My Beautiful Hippie (14 page)

“Gerald's dinner!” Denise shrieked, and dashed to the phone. She snatched the receiver from me and said, “Oh, honey, I'm so sorry! I forgot all about . . . Yes, I know you expect steak and mashed potatoes on Saturday . . . Darling, yes. I'll make it up to you. I'll fry a chicken tomorrow.” As Denise stood on one bare foot, then the other, listening to her raging husband, I crept into bed and pulled the covers over my head.

* * *

Dad could cook one thing, and that was Sunday-morning waffles. He was artful, stuffing them with chopped apples, cinnamon, and raisins before cooking, or heaping them with bananas and hazelnuts afterward.

As Mom, Denise, and I sat at the kitchen table waiting for our waffles to be served, Mom scolded Denise for deserting Jerry overnight. “Don't come home crying to us at the least provocation. You made your bed, now sleep in it.”

Dad commanded the waffle iron, wearing his chef apron with the picture of the
Peanuts
Snoopy holding his dish in his mouth above
SUPPERTIME
in bright red letters, while our Snoopy wove between his legs. This morning Dad had outdone himself by cooking blueberries to a gooey syrup on the inside of the waffles and nestling plump strawberries in whipped cream on top.

The moment he proudly set the steaming plates before us, there came two sharp raps on the back door. Jerry let himself in and stood bleary-eyed and rumpled at the entrance to the kitchen.

“Good morning, Jerry!” exclaimed Mom. “Just in time for waffles.”

“No, thank you,” he said stiffly. “I've got lots to do today. Ready, Denise?”

Denise frowned and looked down at her full plate.

I made a face at him. “Sit down and have some waffles, Jerry. You know you want to.”

He smirked back at my taunting. “They do look awfully good.”

Mom pulled out Dan's chair and patted the seat. “Sit, darling. You're in for a treat. Dick's waffles are outstanding.”

Jerry grinned and leaped into the chair. The crackling tension in the room dissipated, replaced by homey Sunday-morning “Mmms” between bites of blueberry waffles.

“I've got papers to write and papers to correct,” said Jerry around an overstuffed mouth. “It's not like I have it easy like you, Denise, with just a five-day-a-week job.”

Denise's fork halted midway between her plate and mouth, a stricken look on her face.

“Did you hear that, Denise?” I said. “Old Jerry boy is giving you the whole day off. You won't have to fry that chicken after all. Where you taking her to dinner, Jer, huh? Huh?”

Jerry pointed his knife at me. “You know what I meant, Beethoven. I'm talking about
paid
work.”

“Denise knows a woman's work is never done,” said Mom cheerfully.

“I thought Lincoln freed the slaves,” I said. “Oh, wait a minute. Those were Negroes.”

Denise snorted into her coffee, stifling a laugh, while Jerry's eyes slid in my direction. I gave him a fake smile.

“
Okay
. We can go to that little Afghani restaurant on Shattuck, Denise. The food's good and it's cheap.”

“I'll fry the chicken, Gerald. No problem.”

“No, I want to take you out.” He reached across the table and gave her hand a squeeze. Their eyes met. “We haven't had any time together this whole weekend.”

Dad went “Hmph,” and scraped his chair across the floor to reach for the
Chronicle
.

After Jerry and Denise left, Mom remarked, “I don't know where you get such notions, Joanne.”

“What notions?”

“You know. That women's libbers' lip service. You shouldn't interfere in your sister's marriage.” Mom bent to clear the table.

“Oh, Mommy, Jerry likes it when I joke around with him. He's like the brother I never had.”

“You have a brother,” said the newspaper.

“I mean one who's nice to me.”

“What got into Denise to come running home, Mother?” asked the newspaper. “Did you ever get to the bottom of it?”

“I know exactly what's going on with Denise,” said Mom. “Remember, Dick, early on in our marriage, why I went running home to my mother?”

“No,” said the newspaper.

Mom set a pile of dirty dishes on the counter and pressed one rubber-gloved finger against her chin. “I'll just bet we're about to become grandparents. If it's a boy, I wonder if it will look like you, Dick.”

“What, Mom? You think the kid is going to be a newspaper?”

My piano lesson was nearly over. I turned my wrist to glance at my watch, trying to build up the courage to break the news to Dr. Harold.

“You seem distracted, Joanne,” he said as he made his final notes in my assignment book.

“Um . . . I need to tell you something. I'll have to miss master class this Saturday.”

“You know I expect all my students to be there for one another every time. What's the reason?”

“Uh . . . it's kind of a special event, a family thing.”

“A birthday?”

“No.”

“A wedding?”

“No.”

Dr. Harold laughed and drew his fingers through his wavy black hair. “Why is this turning into a guessing game? Just tell me, Joanne.”

I knew I couldn't play games with Dr. Harold the way I did with my mother and maintain his respect. “I'm going to the Stop the Draft march,” I blurted.

“With your
family
?” he exclaimed incredulously. He had met my mother.

“No. My mom doesn't know. She wouldn't let me. Don't tell on me.”

“Hmm . . . it sounds dangerous. Do you understand what you're getting into?”

I shrugged. I didn't really know much about it. Martin had said he was going to Berkeley to protest the war and had invited me along.

Dr. Harold reached for the
Chronicle
and gestured toward the lead article. “The demonstrators are planning to march on the army induction center and forcibly shut it down for a week. The mayor of Oakland won't grant the permit for the march, so everyone who participates is breaking the law.”

“Martin Luther King sometimes marches without a permit.”

“And he's sometimes met with violence.” Dr. Harold tapped the newspaper with the back of his hand. “These demonstrators are trying to stop the war machine of the United States of America, and there's going to be trouble.” I knew Dr. Harold was opposed to the war because he said “war machine” instead of just “war,” and I'd seen the peace-sign bumper sticker on his Citroen. “The Oakland chief of police vows to stop the demonstrators by any means, even calling out the National Guard. Those guys have rifles.”

That made me think of the picture in my world history textbook of Bloody Sunday in 1905, when workers marched on the czar's winter palace and his army fired into the crowd, killing hundreds. “So? This isn't Russia. They won't shoot anybody just for walking around.”

“Don't be too sure of that. I participated in Vietnam Day last year about this time, and they threw tear gas into the crowd. My eyes burned for a month. Wait a minute. My God, that was
two
years ago. Consensus war, my ass!”

Dr. Harold was the type of adult who swore in front of kids and didn't apologize for it. He was pacing the room with his quick, energetic stride. My lesson had gone over five minutes, and he kept strict hours.

“What's consensus war?” I asked.

“It means everyone wants it. Why do they have to draft guys to fight it, then? In Oakland there's going to be a war against the war. You'd better come to master class, where it's safe.”

In a pouting voice I said, “You're going to tell my mother, aren't you?”

“Listen to me, Joanne! The police will crack some heads. Arrests will be made. Are you willing to go to jail?”

And cause my mom heart failure? I thought a moment. “But the protests help! The government is going to have to start paying attention to them.” I looked up at him through the curtain of my parted hair, pleading with my eyes.

“Do what you have to do, then,” he said in a resigned tone. “Just be careful. Stay in the back, and if things turn ugly, get out.” He patted my shoulder before handing me my music. “Just one thing: How is this a
family
event?”

“Well, uh, remember me telling you about my brother?” I confided in Dr. Harold about everything.

“The one you don't like?”

“I've only got one—Dan. He's dying to get over to Nam to uh . . . die.”

Dr. Harold rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “I see.”

It was true I didn't want Dan killed, but I also didn't want him to have the chance to go off to war and be especially good at fighting it. I had overheard him talking to Pete about their friend Jimmy Howe and some other soldiers in his company who saved the ears of dead Vietcong as souvenirs. Dan bragged that once he got over to Nam, his ear collection would be the biggest. Going off to the Stop the Draft march, I was on a mission with a slogan: No ears for Dan!

It was easy for Martin and me to hitch a ride across the Bay Bridge. Streams of cars and buses were pouring into Berkeley from all directions. Fifteen thousand participants were expected, some coming from as far as Oregon.

Huddled in the back of a jammed VW van painted in
Day-Glo psychedelic designs, I asked Martin, “What if you get drafted? Will you go?”

“I'm not killing anybody. Not even the U.S. government can make me do that.”

“You're willing to go to jail?”

“No.”

“You're going to Canada or Mexico?”

He shook his head. “I'm dodging. If a law is unjust or immoral, it's my personal responsibility to break it. Civil disobedience—Henry David Thoreau wrote about it long before Gandhi and King put it into practice. There's enough guys who want to go to war without the draft.”

I rolled my eyes. “Dan, for instance. Guys like him want to feel they're being brave, risking their lives to defend our country.”

“They're brainwashed into believing that. The real reason is they're looking for adventure. They want to test their mettle, then boast about it later.”

I laughed and said, “No ears for Dan!” Then I explained.

People streamed into Sproul Plaza on the campus of the University of California to assemble for the march. The majority were not hippies, as I had anticipated, but Cal students, the guys in trousers, oxford shirts, and corduroy jackets and the girls in jumpers, white blouses, and bobby socks. There were some older men in suits and ties, maybe professors. I thought with a chill across my nape that I could possibly run into Jerry and Denise. Good little Denise at a war protest? It didn't seem likely, but then Jerry was the boss of her now, and he was antiwar.

There were famous people there, including author Ken Kesey and Beat poet Allen Ginsberg. When a TV reporter asked Ginsberg what he thought of the gathering, he produced finger cymbals from his robe and accompanied himself in a chant. Country Joe and the Fish sang their “Feel Like I'm Fixin' to Die Rag” jug-band style, including washboard and kazoo, while the vast crowd clapped the beat and sang along on the chorus. Phil
Ochs was more pensive, accompanying his plaintive tenor on a single guitar, singing “I Ain't Marching Anymore.”

One of the organizers came on the microphone to announce, “Today marks the first day of Stop the Draft Week. We are declaring a draft holiday for this time period. We are going to close the Oakland army induction building down. Today we are willing to be disruptive. Today is the movement from protest to resistance.”

We all assembled in a broad column on Telegraph Avenue and began to march toward Oakland. Martin smiled at me and clasped my hand. “Here we go, Joni. Hold on tight.”

A stranger took my other hand. All around us people were holding hands or linking arms. Some demonstrators carried pickets,
STOP THE BOMBING, BRING THE BOYS HOME, NO MORE WAR, PEACE, GET U.S. OUT OF VIETNAM
. A little boy riding his father's shoulder held an
ARMS ARE FOR EMBRACING
bumper sticker like a banner before his face. We sang “This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine.” It made me feel like I mattered, that I, too, was a necessary part of this demonstration.

It was a good time until we reached the Oakland city line. Across the width of the street was a barrier of policemen dressed for combat, with helmets and billy clubs. Someone raised his palm and yelled,
“Heil!”
and we all joined in with a slow, driving rhythm.

“Heil! Heil! Heil!”
I shouted to the fascist police, which refused to let us pass. I knew the Oakland policemen were merely doing what they were paid to do: keep peace and order in their city.

They forced us onto the sidewalk on one side of the street, thinned out to three abreast. On the other side of the street were the protesters protesting the protesters. “Traitors! Commies!” they yelled at us. “Why don't you go home?”