Becoming: Protest

“I met him at the Y.

“We both attended the junior leader overnighter. He was so earnest…”

She trailed off, lost in thought, then rummaged around in her bag, came up with a tissue, and blew her nose.

Then the tears came.

I waited.

“He wasn’t political. That was all me. I talked him into it –– though it didn’t take much. I knew he was hooked.”

She paused again. Pulled out another tissue, blotted her eyes. They were swollen.

“I was euphoric. I’de dated a little. This guy was different. And he was so good looking. I thought he’d be another one of those stuck-up guys who thinks he’s got the world on a string. But, no, he asked me stuff, and he listened.”

I made a few notes, even though the recorder was on. More to collect my thoughts than anything. I asked, “So Saturday afternoon you went to the protest, after leaving the Y?”

“It wasn’t far. I always wanted to go, with all the stuff going on, you know. And I felt safe going with him. I knew none of my friends were going –– it’s too far for them. But here I was, just two blocks away and I thought, why not. And with him. He was up for it.”

Stopping again, this time her face blank. And I think, it’s too horrible to face, she’s retreated inside.

Then she leans forward, makes a nest with her arms on the table, and lays her head down.

I wait. Take a sip of my drink and wonder if I should continue to press her.

An eon passes. Checking the time –– it’s only been a few minutes –– I watch a spider carefully making a web across the window.

She raises her head and wipes her eyes on her sleeve.

“I knew it was going to be hot, so I bought some water on the way. The soldiers were already there when we arrived. I didn’t see any guns. We would have turned around if there’d been guns. Seeing the soldiers from down the block we talked about it. Guns, I mean.”

“He was eager to join up with the protesters.”

“No that’s not really it. He was showing off. He was doing this for me. To impress me.”

She drifted, for a moment. So, I asked, “Did you have to pass through the soldiers to reach the other protesters?”

“No, the soldiers were protecting the entrance of the court building. They were easy to see because they were on higher ground. But the crowd was really big; well, you saw it, you were there.”

She looked at me. No, she studied me.

Uncomfortable, I asked, “So how did you get up front.”

“Oh, he was into it and, taking my hand, he pushed our way through the crowd. He kept saying he was a journalist.”

For a moment I was holding her hand. Pushing through the crowd. Smelling sweat. Then, willing myself back, I asked.

“People bought that? You’re high school seniors.”

“Some did ask. He said ‘high school paper. The kids need to know.’ Anyway, it worked; we got right to the front…

“And then they charged.”

“Who charged? The crowd? The soldiers?”

“The soldiers. And they had these sticks.”

I didn’t notice the change right away. Somehow, she looked older now. She was looking intently at me now.

“You look a lot like him.”

I looked down at my notebook, but it was gone. I looked past her at the window. The spider was in the center of her web.

Looking around, I saw the café had emptied.

I tried to hang on. Knew now. Knew it was a dream.

And I awoke remembering the girl from the Y. I don’t remember her name.

Fully awake now, I do remember she wanted me to go to a Vietnam War protest. My frontal cortex spinning deportation protests, Nam protests, my fear of protests, my cowardice, into one.

We didn’t go.