Confessions of a Vietnam War Protester

Atrios has the complete text of John Kerry's April 1971 testimony to the Senate about his opposition to the war in Vietnam (http://haloscan.com/tb/atrios/109310561289460214). It is quite moving, reflecting a love of country that shines clearly throughout. I'm glad someone made it easy for me to read the whole thing, since it also places in context the excerpt about atrocities that seems to be the one piece that gets the most exposure in the corporate media. The context: Kerry was reporting the testimony of others, not making his own accusations in that particular sentence.

Recently a very dear friend of mine, who happens to be a Republican, sent me an email to let me know how much of a traitor Kerry had been in protesting the war. She knows how much I love my country, and I'm guessing that she was trying to make me aware of how misplaced my support for Kerry as candidate for president is. She has a son in the military, so her own need to find meaning in support for the president and his policies has an added level of motherly anxiety. The sad thing about the email is that she was forwarding some packaged piece that included a picture of Kerry standing in a smiling group of presumably North Vietnamese officials. The picture is displayed in some North Vietnamese museum and captioned with praise for Kerry. This "proof" of his being a traitor was dated very clearly: 1993.

I responded to my friend by pointing out--as gently as possible--that the captioned picture was probably made while Kerry was doing some of his official Senate business on the MIAs and was taken 20 years after he was actively protesting the war. I then pointed out that, in this grand country of ours, it's not illegal to protest the actions of the government and that I, too, had protested the war in Vietnam.

I recall the day I became an activist quite clearly. It came as a direct result of the killings at Kent State. I had, up to that point, been almost totally absorbed in my studies. I was supportive of decisions that fellows in my circle of friends made to seek draft deferments because of school, didn't know a soul who actually sought military alternatives to the draft. I was politically naive, ignorant of the causes and reasons of the war, but generally of a mind that it was too complicated for me to have a legitimate opinion one way or another.

Then Kent State happened. This frightened me. If it could happen at Kent State, could it not happen at my school? There were protests going on all the time. As I walked across campus to get to the library or attend classes, I had witnessed police in riot gear fast-marching in another direction but not 100 yards away from me. What was I doing that made it acceptable for some random shot to strike me down?

When the call came to shut down the campus and march en masse to the center of the city, I decided that it was time to join with my peers and make a statement. The decision came on a day when I was dressed for class--in the same way that I always dressed. Pleated skirt, turtle neck sweater, girdle, stocking, Mary Janes with about 2" heels. Some marching outfit.

There were thousands of students who joined the march. There were also several colleges in the city, so the plan that I heard including simultaneous marches from all the campuses meeting in the downtown area. I joined my march and enjoyed the spirit of determination and, yes, high excitement of those around me.

Eventually, however, that girdle took its toll. There were very few restrooms on that march. A service station on the route allowed folks to use the facilities, and the line outside the women's room was really long. I didn't actually need the facilities so much as I needed a place to get rid of that darned girdle. I cut the line with an explanation to that effect. I think I brought no little amusement to those at the head of the line who witnessed the shedding of that garment.

That garment, you must know, was an essential item. First, nice girls wore one to stop the unseemly jiggle that might otherwise manifest itself when walking. Second, in the days pre-pantyhose, it was the only way to hold up the stockings that were also part of the nice girl uniform. Being a southern girl at a northern campus made me a fish out of water in any number of ways, but that day, I think, was the most emblematic. Everyone else around me was dressed for the march, either having made the decision to join it some time before arriving at campus or already dressed in the more casual--even grungy--mode that typified the campus. The amused reactions of my fellow marchers when I announced that I just wanted to step into the ladies room to take off my girdle provided a watershed moment for me.

I rethought a lot of values that day. I can't say that I came to any clearer understanding of the roots of the war or that I resolved all of my own internal conflicts about the policies that led to it. I could only grasp it in limited terms, finite terms. How did it affect me? How did I feel about what was going on around me?

I never finished the march. The Mary Janes eventually did me in, and I had to take the bus home to nurse the blisters on my feet. The next day, however, I was better dressed for action and could join in other protest efforts. For a while I "manned the barricades," carrying a protest sign back and forth near one of the barricaded entrance to our campus. One side of the sign referred to Kent State and the other to Cambodia. (I didn't understand the issue about Cambodia, so I tried to keep the Kent State side showing to the passing cars.)

On another day, I joined the group that had taken over the campus radio station to help get the real news out to the public. That was my first experience with censorship. I was given the task of editing the incoming teletype stories for broadcast on the radio. Generally, I was just cutting the stories down to size for manageable broadcast--and I was quite enlightened by the stories that I read before they were broadcast. One, however, sticks with me: Jane Fonda had gone somewhere to protest the war and, according to the wire story, appeared with her blouse unbuttoned enough to expose her breasts. That didn't seem very nice to me, so I cut the line describing her appearance. I felt very guilty about trying to shape her image in a more seemly way, but, at the time, I was thinking that it wouldn't reflect well on the rest of us if her less-than-ladylike appearance. I still feel guilty about "censoring" the news--but I also never forget that any news we hear is likely to be filtered through the biases and concerns of the editors that get to see and hear it before we do.

Once I became involved in the protest, it also meant that there were any number of organizing meetings to attend. I hadn't learned in those days that I was supposed to keep my mouth shut and hand out coffee to the guys. (Never did learn that one, in fact.) So I asked questions and generally participated in discussions as if I could have a legitimate opinion. I cannot forget the fellow who towered over me, yelling at me about my faith in the proper system to report and protest any potential police brutality. That exchange was emblematic for me because I had never before considered that a policeman might deliberately hide his identity in order to harm a citizen. I was frightened at the thought--and more frightened by the realization that our definitions of civilized and lawful society were capable of such distortion.

At some point, the campus settled back to its normal routines. Someone negotiated to open the barricades, to end the occupation of various buildings. I went back to classes, walked across the campus with a little more awareness of what it meant to be safe there, and continued to struggle with the implications of the war in Vietnam for our own society.

One definite outcome of these events is that I never wore a girdle again. It's less clear to me how we are to view the war in Vietnam. It was clearly an unjust war (my opinion now, take it or leave it), but the aftermath and the lessons they might have taught us are much more troublesome. There has been a long division in our country about the nature of patriotism, the value of military service, the role our country should play in the world. We've never gotten over Vietnam--and we've never really resolved many of the issues that arose from that war.

I think, however, that it is absolutely clear that our country must be one in which people are allowed to speak their opinions freely and without being labelled a traitor for expressing their heartfelt belief that the country is headed in the wrong direction in foreign or domestic policy. None of us will--nor can we--share exactly the same life experiences and knowledge that will always and inevitably lead us to exactly the same conclusions about the direction of the country. I disgree with my Republican friend about some of the beliefs that she holds. I even disagree with John Kerry about some of the things that he is advocating for future policy. But I treasure my friend, because she is a friend and because I respect the life that she has led and also because I care about the concerns that lead her to some of the conclusions that she has reached. I care about John Kerry, too, and have high hopes for the election in November. I believe that he is a good man, and I am glad that we live in a country where he--and I--and all the rest of us have the right to face our government and say: "This is right. This is wrong. We can do better."