'68 - A Novel...

CHAPTER 27: SUNDAY, OCTOBER 6


Ellamae hurried into the little church, pausing to say hello to friends as she passed, heading toward her customary seat near the front of the sanctuary. She loved sitting up front where she could enjoy the choir and see their expressions change as the music moved them. And she didn’t want to miss a word of the sermon delivered by Rev. Booker T. Redman, affectionately known as “Boomer” among his congregants. Boomer Redman was blessed with a magnificent voice, a rolling basso profundo that could rattle the stained glass windows and carry out into the parking lot. When he spoke the word of God, no one dozed off.

Isaac Washington and his family – Millie, Bobbie and Lucas – greeted Ellamae warmly, making room for her in the well-worn oak pew. She looked around for her son Julian and his wife Angie and saw them approaching from the center aisle to envelop her with hugs. They chatted for a few minutes, waiting for the service to begin. The sanctuary was packed as usual, the ushers moving about, encouraging people to squeeze closer together, making room for new arrivals.

And then a hush fell over the congregation as the Rev. Redman appeared at the back of the room, his simple black robe like a tent around his ample body, his Bible tucked firmly under his right arm, the choir in their bright gold robes queued up behind him. He sounded the call to worship in that wonderful voice and led the procession down the center isle as the choir began the hymn “Shall We Gather At The River.” Ellamae felt a little chill go up her spine. This scene, witnessed so many times, never failed to move her. God, bless this house and all within.

The service proceeded as usual: several hymns, a scripture lesson, a rousing performance by the choir, announcements from the current president of the congregation, and finally, it was time for the sermon.

Rev. Redman stepped to the pulpit and it was clear that he was a troubled man this day. His brow was furrowed, his lips pinched together tightly, as though someone or some thing had hit him in the gut. He adjusted the microphone, though he probably didn’t need it, raised his eyes to look out upon his flock, and began:

“'Where have all the flowers gone? / Long time passing…'

"So goes the folk song popular a few years ago. The song teaches us the answer: Young girls pick the flowers. The young girls go to young men. The young men go to soldiers. Soldiers go to graveyards. Graveyards go to flowers. And so, the cycle is completed, only to begin again… and again.

"We are left with the haunting question: 'When will they ever learn?'

"Just a simple little song. Or is it?  We look around our community today and we see the story set in motion: Young men taken from among us, caught in the draft, or enlisting to avoid it, and then – gone to soldiers, every one.

"Are these young men the children of the Upper Class? Are they the children of the prosperous Middle Class? Or, my brothers and sisters, are they primarily the children of the working poor? In other words, our children!

"Young men from the barrios and ghettos of our cities, sons of coal miners in rural Appalachia and sharecroppers in the Deep South, black and brown – and yes – white. Our young men, our children. Gone to soldiers, every one.

"With money and influence, there are options to consider: college deferment; conscientious objector status; a rare spot in the Reserve or National Guard. And if all else fails, leave the country. Head north to the bosom of our friends in Canada.

"The recruiters flock to our neighborhoods. Enlist, they say, and you can learn a useful skill. Enlist and there will be money for college when you get out. Never mind that your school system left you reading at a fourth grade level. Enlist for the promise of a brighter future.

"When you come home, we’ll take care of you. The VA will see to your needs. We won’t leave you to the streets, with alcohol on your breath and needle tracks on your arms. We won’t leave you to be spat upon and called 'baby killer.' Trust us. Sign here.

"Brothers and sisters, look around you. Look at the young men sent home with broken minds and bodies, fending for themselves out on the streets, the only useful skill they’ve been taught: to kill or be killed.

"I say to you it is time for the cycle to end, time for our young men to soldier no more, time to end the perpetuation of the Warrior Class culled from the families of the working poor, cannon fodder for the war machine.

"It is time to say, ‘Hell no, we won’t go.’ Time to answer the age-old question: 'When will they ever learn?'

"Amen."

This was not a typical sermon for Rev. Redman. He generally stayed close to home, basing his message on the day’s scripture lesson as it applied to life in the 20th century. His preference was to leave politics to the politicians. His message this day caught the congregation off guard. Of course, there had been the customary cries of “Amen” during the sermon, offered up to punctuate the traditional call-and-response style. But Boomer Redman had been oddly subdued in his delivery, raising his voice only to punctuate “our children” and “Hell no, we won’t go.” His final line – “When will they ever learn?” – was delivered just above a whisper. The overall impact was stunning: his message had been driven home with the intensity of a sledgehammer.

Outside the church, the people lingered on the lawn and in the parking lot, visiting and laughing, making plans for the coming week, sharing thoughts and opinions. Not everyone agreed with the Reverend’s message. After all, this was a town that depended on the military, and several men in the congregation had served proudly in World War II and in Korea. They tended to see Vietnam as the responsibility of the current generation. It was time for the young folks to step up and do their part. And yet, Rev. Redman had given them something to think about.

Isaac Washington stood quietly with his family, mulling over several phrases that stuck in his mind. Warrior Class… cannon fodder… war machine. Is that what the old, gray men who made decisions about war and peace were doing? Creating a self-perpetuating Warrior Class? Isaac shuddered involuntarily. He looked at his son Lucas, standing just a few feet away. One year… just one year from now he’ll have to register for the draft.

Bobbie was thinking about John Harris, Jr. He was likely to receive an athletic scholarship, and with it, the coveted student deferment. That was good. But what about Lucas? And what about Thaddeus Brown? She knew Thad had finished basic training, and then combat training, but she wasn’t sure about his next posting. She looked for Thad’s father Julian and saw him standing across the lawn with his mother. She saw that Ellamae was dabbing her eyes, clinging tightly to her son, and she could sense it was not the right time to ask about Thad.

Ellamae stood with her right arm wrapped around Julian’s waist. His left arm was around her shoulders, holding her close. There was nothing much to say, and Ellamae could not stop the tears from falling. They stood there in the bright sunshine, dealing quietly with the latest news: Thaddeus was on his way to Vietnam, to a place called Da Nang. Dear Lord, watch over that child and keep him from harm.
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CHAPTER 28: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 16


They stood on the podium at the Olympic Stadium in Mexico City, the three medal winners in the 200-meter dash: Tommy Smith and John Carlos of the United States with the gold and bronze medals respectively, Peter Norman of Australia with the silver. As the Star Spangled Banner began to play and the flags rose slowly over the stadium, Smith and Carlos each raised a black-gloved fist high in the air – Smith his right, Carlos his left – and they closed their eyes and bowed their heads.

To the north, in cities all across America, cries of shock and outrage were directed at television screens as the message hit home. These two young black men were making a statement, and using the biggest stage in the world to deliver it.

The regulars down at Skip’s Place reacted in typical fashion, which is to say with a mixed bag of anger and – perhaps surprisingly – grudging support.

“Did you see that? What the hell was that?”

“Some sort of black power salute, or something.”

“Well, I’ll be goddamned! We send these kids down there, pay their way, feed ‘em, house ‘em, provide the best coaches in the world, and what do they do? They spit in our faces!”

“They ought to kick their asses off the team, and make ‘em pay their own way home, the sonsabitches. What gives them the right?”

“What gives them the right? They’re American citizens, for God’s sake. It’s called free speech.”

“Oh, don’t give me that. It’s the wrong place and the wrong time. This is crap. And what do these guys have to protest anyway?”

“Hey, we still got a long way to go, man. In jobs and housing especially. Tell me this: could a black man buy a house in your neighborhood? Could he belong to your union?”

“Ah, you friggin’ liberals give me a pain. They’ve got every opportunity in this country. Let them do just like the Irish and the Italians and the Jews did: get out there and work for it.”

“It’s that damn Harry Edwards down there at Cal that got ‘em all worked up. You know he wanted all black athletes to boycott the games?”

“Let’s face it: we wouldn’t have much of a team without them. Hell, Smith set a new world record.”

“Did you hear that? They just said Avery Brundage suspended them from the team and he wants them out of the Olympic Village.”

“Serves ‘em right.”

“Brundage says political statements have no place in the Olympics.”

“Oh really? Where was he in 1936 in Berlin? No political statements, my ass! If it isn’t political, then why do they play national anthems?”

The reporters covering the Olympic Games were digging hard now, trying to get out in front of the story. Before long, the details came pouring out, fueling the controversy. Tommy Smith said his black-gloved fist represented black power, while John Carlos’s represented black unity. Both men stood on the podium in black sox – and no shoes – to represent black poverty in racist America. All three athletes, including Peter Norman, wore badges representing Harry Edwards’s Olympic Project for Civil Rights.

No one – neither reporters nor athletes nor fans – could anticipate the shit storm that would rain down on these three young men, or the impact that it would have on the rest of their lives.
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Next week: Friday night lights at Corbus Field, and Bobbie and John Jr. come to a fork in the road.
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