices saying the same thing: NO MORE! NO LONGER!

I can't wait until I'm back in the crowd. I can't wait to meet people who will be in the streets for the first time. I can't wait to wake people up and shake them to their very bones.

Right now, there's such a feeling of unity at the office. We're all on the same page, which is so unusual. Lesley, Bea and I meet in the bathroom to talk about how tired we are, and how our feet hurt. Our conversations are punctured with notes to each other: Did you call Tom about marshal training? Have you talked to Little Toe; She left a message? Then it's back to trying to figure out when we're going to take showers.

Coleman has been absent from all this planning. He's out on a story. Or he's preparing newsletters on how to get to Canada. I'm somewhat disappointed in that. Since all of us are getting along, I thought maybe things would shore up with him as well. But he's missing the boat.

In the News: August 11, 1968

A State of Being

August 10, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

Becca said that Craig said that Ron might want to ask me out. I told her to tell Craig to tell him that when he makes up his mind, to be certain about it. Fear is not an aphrodisiac.

Really, I've never met a man who is so powerful and yet, so powerfully weak. Ron can walk into a room and take command. He can talk to powerful people, like The Senator, directly. He can hob-nob with rich people comfortably. But he has to ask me out through my friends? How awful!

It makes me respect Benjamin more, in hindsight. Now that I think about it, Benjamin must have been very nervous asking a white girl out. He had no idea if I was a bigot or not. I could've been terribly insulting for all he knew. But if he was afraid, he never let on. I was proud to stand by his side, regardless of what anyone else thought about it.

I miss him. It makes me sad.

Besides, I don't understand Ron's fear of asking me out. I see him with girls all the time. They drape themselves all over him. Maybe his nerves are really a trick to make me chase him. Maybe he thinks that by appearing weak, I'll want to take care of him. Or something like that. Well, he couldn't be any more wrong. If he wants to ask me out, then he needs to do it directly.

Becca says that I've misunderstood the situation. But I don't think so. A girl wants a boy to be a man. It's the least he could be.

While I'm at it, I'm still not over that George McGovern. He's a louse of the worst order. It makes me want to work 22 hours for The Senator, just so we can teach that man a lesson. You can talk peace all want, but if you're a jerk talking peace then you're also a big phony.

Tonight being Saturday night, I figured that I would watch television and maybe read a book. Becca would rather I go to a coffeehouse with her and Craig. I hate being a third wheel, but she says that being a third wheel is far better than being a drag.

In the News: August 10, 1968

Convention Caravans

August 9, 1968
by Amy

I woke up with terrible stomach pain yesterday, wondering if we made the right decision about the lawsuit. My head doesn't register that I'm nervous about everything. It's disappointing that, on some level, there's a part of me that is terrified of authority. It makes me remember the April nightmare. Now that I think about it, I've been reluctant to go to any actions since then.

Clearly, I have to be prepared for violence. It's a tool for the ruling class. I need to ready my mind and steel my emotions against it. It's my one fault, I think, though Lesley would argue that I have a whole lot of them. I think she's taken to calling them "character challenges" as of late. Like a lack of confidence, or an excessive need to harbor myself against egotistical men. "It's because of your father, Amy. Your father is such a strong personality that you're looking for him in every other man you meet."

That implies that I'm looking to screw my Dad, which is not only insanely disgusting, but also untrue. I may be under-confident and insecure. I'm not a father-fucker.

As far as the convention goes, we're planning like there's no tomorrow. People are working in two shifts to organize. Every church, synagogue and mission has been tapped to provide housing. We've gotten word that there are huge caravans of people coming. Glasses expects them to begin arriving next week. As he keeps reiterating to the city, we can't stop these people from arriving. They are going to come whether we want them to or not. So not providing adequate facilities for them - toilets, and space to sleep in the public parks - is inviting a riot. It's crazy.

If you are going to bring a political convention to the city, you are going to get protesters and people who want their voices to be heard. Why doesn't the city understand that?

In the News: August 9, 1968

Boxes to Chicago

August 8, 1968

by Janine Stephenson

 

I am so excited to go to the convention! I can hardly wait! Two more weeks, I think. But chances are, we'll leave a whole lot sooner.

 

Ron came by today to tell us that we should get help the campaign volunteers pack for the convention. A truck arrived and men began bringing in boxes of stuff. A ton of signs, banners, hats, buttons, key chains and phone lists. Incredible. I've never seen so much. Becca broke open one of the boxes and put a McCarthy for President straw hat on her head. I have to admit, she looked cute. Craig kissed her smack on the lips. I looked over at Ron, and he just rolled his eyes.

 

Craig and Becca invited me to wear at hat or a button as well, but I didn't want to because that would be stealing. I especially didn't want to do it in front of Ron. But then he came over and planted a hat on my head and smiled. "I guess it would be presumptuous to kiss you on the lips, wouldn't it?"

 

It would've been, but I didn't tell him that. I smiled because I didn't know what else to say.

 

The boxes are headed toward Chicago. From what Craig told us, they were supposed to go there directly but someone checked the wrong box off on an order form. So they arrived here. Trucks will be coming by tomorrow to pick them up. It seems like a giant waste of money, something the campaign can't afford to do.

 

Everyone is bitter about George McGovern entering the race. Ron says that The Senator is very angry over it. I don't blame him. Just who does George McGovern think he is anyway? He didn't run in the primaries, and he certainly could have. All he is doing is helping The Hump. His entry into the race is going to split the anti-war vote. But since George is only thinking about his own ego, he doesn't care about that. He actually thinks that he is going to fill the shoes of Bobby Kennedy. He can't even spit shine that man's shoes! Talk about presumptuous!

In the News: August 8, 1968

Without a City

August 7, 1968
by Amy

There's an enormous amount of paperwork to fill out when you bring a lawsuit against the city of Chicago. We met with the lawyer this morning to go over all of the paperwork. He wanted us to fully understand what we were signing.  Lesley didn't say much during the whole thing. She folded her arms and kept squeezing herself, as if she was super cold. Bea peppered the lawyer with questions, but I didn't listen to them. Glasses kept squinting, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes.

This is, quite possibly, a really bad idea. Daley keeps a list of enemies. Chicago police are nothing to fuck with. Chicagoans take a lot of pride in being scrappy and resourceful, but that's only because we have to be. They broke my wrist a few months ago. They've bugged our office. Now, my Dad says it's 'bugs not people.'

What's going to happen if I'm suddenly the victim of a crime? Are the police going to come or are they going to go out for donuts?

It feels like I'm living outside the country now. Like we're a group of outlaws. I don't have a city right now.

Glasses said that we should be very careful about how we drive - don't go over the speed limit. Be tight - don't cause trouble. The lawyer told us that if we experience anything remotely resembling police harassment, then we should give his office a call.

Courage. I need to find it right now.

In the News: August 7, 1968

Nothing Doing, Doing Nothing

August 6, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

I called my parents today to let them know I was still in this God-forsaken city. She told me that I received a letter from someone named Benjamin. My stomach dropped. It's been almost three months since I've seen him, and I feel like such a drip for not writing or calling. I've tried to put it out of my mind, but it's hard.

Mom asked me if I needed to have the letter forwarded. I was afraid it would get lost, so I told her no. I'd read it once I came back from the convention.

Becca and I still have not yet heard about our new assignments, which is odd considering that other people are getting ready to go. Craig told Becca that we should just be patient. It would work out soon.

I don't get a good feeling about it though. We've been shelved here in D.C., given dumb jobs while other people work madly. Normally, such a thing wouldn't bother me. After all, it isn't the job you do, it's the quality of work you achieve. But I can't help but feel like I'm an extra leg on a paralyzed man. Completely useless.

Today we answered the phones and watched the Republican convention on television. Craig hung out, mostly because he feels sorry for us. He keeps telling us that the campaign values our work. But that's hard to believe since we don't do much of it.

We noticed that the Nixon girls look pristine. It made us wonder what it's like to grow up in a famous family. Then we wondered how Mr. and Mrs. Nixon had sex. Then we saw an interview with Ronald Reagan and I told them that Ronald Reagan was a very good-looking man. Becca made a vomiting sound. Craig said that he never wanted to hear me say that again. Didn't I know that Reagan had a temper? He was a jerk to all the people protesting at UCLA. But if you ask me, he's governor. It's his job to be a jerk.

So that's been our day. It wasn't nearly as interesting as it sounds. I just wish they'd give us our new assignments soon. I don't like uncertainty.

In the News: August 6, 1968

People Instead of Bugs

August 5, 1968
by Amy

Dad was pissed. When I walked into his study last night, he held a drink in one hand, and a newspaper in other. He gently put the newspaper down in his lap and glared at me.

It didn't matter. I know I'm completely correct in bringing a suit against Dick Daley and his merrymen. I know that we have a right to protest during the convention. We also have a right to ask the city to open the parks for people to sleep in during the convention. Where else are thousands of people go? It's public land, and the public has a right to use it.

Since Dad would rather have burned holes in my face than start talking, I went first. As I spoke, he did that newpaperman thing of listening intently, as if he had a giant steno in his mind. I know him. I know he's listening for a contradiction or some kind statement that will hang me.

So rather than defend the suit, I talk about conviction. The certainty that you are right, and that even if you are later found wrong, you know that you did the right thing at the time. He raised me to question everything and avoid nothing. Everyone may tell you that you're wrong, but that doesn't make it so.

He rubbed his nose while he listened. After I finished, he told me that he also raised me to understand that there would be consequences for my actions. Why didn't I understand that Daley was the most powerful man in this city? That he had a temper and a propensity to take everything personally. There would be repercussions that went far beyond our group. The whole city could be affected. How could I be so selfish?

I tried to explain to him that it wasn't a matter of selfishness. How could one man - Lyndon Johnson - cause so much death and destruction to an entire generation? How about those men who come back from Vietnam with one arm or no legs? Who gave him the right to do that to us? Who gave him the right to destroy our country?

Dad sighed and gulped his drink. "We gave him the right by electing him."

"But those 18-year olds who can't vote... They didn't give him the right. The government doesn't own us. It doesn't own our bodies. They have no right to order people into battle. And when they do it, we certainly have the right to protest."

He did one of those deep sighs. "Amy, you know I agree with you. I don' t know why you are fighting this way."

"Because you're angry with me."

"I'm angry because you didn't bother giving me a warning about all this. I had to find out through the Chicago Police."

The Chicago Police? What the hell?

We didn't even get a chance to publicly announce that we were moving forward with the lawsuit. And no one, I mean no one outside our group, knew that I was going in on the suit. So how did the Chicago Police find out about it?

He wasn't sure, but he did say that it's well know how many undercover agents are going to be working the convention. Perhaps I needed to start looking for people instead of bugs.

In the News: August 5, 1968

Hours Before

August 4, 1968
by Amy

I hate being summoned by my Father. It makes me feel like a child again, like the time he caught me stuffing apples down my pants and inviting the neighborhood boys to eat them. Or the time I got caught painting a bathroom stall with red nail polish at school. Each time, I was summoned to stand before my Father. He told me he was disappointed in my unlady-like behavior and that he expected more from me.

It wouldn't bother me if my Mother said that. For the record, Mother is perpetually disappointed in my unlady-like behavior, which is good. I would expect nothing less.

But when my Father tells me how disappointed he is, then my stomach drops. It makes me want to throw up. I would rather not admit that it has any effect. Someday, I'd love to piss him off and then stand defiantly against whatever bitter judgment he has formulated. Maybe I'll be able to do it. But not now.

My meeting with him is tonight. I wish I didn't have to go.

Baby John Redux

August 4, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

I ran into Baby John at church this morning. We very nearly ran into each other in the communion line. I was crossing the pew he sat in. We motioned to each other that we would talk after mass.

When I met him outside, I told him that I couldn't believe he was still in this awful city. I thought he would've gone back to California by now. Heck knows, if I was living in California, I would spend most of my time there. He said that being in D.C. was still worthy since there were so many poor people just miles from the White House. How could Lyndon Johnson sleep at night? I said he probably sleeps quite well, since thousands of boys dying overseas doesn't seem to bother him all that much.

Anyway, Baby John said that he is still with The Campaign, albeit on a local, volunteer basis. They have all sorts of activities for 18-year olds this summer. Along with his poverty work, Baby John became involved with voter registration campaigns and phone banks. I thought that was quite admirable, considering how disgusted he was with our D.C. headquarters work.

I asked him if he planned on going to Chicago. He said most definitely. I told him that Becca and I are waiting for our campaign assignments, but that we were excited to go. No matter what they wanted us to do, we would do it.

We agreed to meet again, in a few days. Just before saying goodbye, he hugged me and apologized for dropping off the planet. I was glad to see him too.

In the News: August 4, 1968

Dad's Reaction

August 3, 1968
by Amy

Bea and I hung out at Grant Park today and wondered what the whole scene will feel like in a few weeks.

“Are you nervous about being part of a public lawsuit, with your Dad and everything?”

People keep asking me that. I don’t know. Since he doesn’t give a damn what I think; I don’t really feel like I should care what he thinks. Besides, he doesn’t ask for my approval when he writes a column against us. Why should I give him warning about the suit?

*****
I just got off the phone with my Father. He knows about the suit… Already. It’s not even public knowledge yet. How the hell did he find out? He says he wants to meet with me to discuss it.

I’ll talk to him, but it’s not going to change my mind.

In the News: August 3, 1968

Lawsuit Against Daley

August 2, 1968
by Amy

They asked me to be a part of the lawsuit against the city. That means that I will represent thousands of others in a class action lawsuit that we’re bringing against Mayor Daley and his merry men. Glasses will also be a Plaintiff in the suit, along with Lesley, Bea and a few of the boys. Coleman has declined to be part of it.

He says, for the record, that he doesn’t think I should be a part of it either. It’s bad news, and will only lead to more animosity between us and the city. Good luck getting any permits after the convention. Good luck getting any city cooperation. His position is that the city is filled with vengeful people, where Glasses and the rest of us know that none of this is personal.

Coleman says that we shouldn’t be too sure, since they like fucking with us. I don’t know what he means by that. Maybe the bugs and all that. I don’t know. The whole thing left me a bit unsettled.

I am nervous to be named in the suit, but I know that it’s something we have to do. We don’t want the convention to end up like the April Parade disaster. Glasses says that they clearly didn’t learn their lesson. Funny because I’m sure that they feel the same way towards us.

In the News: August 2, 1968

August Excitement

August 1, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

August is finally here. Everyone is excited to get to convention, including Becca and I.

Chicago is dreadfully hot in the summer. No one thinks that the Midwest can get so hot, but believe me, the heat waves are deadly. I remember one summer when a number of elderly people died. When I was seven, Grandma Pat had heat stroke, and that was north, in Wisconsin. I know that some places in the country are far worse than the Midwest, like the desert for instance. But the city of Chicago is a simmering pit in August, which is what my Father always says.

Becca is particularly excited to go to the convention. She says that we are finally getting the reward for all of our hard work. I have to agree. We didn’t join the campaign to go to the convention. In fact, we didn’t even think that far ahead. But our time here in Washington has been so lonely and boring and awful that I would consider going to the convention a just reward for our time spent in this terrible place.

We still don’t have word yet as to what we are doing next, though maybe we will help set up the main office at the Chicago Hilton. That would be nice. Maybe we’ll even get to stay in the Chicago Hilton. But with the room shortages and telephone strikes, that might not be an option. Which is fine because while going to the convention is a fantastic opportunity, staying at a hotel might be too far out.

I can’t get my suitcase packed fast enough.

In the News: August 1, 1968

Red Eyed Crisis

July 31, 1968
by Amy

We’re in a crisis. I’m not being overly dramatic. It’s the reason I haven’t written sooner. Everything is in chaos, and some of us are moving into the offices so we can continue to work around the clock. Day/Night. Noon/Midnight. It doesn’t matter what time it is or what day it is.

The artists are gone. They’ve been replaced by medics, marshals, and organizers. There are the phone lines that accept incoming calls. We use the phone on Glasses’ desk to call the Streets and Sanitation Department, the Parks Department, and the Mayor’s office. Tom has met with representatives with the Mayor’s office while Glasses tries to tell the police that we can keep our own peace. We don’t need a high police presence.

The problems are two-fold. One of the most important is that we can’t get permits for people to sleep in Lincoln Park. We expect a hundred thousand people to come into Chicago. The city has neither the resources or the hotel space to accommodate the amount of artists, musicians, hippies and regular people who deserve to be a part of the convention. The city has a whole lot of land. Why won’t they let us use it?

The permits that we’ve requested during the convention have also been held up. Not granted. The Mayor’s office avoids our calls.

No one seems to understand that unless the city listens to us – and really hears us – it’s going to be bad. But if we say that, then it’s a threat. When Glasses tries to tell them that thousands of people are going to arrive here – soon – they tell us that it’s our fault.

Glasses responds that it isn’t our fault. They were going to come here regardless of what we did. This is a democracy. It’s the People’s Convention. They deserve to be heard.

All of us – without exception – know that we need to pull it together. If we make mistakes, it could cost people their lives. I feel a sense of responsibility about that. Unfortunately, the city of Chicago feels nothing.

So that’s where I am right now. Laying here on the floor, on a cushion. A can of fizzed out Cola, a pile of cigarette butts and scraps of papers filled with typos. At least I don’t have a bad case of baggy red eyes, unlike Glasses.

In the News: July 31, 1968

Convention Hopes

July 30, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

Ron asked me today how I like my job. I told him, quite frankly, that I hated it. The calls about Chicago hotel reservations for the convention are fine, but when they get into the details about how things are run, I just get so frustrated. We have no information about anything else. How can I answer questions about the convention itself?

He told me not to worry. Then he gave me a booklet by the League of Women Voters. It’s filled with all sorts of information about the election, delegates and even the convention itself.

I wish he gave it to me sooner. Becca and I expect to be reassigned in the next few days. Since Craig is helping Ron, she’s positive that they will let us go to the convention. It will be so exciting!

That’s another reason why I need to study this booklet. When I’m on the floor of the convention, I want to understand exactly what’s going on.

So I’m going to be sure to study this booklet.

In the News: July 30, 1968

Becca & Birth Control

July 29, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

Becca is swearing up and down and back and forth that she will not step inside a church. Pope Paul has officially banned birth control. They announced it today. I think Becca knew this was coming all along. She keeps up with these types of things.

Since she has not been attending church regularly, I think Becca is being overly dramatic. Do you know how many Catholics say that they will never go back to church, only to come back again? Something bad happens and sure enough, they're sitting in a pew saying their Hail Marys. I wonder how God puts up with it, the whole love/hate relationship? Maybe that's why he loves everyone unconditionally. He knows how fickle human beings are, especially when it comes to temporary matters.

I think Becca is mostly upset because she thinks the Pope is just like her Father, telling her how to be and what to do.

She says that I would feel the same way she does, if I was going all the way with a boy right now. I suppose that would be true. But I just wonder what kind of effect something like that has on your body. Also, birth control is against the law, at least for people like Becca and me.

But Becca thinks that laws are stupid. They're only meant to make life harder instead of easier. Laws are a weapon that authorities use to keep people under control. That's what she says, anyway.

In the News: July 29, 1968

Freezing the Old Man

July 29, 1968
by Amy

Coleman calls it "the freeze." I haven't spoken to my Dad since the column came out. It's been over a week, I think. Maybe it hasn't been that long. I'm not sure.

What I do know is that the artists are a handful. Glasses is still trying to get them to stop smoking weed in the office. They leave a mess everywhere. Ashes, church keys and cans, all kinds of crap. I'm no neatnik and I'm no maid. I hate like hell to clean-up after a bunch of jerks who try to cop feels each time I pass them on my way to the bathroom.

All negotiations with the City are at a standstill. I'm dodging my Father's phone calls. Bea, Lesley and I are too busy to hang out and we've already missed one of our women's meetings. Meanwhile, we're inundated with phone calls about sleeping arrangements, scheduling issues, and speaker requests. As it stands right now, I can't wait until the convention is over.

Analyzing Dad

July 24, 1968
by Amy

I'm not going to call my Dad. There's no point in it.

He's like me, especially in how he thinks he's right all the time. I know I have a tendency to do the same thing. When we're at opposite ends of the stick, it's terrible. Our fights are brutal. He yells; I slam doors. Mom says it's because we're too alike.

(Honestly, I'm glad I'm like him rather than her. She doesn't stand for anything, doesn't give a whit about anything and would prefer to think about colors and dresses than something meaningful. Sure, she's happy, but that's only because she doesn't know any better.)

Lesley is floating the conspiracy angle: Someone got to him and threatened his job or maybe even me. The more I think about it, the less I believe that to be the case. First of all, he would never back down. If anything, threats make him dig his heels in deeper. I also know that he couldn't write anything he didn't believe in.

Sure, I'd love to think that thinks I'm right. That he sees how we have to make our presence felt at the Convention. We have to stand up for what we believe in; for what we know is right. But he doesn't feel that way.

Lesley says that she would like to know what changed his mind. Because something obviously did. Why did he change his mind?

Reactions

June 23, 1968
by Amy

“I thought your Dad was cool.”

My Dad is cool. It’s just that, every now and then he remembers that he’s over 30. He’s an adult, and as such, it’s not his life on the line.

It’s not mine either, since I’m not going to be drafted in this lifetime.

I have no evidence that anyone has “gotten to him.” But then again, I haven’t spoken with him. It’s been two days, and I have no idea how to respond.

Do I call him and pretend I haven’t read it? Do I tell him that he’s a fucking asshole?

Dad was viewed as a major ally. But in the end, he’s another “one of them.” I don’t know what happened to change his mind.

I need to find out.

Stunned

July 21, 1968
by Amy

It's starting, but I didn't think it would begin with my Father. We keep track of what the press says about us. I suppose every group does. We also keep a firm eye on what they're saying about our member groups.

Of course, unless they're radical journalists, we don't expect good press. That's the way it works. No one likes us. It's the reason why my Dad's sympathetic columns were greeted with hostility by those around him at the paper. It's also the reason why his editor told him to quit writing about us. Everyone thought he was being swayed by my politics.

I didn't think that was the case. Like Walter Cronkite, Dad knows that there's no way to win the peace. He understands that this is a losing battle. Journalists see what's going on. They know that the government lies. They know that the government also tries to manipulate them. Dad says that journalism is one part neutrality, one part skepticism, and one part independent thinking. That's what he was taught, and I guess that's why he's one of the top columnists in Chicago.

Glasses called me this morning to ask if I saw Dad's column. I hadn't. Evidently, Dad is calling our group along with the Yips "petulant children." That's the headline. "Petulant Children Have No Petal Power." Not the best headline, but I know that Dad isn't responsible for it.

But he is responsible for his own column, along with everything it says in it. He detailed the city's perspective on our permit problems. He quoted city officials telling everyone that there is no need to fear the threats from the Yips. Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin won't have the power to terrorize the city.

Terrorize? Pretty strong words, I'd say.

The city official also called Glasses out by name, telling Dad that national politics takes priority over a bunch of hooligans... That was the word he used. Hooligans.

The city is coming off like they're going to save everyone from our peaceful demonstration. Free music, free food and good times. Daley and the whole lot of them are going to save us all from being happy.

Glasses read the whole thing to me over the phone, along with Dad's closing line: "While delegates nominate the Democratic candidate, perhaps we should all join them in celebrating our democracy in action."

After he read it, he asked for my reaction. I don't have one. I think I'm too stunned.

Lucky Layoffs

July 19, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

Becca and I decided that we would not leave the campaign entirely if we were laid off. Instead, we would become volunteers. After all, this is our campaign. We're not doing it for the money. We're still supporting The Senator because it's either him or Hubert "The Hump" Humphrey.

The Hump will not bring an end to the war. He is Lyndon Johnson, without the cowboy hat or Texas twang. Not that there's anything wrong with Texas or the way they talk. But at this point, it's better to start with a fresh beginning. That means no Hump.

The only other conceivable person that anyone could support would be Nelson Rockefeller. But Mrs. Stoutmiller would never vote for him because he's a Republican.

If we became volunteers, Becca and I could then ask to be put somewhere else... Anywhere else. Evidently Craig likes his job being Ron's assistant. Ron is stuck in Washington right now, so we would have to remain here. But there has to be a better job than what we're doing. If we stayed on as volunteers, we could ask for better assignments.

As it turns out - unbelievable as it seems - the whole discussion was pointless. We were not laid off. Instead, they kept five of us at the phone bank on payroll. Which is shocking because the campaign is running such a deficit we honestly thought that we would become volunteers.

People were disappointed, but the whole thing ended up being a nonevent. Most people are continuing on as if nothing happened.

I don't know about Becca but I feel guilty now. I'm earning money while some other people are doing the same job for no money. Those of us who are still getting money for the campaign are putting our funds together to buy peanut butter and bread for the rest of us. It seems like the only right thing to do.

Layoffs Tomorrow

July 18, 1968 by Janine Stephenson

They are going to announce layoffs tomorrow. Becca and I are nervous about it for two reasons: 1) We're not exactly indispensable. Since coming to Washington we've sat in a room and done nothing. Then they put us on the telephones so we could give out wrong information. It seems that no one really cares what we do here, so if they got rid of us, I couldn't exactly blame them.

The second reason is related to the first: We're not allowed to contribute anything to the campaign. I'm not talking about money. Becca has had ideas about how to do certain things and no one wants to hear her suggestions. For example, she developed a terrific way of organizing campaign literature. But we're not allowed near the closets to help them with that. The one time she tried to go over there, she was told to go back to the phones.

I really hope that we aren't laid off. Becca and I decided that once the day is over, we will talk about what our choices are in terms of staying with the campaign.

In the News: July 18, 1968

A Different Way

July 17, 1968
by Amy

Groups are really starting to come through now with fliers, artwork and a slew of ideas for the convention. There's a buzz in the air. Some people are feeling doom about the whole thing. I've heard that Allen Ginsberg is telling people that the whole situation has a bad vibe, though he's still going.

I sure hope he's not going around saying that. It would be a shame. Though I understand it. The city is still giving us a whole host of honkin' trouble over the permits. The ACLU is involved now, and Glasses tells us all not to worry. They will come through like they always do, just at the last minute.

While I may feel excited about it, and I certainly am, underneath it all I can't help but feel a little fearful too. We have the power to turn this into a wonderful event. As Little Toe and the Yips tell us: An alternative to the Convention of Death. They want to have a big free concert with all the trimmings. It could prove to be a wonderful event, provided the city allows it.

I don't know why they wouldn't. Bea says that they don't want people to know that there's a different way to live. There's hope and community. There's creativity and art. We are presenting a way out of the culture of death, and they resent the hell out of us.

Authority can't stand being wrong, even if it means death and destruction. We have to get them to see that there's a different way.

In the News: July 17, 1968