On the Damned German Language!
In early times some sufferer had to sit up with a toothache, and he put in the time inventing the German language.
-Mark Twain, Notebook #14, 11/1877 - 7/1878
Vietnam is the war that never ends for those of us who came of age in the late 60s and early 70s. We lived it; we breathed it. We participated in it and marched against it. We saw it every evening on the news and heard about it on the radio. Some of our friends died there and some burned their draft cards as others went to Canada or Sweden. Michael Herr, in Dispatches, wrote “Vietnam, Vietnam. We’ve all been there.” He was wrong, but I know what he meant. Vietnam colored our lives whether we spent a tour of duty or more there or not.
A large number of us both went to Vietnam as soldiers, Marines, whatever, and came back and protested against the very war we were a part of. Some of us who went feel we betrayed them. I don’t think we did. It is not a betrayal to come to the realization that a thing is wrong, even a thing that we became a part of, and then shout out loud that it was wrong. I think we have a moral responsibility to do so.
At any rate, in the summer of 1973, I enrolled in a quasi-submersion intensive German class. I’ve written about it before in an essay called “The Woman of My German Summer” (published in Eclectica and revised for The Texas Review), an essay probably much more interesting than this blog entry since it was filled with romance and loss, learning the vocabulary of German love while staying up late at night in bed and using the point and touch system. What a fine way to study a foreign language! Neither of us knew German when we started and both of us were pretty good when we finished the course. Fifteen hours of language credit for one summer class and we earned every bit of it. I am no longer very good at what Sam Clemens called the “awful German language,” just as I am no longer a good Vietnamese translator/interpreter.
Vietnamese Years Later
I did, at one time, dream occasionally in Vietnamese but that was decades ago. I dreamed, once, that I was moving from one place to another in Austin and had a U-Haul trailer fastened with bungee cords to the back of my VW convertible. As I drove through the streets of Austin, the trailer kept stretching farther and farther behind me. As if it had a mind of its own, it veered from right to left, lept curbs, over-turned people’s propane barbecue pits, took down mail boxes. And then we, the trailer and I, were driving down Highway 14 in Pleiku and over-turning vats of nuoc mam, chased by hordes of Vietnamese women with betel nut-blackened teeth. And then we, turned west onto Highway 19 and I careered on up the hill, the trailer setting off land mines. You should be aware that not once while I was stationed in that area did I ever even see a mine explode! I pulled into Engineer Hill and woke up.
Another time, in San Antonio, I was able to use what Vietnamese I still retained. I was in a Stop ‘n Go (Shamrock gasoline) when the San Antonio Police brought an old woman into the store. She was lost and they were trying to find out where she lived. Bright guy that I was at the time (I make no such claims now), I realized that she was muttering in Vietnamese. I introduced myself to her with words much like these: “Ten toi la Hoang…toi giup do ba duoc?” Okay, no tones because I don’t know how to make them here. I told her (I think) “My name is Hoang.” (That was my Vietnamese name back in Language school and in 1967-1968 in Viet-Nam.) “Can I help you?” I suspect both the tomes I used and the words were not correct, but she stopped muttering and looked up at me. “Ba song o dau?” I asked. (“Where do you live?”) She told me…and I told the police. They took here there. That is, I think, the last time I ever used Vietnamese seriously though I have said Hello,. how are you? in Vietnamese to a few of our international students from Vietnam.
Back to the Subject
I am very much off the subject of this blog. Back to Germany! Back to language study. One afternoon, the students growing restless, student activists on campus called for another march down Guadalupe street. Our German class was meeting that day and one of the team of TAs teaching the class started mouthing off about the United States. We were going to cancel the afternoon session (class met from 9 – 12 and from 1 -4 every day) so we could all march against the imperialism that was American foreign policy. That was too much for me. A German national lecturing us (five of us were graduate students, two of us Vietnam veterans) about imperialism!!! I made a few mild references to the Franco/Prussian War, to WWI and to WWII, and to the generosity of the Marshall Plan that had helped get his country on its feet and him to the U.S.A. to criticize the U.S.A.
I would not have done that with Frau Hilda Schucking, a fifty-year-old TA who frequently talked to me about the Lost Generation of young German men from WWII and how it had affected young German women like her: lack of young men when she was coming of age. That afternoon, somewhat ashamed of how I had responded to him, I caught up with Gerhardt on the march and shook his hand, said We’ll just have to disagree about some things.
That march was somehow not as memorable for me as the march that ended up as a sleep-over under the UT Tower when a young woman and I zipped out sleeping bags together and lay down under the stars while someone in the Tower played “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” and “Bridge Over Troubled Waters” on the carillon.
Showing posts with label Antiwar Protests. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Antiwar Protests. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Friday, June 24, 2011
A Few Notes About Vietnam #44
There's Something Happening Here
On May 4th, 1970, my first semester in the doctoral program at the University of Texas in Austin, I was so out of everything having to do with Vietnam, with the National Security Agency, with the protest movement. I was living in the moment, taking classes, meeting young women, growing my hair long, reading Herman Melville, William Butler Yeats, James Joyce and poets like John Berryman, Richard Wilbur and, well, a whole new/old world was opening in front of me. And then on May 4th, the world of the past few years crashed back into me. The news rocketed around the campus…four students killed, nine wounded…Ohio National Guard…the students, some of them at least, protesting the Cambodian incursion. [See the Wikipedia entry at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kent_State_shootings]
I had not joined Vietnam Veterans Against the War though I had actually received a written invitation to become a charter member. All of us who had signed that petition that had appeared in the New York Time the previous semester, damn, I was already thinking in terms of semesters!, had received charter member invitations. I decided not to join. I was proud to have marched with GI’s United Against the War and was now a doctoral student, a path I had started down when I had been drafted four years earlier. I didn’t want to join any veterans groups, not VVA, not VFW, none of them. I was a student and that was enough.
But the day after the Kent State killings, and I do not really care who was at fault, the Guard should not have fired, I joined thousands of other students from the University of Texas and marched in Austin, Texas. We finally squatted on “The Drag,” Guadalupe Street in front of the University of Texas. Austin police had snipers on the tops of the building—it had not been that many months since Charles Whitman has killed people from the UT Tower, which we could see from the street. Now, another sniper was on top of the Tower. That was the only demonstration I ever marched in where I was tear-gassed.
That night, we gathered together again under the Tower for an all night sleep-in. Those of us who taught either canceled our classes the next day or had what we liked to call a “teach-in.” I used my class that day to introduce anti-war poems by Walt Whitman, Herman Melville and Emily Dickinson. A few years later, I would have included Seigfried Sassoon, Wildred Owen and Isaac Rosenberg; several years later and I would have added Bruce Weigl, W. D. Ehrhart, and Yusef Komuyakaa. That night was beautiful: crisp, cool. I zipped my sleeping bag together with my then girlfriend’s, and someone in the tower played “Bridge Over Troubled Water” and “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” on the great carillon. Hundreds of us sang the songs. The bell tones drifted out over Austin until someone in authority shut it down.
The next morning, we marched again. And then, things settled down. We went back to our classes, to our studies, to other things we were passionate about. Moments in time, memories. And yet four people even younger than I was then, four undergraduates, cannot look back on those days. And the Guardsmen who fired, I wonder if they can ever forget or even want to do so. Ten days later, two other students were killed, this time by the police, at Jackson State University. When I think of these things, I’m always reminded of Buffalo Springfield’s “For What It’s Worth”:
There's something happening here
What it is ain't exactly clear
There's a man with a gun over there
Telling me I got to beware
I think it's time we stop, children, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
On May 4th, 1970, my first semester in the doctoral program at the University of Texas in Austin, I was so out of everything having to do with Vietnam, with the National Security Agency, with the protest movement. I was living in the moment, taking classes, meeting young women, growing my hair long, reading Herman Melville, William Butler Yeats, James Joyce and poets like John Berryman, Richard Wilbur and, well, a whole new/old world was opening in front of me. And then on May 4th, the world of the past few years crashed back into me. The news rocketed around the campus…four students killed, nine wounded…Ohio National Guard…the students, some of them at least, protesting the Cambodian incursion. [See the Wikipedia entry at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kent_State_shootings]
I had not joined Vietnam Veterans Against the War though I had actually received a written invitation to become a charter member. All of us who had signed that petition that had appeared in the New York Time the previous semester, damn, I was already thinking in terms of semesters!, had received charter member invitations. I decided not to join. I was proud to have marched with GI’s United Against the War and was now a doctoral student, a path I had started down when I had been drafted four years earlier. I didn’t want to join any veterans groups, not VVA, not VFW, none of them. I was a student and that was enough.
But the day after the Kent State killings, and I do not really care who was at fault, the Guard should not have fired, I joined thousands of other students from the University of Texas and marched in Austin, Texas. We finally squatted on “The Drag,” Guadalupe Street in front of the University of Texas. Austin police had snipers on the tops of the building—it had not been that many months since Charles Whitman has killed people from the UT Tower, which we could see from the street. Now, another sniper was on top of the Tower. That was the only demonstration I ever marched in where I was tear-gassed.
That night, we gathered together again under the Tower for an all night sleep-in. Those of us who taught either canceled our classes the next day or had what we liked to call a “teach-in.” I used my class that day to introduce anti-war poems by Walt Whitman, Herman Melville and Emily Dickinson. A few years later, I would have included Seigfried Sassoon, Wildred Owen and Isaac Rosenberg; several years later and I would have added Bruce Weigl, W. D. Ehrhart, and Yusef Komuyakaa. That night was beautiful: crisp, cool. I zipped my sleeping bag together with my then girlfriend’s, and someone in the tower played “Bridge Over Troubled Water” and “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” on the great carillon. Hundreds of us sang the songs. The bell tones drifted out over Austin until someone in authority shut it down.
The next morning, we marched again. And then, things settled down. We went back to our classes, to our studies, to other things we were passionate about. Moments in time, memories. And yet four people even younger than I was then, four undergraduates, cannot look back on those days. And the Guardsmen who fired, I wonder if they can ever forget or even want to do so. Ten days later, two other students were killed, this time by the police, at Jackson State University. When I think of these things, I’m always reminded of Buffalo Springfield’s “For What It’s Worth”:
There's something happening here
What it is ain't exactly clear
There's a man with a gun over there
Telling me I got to beware
I think it's time we stop, children, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Just a Few Notes About Vietnam #43
I Get Kicked out of the National Security Agency (Gently)
I should, I suppose, mention the huge march again. . .the one on November 15, 1969.
More than 500,000 of us marched through the streets of D.C. and gathered on the national mall to protest the war. As I have said, I found the October march more significant, almost spiritual in its quiet solemnity, but the November march was impressive for sheer numbers.
Finally, people seemed to get it. Please, don’t get me wrong. among the more arrogant things I always disliked about the “Peace Movement” was all the verbiage by 18- to 20-year-olds about the necessity to “educate the people.” The people were really no less educated than you or I; they merely disagreed with us. Well, that’s what I thought in the late 60s and early 70s, but the rise of the so-called “Tea Party” movement and the far right wing-nuts, of the "birthers" and "Fourteenthers" might mean that I should reassess my thoughts about that. In spite of that, I will always look back on both of those marches as important and memorable moments in my life.
Part of the sheer joy of those marches for me might have been that I knew I was getting out of the Army before Christmas and had been readmitted to graduate school at the University of Texas at Austin for the spring semester. Part of it was having all of that to share with Linda Casson, being young and in love, marching against the war and making love: the sixties! Judy Collins was wrong: I was in the sixties and remember it all. I was living in D.C., commuting to work like a regular working stiff, enjoying life, living in my twenties. Nothing could be better! Elena Poniatowska, the great Mexican journalist and writer was absolutely correct: Doing what you believe in, especially if it is tinged with some modicum of danger (and love), makes you become more alive, more aware of everything around you, casts some small amount of light in dark corners.
And then: Monday morning after the march, I returned to work at the National Security Agency, the quintessential alphabet agency, the NSA, The Building, and Don and I were stopped from entering by the Marine guards. Why? I had not read The New York Times on the morning of November 19, 1969, but I was in the newspaper.
If you’ve read earlier entries in this blog, you may remember that the previous summer my friend Don Mohr and I had driven in my little VW convertible down to Fort Bragg, North Carolina, to participate in a march against the war sponsored by GIs United Against the War. My friend Allen Hallmark was one of the organizers and had invited us down. While there, we had both signed a petition of active duty soldiers opposed to the war and demanding that it stop NOW!
The actual petition was divided into military posts by alphabet and then by names of active duty troops, alphabetically. Even NSA was sharp enough to go down the list to Fort Meade and pick out the two names there. Let me say right now what I said in my first chapbook of prose and poems, From the Periphery, that my name on that petition remains one of the publications I am most proud of.
We were taken from The Building to a small cubicle (I forget where on post) and interviewed (no enhanced interrogation measures were used) by an officer from CID. It was actually fairly pleasant; perhaps because the ACLU had made it public that they would defend any of the petitioners against anything that might affect our futures (e.g., withdrawal of our security clearances, felony charges, etc.). So, we were asked if we could give the names of other employees of NSA who had participated in the anti-war movement. We both, in different rooms, said "no" but that we would ask them if it was okay. A bunch of people who had participated wanted to be named; some who had never participated wanted to be named. I decided not to name anyone.
What happened as a result of all this was that I was denied access to cryptographic information and access to The Building, but I did (thanks to the ACLU) retain my security clearance. For the remainder of my stay in the U.S. Army, I defended our rights to freedom of speech and petition by painting rocks blue and white around the company area and filling in for the clerk/typist when he was on leave.
I was at the time of all this, 27 years old. The captain commanding “C” Company, ASA, Ft. Meade, was 24. I have forgotten his name. But the First Sergeant was a very nice guy named Zeigler. Sergeant Zeigler was approaching his twentieth year in the Army and retirement and asked me all the time if I thought he could find a job in the private sector. I remembered my days working at Sear and told him they hired a lot of retired Army sergeants but recommended that he use the GI Bill and go to college. he was a bright guy (unlike some of my drill instructor sergeants at Ft. Leonard Wood). Odd, I thought, to be giving advice to a man in his forties.
I found the captain somewhat disturbing as he frequently asked me what these kids were so upset about these days and why we were marching and demonstrating. I mean, he was younger than me!!!
My next blog entry is going to be about what everyone except the Army called “gas masks.” They called them something like “protective masks, OD” or some other nomenclature.
I should, I suppose, mention the huge march again. . .the one on November 15, 1969.
More than 500,000 of us marched through the streets of D.C. and gathered on the national mall to protest the war. As I have said, I found the October march more significant, almost spiritual in its quiet solemnity, but the November march was impressive for sheer numbers.
Finally, people seemed to get it. Please, don’t get me wrong. among the more arrogant things I always disliked about the “Peace Movement” was all the verbiage by 18- to 20-year-olds about the necessity to “educate the people.” The people were really no less educated than you or I; they merely disagreed with us. Well, that’s what I thought in the late 60s and early 70s, but the rise of the so-called “Tea Party” movement and the far right wing-nuts, of the "birthers" and "Fourteenthers" might mean that I should reassess my thoughts about that. In spite of that, I will always look back on both of those marches as important and memorable moments in my life.
Part of the sheer joy of those marches for me might have been that I knew I was getting out of the Army before Christmas and had been readmitted to graduate school at the University of Texas at Austin for the spring semester. Part of it was having all of that to share with Linda Casson, being young and in love, marching against the war and making love: the sixties! Judy Collins was wrong: I was in the sixties and remember it all. I was living in D.C., commuting to work like a regular working stiff, enjoying life, living in my twenties. Nothing could be better! Elena Poniatowska, the great Mexican journalist and writer was absolutely correct: Doing what you believe in, especially if it is tinged with some modicum of danger (and love), makes you become more alive, more aware of everything around you, casts some small amount of light in dark corners.
And then: Monday morning after the march, I returned to work at the National Security Agency, the quintessential alphabet agency, the NSA, The Building, and Don and I were stopped from entering by the Marine guards. Why? I had not read The New York Times on the morning of November 19, 1969, but I was in the newspaper.
If you’ve read earlier entries in this blog, you may remember that the previous summer my friend Don Mohr and I had driven in my little VW convertible down to Fort Bragg, North Carolina, to participate in a march against the war sponsored by GIs United Against the War. My friend Allen Hallmark was one of the organizers and had invited us down. While there, we had both signed a petition of active duty soldiers opposed to the war and demanding that it stop NOW!
The actual petition was divided into military posts by alphabet and then by names of active duty troops, alphabetically. Even NSA was sharp enough to go down the list to Fort Meade and pick out the two names there. Let me say right now what I said in my first chapbook of prose and poems, From the Periphery, that my name on that petition remains one of the publications I am most proud of.
We were taken from The Building to a small cubicle (I forget where on post) and interviewed (no enhanced interrogation measures were used) by an officer from CID. It was actually fairly pleasant; perhaps because the ACLU had made it public that they would defend any of the petitioners against anything that might affect our futures (e.g., withdrawal of our security clearances, felony charges, etc.). So, we were asked if we could give the names of other employees of NSA who had participated in the anti-war movement. We both, in different rooms, said "no" but that we would ask them if it was okay. A bunch of people who had participated wanted to be named; some who had never participated wanted to be named. I decided not to name anyone.
What happened as a result of all this was that I was denied access to cryptographic information and access to The Building, but I did (thanks to the ACLU) retain my security clearance. For the remainder of my stay in the U.S. Army, I defended our rights to freedom of speech and petition by painting rocks blue and white around the company area and filling in for the clerk/typist when he was on leave.
I was at the time of all this, 27 years old. The captain commanding “C” Company, ASA, Ft. Meade, was 24. I have forgotten his name. But the First Sergeant was a very nice guy named Zeigler. Sergeant Zeigler was approaching his twentieth year in the Army and retirement and asked me all the time if I thought he could find a job in the private sector. I remembered my days working at Sear and told him they hired a lot of retired Army sergeants but recommended that he use the GI Bill and go to college. he was a bright guy (unlike some of my drill instructor sergeants at Ft. Leonard Wood). Odd, I thought, to be giving advice to a man in his forties.
I found the captain somewhat disturbing as he frequently asked me what these kids were so upset about these days and why we were marching and demonstrating. I mean, he was younger than me!!!
My next blog entry is going to be about what everyone except the Army called “gas masks.” They called them something like “protective masks, OD” or some other nomenclature.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
I Participate in My First Antiwar March (Part 34)
GIs United Against the War
Sometime during the summer of 1969, back when I was living in Chillum Heights with Don Mohr and Will Chapman, Allen Hallmark called me from Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Allen had been separated from the rest of us: he was a certified troublemaker and sent to North Carolina instead of back to Fort Meade. I have no idea of what his official duty was at the home of the Airborne and of Special Forces, but his more interesting job (well, not an official job) was as a writer and one of the editors of Bragg Briefs, an underground newspaper on the post.
Anyway, Allen called me from Fort Bragg. He wanted to know if I would be interested in traveling down to North Carolina to 1) participate in teach-ins at North Carolina colleges and universities and 2) take part in a march against the war that would go through the streets of Fayetteville, NC, and to the gates of Fort Bragg. I was only a little bit hesitant. And then Don said he’d like to go, too. As I recall, we hopped into my little blue VW convertible, top down, and drove down the highway to North Carolina.
North Carolina? Scary place in those days. I was glad I wasn't "driving while black" (a term we didn't have in those days). As we crossed the State line from Virginia, we saw an enormous billboard: Man dresses in white sheets, on a rearing white horse, a burning cross in his hand. “Welcome to North Carolina,” the billboard said, “Home of the Ku Klux Klan.” I resisted turning back. Aside from that, there was nothing terribly intimidating about North Carolina though I suspect Virginians are pleased to have NC south of them: makes them look good.
Fayetteville was a pretty typical Army town, filled with bars, convenience stores selling dirty books, drunken soldiers in the evenings. Pretty normal stuff for “outside the gates” towns.
The group Allen belonged to, GI’s United Against the War, had organized fairly recently and this would be there first march. GIs came from various places to participate in the demonstration, which was, as far as I can tell, the first active-duty soldiers protest against the on-going war in Vietnam.
It was a great march. Not a lot of us, maybe 100 active-duty soldiers, and 200 civilians who joined us. I walked, in civilian clothes (against the law to demonstrate in a uniform unless you were an officer speaking FOR the war), but carrying a sign saying I was active-duty. Walking next to me: a young black woman who carried her baby in her arms. As we marched from the Quaker church down the streets toward Fort Bragg, she held the baby up in the air and said, “Look, honey, this is all for you.” Eventually, those leading the march decided not to approach the gates since the Airborne had threatened a counter-demonstration.
As I said, it was a great march, even greater, though, for personal reasons. It was my first participation in formal anti-war activity since returning from Vietnam. We didn’t get a ton of publicity though we made a few newspapers, but we did get some recognition from other anti-war groups. They were wise enough to see that active-duty service men and women could be a major benefit to convincing the country that those opposed to the war were not simply long-haired, selfish hippies.
At the end of the march, we reassembled. We circulated a petition that all of us who were active duty signed. Leonard Weinglass, who had defended the Chicago 7 and had been a member of the Judge Advocates Court between the Korean and Vietnam Wars, warned us that signing the petition could get us in trouble. We signed it anyway. Altogether something like 1,350 signatures from Airmen, Marines and Soldiers ultimately appeared on the petition that would appear in the New York Times shortly before the November 19th march on Washington, D.C.
More about that later. That day was wonderful, a milestone for me, something I will never forget. Don and I crashed on the floor at someone’s house and headed back to D.C. to work at the National Security Agency the next day.
Sometime during the summer of 1969, back when I was living in Chillum Heights with Don Mohr and Will Chapman, Allen Hallmark called me from Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Allen had been separated from the rest of us: he was a certified troublemaker and sent to North Carolina instead of back to Fort Meade. I have no idea of what his official duty was at the home of the Airborne and of Special Forces, but his more interesting job (well, not an official job) was as a writer and one of the editors of Bragg Briefs, an underground newspaper on the post.
Anyway, Allen called me from Fort Bragg. He wanted to know if I would be interested in traveling down to North Carolina to 1) participate in teach-ins at North Carolina colleges and universities and 2) take part in a march against the war that would go through the streets of Fayetteville, NC, and to the gates of Fort Bragg. I was only a little bit hesitant. And then Don said he’d like to go, too. As I recall, we hopped into my little blue VW convertible, top down, and drove down the highway to North Carolina.
North Carolina? Scary place in those days. I was glad I wasn't "driving while black" (a term we didn't have in those days). As we crossed the State line from Virginia, we saw an enormous billboard: Man dresses in white sheets, on a rearing white horse, a burning cross in his hand. “Welcome to North Carolina,” the billboard said, “Home of the Ku Klux Klan.” I resisted turning back. Aside from that, there was nothing terribly intimidating about North Carolina though I suspect Virginians are pleased to have NC south of them: makes them look good.
Fayetteville was a pretty typical Army town, filled with bars, convenience stores selling dirty books, drunken soldiers in the evenings. Pretty normal stuff for “outside the gates” towns.
The group Allen belonged to, GI’s United Against the War, had organized fairly recently and this would be there first march. GIs came from various places to participate in the demonstration, which was, as far as I can tell, the first active-duty soldiers protest against the on-going war in Vietnam.
It was a great march. Not a lot of us, maybe 100 active-duty soldiers, and 200 civilians who joined us. I walked, in civilian clothes (against the law to demonstrate in a uniform unless you were an officer speaking FOR the war), but carrying a sign saying I was active-duty. Walking next to me: a young black woman who carried her baby in her arms. As we marched from the Quaker church down the streets toward Fort Bragg, she held the baby up in the air and said, “Look, honey, this is all for you.” Eventually, those leading the march decided not to approach the gates since the Airborne had threatened a counter-demonstration.
As I said, it was a great march, even greater, though, for personal reasons. It was my first participation in formal anti-war activity since returning from Vietnam. We didn’t get a ton of publicity though we made a few newspapers, but we did get some recognition from other anti-war groups. They were wise enough to see that active-duty service men and women could be a major benefit to convincing the country that those opposed to the war were not simply long-haired, selfish hippies.
At the end of the march, we reassembled. We circulated a petition that all of us who were active duty signed. Leonard Weinglass, who had defended the Chicago 7 and had been a member of the Judge Advocates Court between the Korean and Vietnam Wars, warned us that signing the petition could get us in trouble. We signed it anyway. Altogether something like 1,350 signatures from Airmen, Marines and Soldiers ultimately appeared on the petition that would appear in the New York Times shortly before the November 19th march on Washington, D.C.
More about that later. That day was wonderful, a milestone for me, something I will never forget. Don and I crashed on the floor at someone’s house and headed back to D.C. to work at the National Security Agency the next day.
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