!!!!!*****WORKING DRAFT*****!!!!!
Wednesday was Mike’s birthday. I had planned on calling him that evening, in anticipation of a weekend together in Cambridge. Coming out of psych lab, I daydreamed about what I’d say, what kind of card I’d make him. Entering the Yard, I found it filled with people shouting at each other. A very loud stereo boomed the Moog synthesizer version of a Brandenburg Concerto from an upper story window in Weld Hall. Students interspersed with a few faculty filled the space between Widener Library and Memorial Church, their attention focused westward to Uni. Several kids had bull horns, leading competing chants of “Rotcy must go” and “Out, out, out”. One of the deans was allowed to speak, pleading, “Be terribly careful of what you’re doing, because this is a collision course. I’m not sure Harvard can survive this type of thing, and I’m sure that many of you can’t.”
I found Howard at the statue, and asked him, “What’s going on? What happened?”
“Some of the SDS bolted into Uni Hall, kicked all the deans and secretaries out.” He pointed up at the second floor windows, where crude hand-lettered signs spelled out “ROTC Must Go.” A red flag, with “SDS” in a black circle, hung nearby. “They’ve chained the doors, only students are being allowed in. If we’re gonna be a part of this, we’ve got to go now. Sarah – Janie – are you coming in?”
I felt strangely calm, without fear. I remembered that day in Chicago, when I lost Eddie and almost got trampled a mob. I looked inside Uni, where kids leaned out windows, urging, “Join us! Join us!” Mike’s face floated into my mind’s eye, and I wondered what he would think, what he would say. I looked over at Howard, feverish with anger and anticipation. He reached for my hand when I felt a tap on the other shoulder. Turning, I saw Jeanne, a look of bemused wonder on her face.
Howard quickly filled her in on the status of the demonstration, finishing with another exhortation to join him up the steps into Uni.
Jeanne, thinking precisely as always, immediately answered, “No, Howard, this is not something you just walk away from, just go back to class after. Besides, nothing will change. They had their vote on ROTC last month, Harvard’s not going back on that decision. You may think you’re fighting for workers’ rights, but you’re just play acting. I don’t see any of those workers here, showing solidarity with the students when they get pulled out, taken to jail. I want things to change as much as you do. But I think I can do that best by being a part of, not apart from, society. Like it or not, we’re going to be the leaders of tomorrow, and I want to do that right, not lose that chance.”
“Leaders of tomorrow”, Howard snorted. “Right. Follow their rules, play their game, become a part of them. Think you’ll change anything, Jeanne? They’re just gonna change you…” He shook his head violently, turning back to me. “Sarah…?” he almost pleaded.
I looked at Jeanne, seeking her strength and self-assurance. She put linked arms with me at the elbow, and softly said, “It’s all right, Janie.” I hoped she wouldn’t let go. I watched as Howard ran up the steps.
All afternoon, people kept going up the steps, in twos and threes and tens, to be let in by those inside while the chains were unlocked, then locked behind them. Shortly after four, Dean Glimp arrived, and began addressing those of us assembled in the Yard, as well as the occupiers inside. First, he said the Yard was now “closed”, open only to the Freshman who lived in the surrounding Houses. Next, he invited everyone to an open meeting at Lowell, to “discuss the situation”. He ended by saying, “all persons now present in University Hall must depart therefrom, so that it may be restored to its proper use. Anyone failing to observe this warning within fifteen minutes will be subject to prosecution for criminal trespass.”
From inside Uni came a competing announcement. “We advise our friends and brothers not to leave the yard. It’s our yard, not their yard!” High up in Weld Hall, the massive stereo speakers aimed outward throttled the beatles’ “Revolution” (the hard, not the soft version) down upon us. The crowd, which filled every space by now, cheered.
A few left for the meeting in Lowell, while those who stayed learned that Freshman were opening their rooms to anyone who wanted to stay. Jeanne and I found one of her friends from St. Louis, making arrangements to eat and hang out with him.
After dinner, I called Mike and described what was happening. He responded by describing the takeover, by black students, of Fisk Hall at W, six weeks earlier. “Remember, my year was the first they tried to get a lot of black students here. Maybe 30, out of 350 in our class. Something about wanting Wesleyan to ‘reflect America in every way’. But just admitting different people doesn’t do it; they have to change what they teach, how they teach, as well. Those guys, when they took over the hall, had decided it was their duty to help improve the institution which was giving them a chance. They wanted Wesleyan to be better.”
“That’s what’s going on here, Mike. It’s all about how Harvard operates, who it’s for. Is it supposed to be a feeder into the highest parts of the establishment, in Washington, in New York? Is it supposed to grow ever bigger, taking over the places where people, who don’t get the chance to go to Harvard, where they live? Is it supposed to be for us, the students, so we can become the best version of ourselves? And what about the faculty, they seem to think it’s all about them and their careers, getting famous, getting grants, getting Nobel prizes.”
“It’s all those things, isn’t it?” he said with finality. “What about this weekend? What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know Mike.” I paused, sighing deeply. He didn’t seem to be hear how important this was, for me, for my friends. “I don’t know. It’s like I can’t think that far ahead. Let’s just wait and see, OK?”
After hanging up, I turned to Jeanne with my lower lip quivering. Not usually a hugger, she sat next to me on the couch and, saying nothing, let me cry on her shoulder.
Once composed, I began, “He’s not here. He doesn’t know.”
“What’s wrong, Janie?”
“It’s been three years now. It’s like we’ve grown up together, I know, but a lot of the time, we’ve been apart. I always thought it was a cliché, but what I really feel is…and this is so scary … I need some space, some time to find out who I am without him.”
Jeanne said, “Come on, we’ve got to get some sleep. They’re saying the Cambridge police are at the firehouse over on Quincy. And the kids inside Uni, they’ve said they’re staying all night, asking people to form a picket line around the building.”
I looked outside, and did see a few students walking slowly back and forth just below University Hall’s front steps. I turned back to Jeanne and nodded. “Sure. Here?”
We took the cushions off the couch, where Jeanne curled up, while I tried laying out on the sagging springs above. If I did get any sleep, I don’t remember it.
At 4 AM, fire alarms started going off all over the yard. Kids were running through the halls, shouting, “Wake up, wake up!” One burst into our room, announcing quickly, “They’re coming! They’re here, the cops are here!”
Hundreds of police were milling on the Memorial Hall steps. From Cambridge, Boston, Somerville, and the smaller towns around, they began forming lines, listening to instructions from several bullhorns. State troopers appeared in helmets, with long thick coats, shiny black boots and jodhpurs. I saw shields, night sticks, helmets and guns on many of the others. The sound of buses idling came from the Tercentenary theater. I remembered Chicago, the fearful chaos, and hoped the kids in Uni would leave when asked, this time.