My Life So Far (41 page)

T
he rest of the trip was a blur of speeches, press conferences, and arrests—at Fort Hood, Fort Bragg, Fort Meade—for passing out antiwar leaflets. A few incidents stand out. At the Los Angeles press conference with Donald Duncan announcing plans for a GI movement demonstration on May 16, Armed Forces Day—the GIs were calling theirs Armed
Farces
Day—one reporter shouted, “Miss Fonda, why were you at the University of Albuquerque inciting the students to riot?” I should have said that he was giving me too much credit, and didn’t he think the killing of the Kent State students might have caused the rioting? Instead, I got angry and defensive.

Donald wanted to open a GI office in Washington to act as ombudsman for soldiers—a place where GIs could call or write about what was happening to them, where acts of military injustice could be documented, and where doctors and lawyers could verify their claims and get information about it to the House and Senate for investigation. We decided on the spot that Donald would move to D.C. to head up the office and that I would raise money to fund it.

I
had seen turmoil in Paris in 1968, but now in the United States it was happening nationwide. In May, 35,000 National Guardsmen were called out in sixteen states. Over a hundred demonstrators were wounded or killed. A third of the nation’s colleges closed down. In early May, students were shot and killed by National Guardsmen at Kent State University. On May 14, police shot into a dormitory at Jackson State University, wounding twelve students and killing two. More than five hundred GIs were deserting every day.

I was refused rooms in two Albuquerque motels because my criticism of Nixon’s invasion of Cambodia had appeared in the papers.

I
met Terry Davis, an attractive brown-haired woman who was on the staff of another GI coffeehouse, the Oleo Strut, in Killeen, Texas, near Fort Hood. It was my first time experiencing a woman’s leadership. This was so powerful for me that, when I think back over my 1970 trip, my time with Terry stands out above all else. Terry treated me not like a movie star but as a peer. She was interested in why I had become an activist and how I had gotten involved in the GI movement. She asked my opinion, included me in all decisions, and made sure I was comfortable. I saw this same sensitivity and compassion in the way she dealt with the GIs. With her, there was no hierarchy, only circle—everyone was valued, heard. It was a harbinger of the new world, a world of authenticity. This was the first time I had met an organizer who deeply embodied her politics, working toward true democracy in her own relationships.

It was at the Strut coffeehouse that I heard, for the first time, a speech about the women’s movement. Terry had invited a feminist to speak to the GIs. I was impressed. Up until then I had been confused by women who identified themselves to me as feminists. Mostly, these women asked questions like “How did you feel doing
Barbarella?
Did you feel that you were being exploited?” I could tell that I was supposed to feel exploited, but secretly I thought:
No one forced me to make the film. I didn’t enjoy it very much for lots of reasons, but I didn’t feel exploited.
(Now I think that with a little tweaking,
Barbarella
could have been a feminist movie—and just as sexy.) The speaker that night, however, said that if there
were
true equality between women and men, it would be good for both sexes: men wouldn’t feel that they alone have to carry the burden that has been placed on them by the patriarchal system. “It’s not a matter of women taking a piece of your pie,” she said to the gathered, attentive men, “it’s about us sharing the pie and making it bigger.”

Representing the GI movement at the huge rally in Washington, D.C., May 1970.

(Keystone/Getty Images)

Arrested at Fort Bragg military base, with Mark Lane and Elisabeth.

(AP/Wide World Photos)

My experience at the GI coffeehouse was what caused me to begin calling myself a feminist publicly—though it would be many more years before I had a true understanding of what the word and the politics really meant. It was much easier for me to organize on behalf of others—Vietnam veterans, Indians, blacks, and GIs—than it was to look at issues of gender. That would be hardest to face, because it meant questioning the foundation on which
my
identity as a woman had been built: Women are meant to please. They can rock all the boats there are
out there,
but they must do what’s necessary to keep the man happy at home.

A
t the Oleo Strut, Elisabeth and I shared a queen-size mattress on the floor with just a quilt to cover us. This was new for me but, as I would learn, a common mode of sleeping among movement activists—one I would soon adopt out of financial necessity. For the first time I also saw wooden cable spools turned on end and serving as tables.

I
n Washington, D.C., at my first national antiwar rally, there were about one hundred thousand people. I saw white people chanting “Free Bobby Seale!” and many Vietnam veterans in uniform with peace signs on their caps. There were speakers representing all aspects of the antiwar movement. A black man named Al Hubbard spoke eloquently on behalf of Vietnam Veterans Against the War (VVAW). Shirley MacLaine was there, the only other Hollywood person I saw, and she was clearly far more experienced at public speaking than I was.

Being up there at the microphone before a sea of upturned faces, hearing your voice echoing back at you when you’re already on the next sentence—this took getting used to. My assignment was to talk about the GI movement and why the antiwar movement shouldn’t view men in uniform as the enemy. I remember pointing to some uniformed men around the periphery of the crowd and saying, “Those men may very well have seen combat in Vietnam. They know better than any of us what this war is like. Don’t assume they are against us for opposing the war.” There was loud applause, and one of the men threw me a peace sign.

I
n Maryland I met with another military psychiatrist who told me about the mental problems he was seeing among many Vietnam veterans. He asked me to listen to a tape he had made of a few of his patients. This was a voice I had heard before, at Fort Ord—the whispering, tremulous voice of trauma.

The doctor stressed to me that the things the soldiers had done had been done in the presence of their officers, sometimes under orders. He himself was frightened of what might happen to him if his name was revealed. I felt heavy with the burden of all I was learning. I was also emotionally and physically exhausted, but it seemed unthinkable to take a break.

I
n Washington, D.C., Mark Lane and Carolyn Mugar joined us to identify legislators who would be interested in receiving information from the soon-to-open GI office. I had never set foot in the halls of Congress before, much less to lobby. The marble corridors and history-soaked chambers inspired awe and made it even more difficult for me to not feel like a little girl asking my father for something. But my presence caused a real stir. Everyone I met was friendly; some asked for my autograph. Arkansas senator James Fulbright liked the idea of the GI office, and my California senator, Alan Cranston, told us he was receiving eight thousand letters a day from constituents who opposed the war. The experience made me feel more optimistic than I had in a while.

O
n Memorial Day, right after another large demonstration in Central Park at which I spoke, Elisabeth flew home to Europe. I
was
home. I felt more American than I ever had. Elisabeth said to me before she left, “America is so alive and open. Your young people are not at all cynical the way they are in Europe.” I felt this, too. During that two-month trip, I had experienced the best of America and the worst, and at the trip’s end I felt certain that the best would prevail.

I am still baffled by those who feel that criticizing America is unpatriotic, a view increasingly being adopted in the United States since 9/11 as an excuse to render suspect what has always been an American right. An active, brave, outspoken (and
heard
) citizenry is essential to a healthy democracy.

CHAPTER FIVE

KLUTE

—B
REE
D
ANIEL,
my character in
Klute

I
N
1970, before I left California to start filming
Klute
in New York City, I needed to line up a place to live when I returned in the fall, a place for Vanessa and me. I’d been living in my father’s servants’ quarters and I couldn’t remain there any longer, especially now that my phone was being bugged. Since raising money was shaping up to be my main movement function, I thought I needed someplace not too expensive but large enough to hold fund-raisers. I found a house on top of a hill overlooking Hollywood, above the smog, and signed a rental agreement. Then I immediately set off, by myself this time, driving across America to New York, to start the film. But driving over the Rocky Mountains into Denver, I had an epiphany: I didn’t want to be someone who lives on the top of a mountain and gives out money for people who live below. I wanted to be
with
the people below, to understand who they were, what their lives were like. This feeling welled up with an odd certainty. It was frightening because it meant I would have to change—give up things. Comfort and privilege are relative, of course. “Giving up things” for me might represent a state of comfort for someone else. It’s also one thing to have an epiphany in the solitude of a car and another to go out and live it.
Can I really do this, or is it a momentary whim?
I wondered.
Can I be a movie star and at the same time not stand apart from others?
Then, as I came through the mountain pass, there, over Denver, clear as a bell, was the brightest double rainbow I have ever seen before or since. I took it for a sign. I called the real estate agent in California and canceled the lease on the mountaintop.

Mountaintops were about charity. I was about change.