to the post-game party. The music was sixties rock, loud and driving. The beer flowed and the crowd was packed. We danced, laughed, sang, and the night pulsed away. During a slow dance, Christine leaned close, put her arms around my neck, and moved rhythmically with the music. As the song wound down, she whispered, “I have to slip away for awhile. I’ll be back soon.”
I danced with other girls, talked, and circulated the party for a while. Bill had also parted from his date; I spotted him in a corner engaged in a serious conversation with two guys I didn’t recognize. Gage was in the middle of the dance floor doing the pony with the contorted, foolish smile of a thoroughly drunk, nineteen-year-old, lovesick guy. Christine was partially visible across the dance floor, arguing vigorously with a muscular, short-haired guy in a white t-shirt, who wore an aggrieved look on his face.
Bill, agitated, pulled me to a corner. “We’re in deep trouble, Jack. Christine just broke up with her boyfriend, that big rock she’s arguing with, and he and his buddies want a piece of all three of us!”
“Great, Bill, that’s just great. Did you know all this before you set up the dates?”
“No, Jack. Really man, I didn’t know a thing; but look, I got a plan. I told these guys about you, about Detroit, the fights and that you hurt some guys real bad.”
“Are you crazy, Bill? That was high school and this is Chicago! And all three of these guys are big and mad.”
“Yea, I know, Jack. Calm down, man. If things get out of hand, we got the Gage monster.”
“Bill, look at Gage. See that goofy smile? That smile is twelve beers and a lot of you know what. He’s useless unless he falls on top of them. Where are the girls?”
“Ah, see, they’re a bit shook up and feeling guilty about the whole thing. They’re waiting outside, just beyond that black door.”
“You mean the door with the three short-haired goons lined up?”
“We got to walk out now, Jack. Look mean and tough. They think you’re dangerous. I’ll go first, Gage second, and you last.”
We moved slowly toward the door and approached the Chicago lineup. Buck’s maxim, “show no fear,” faintly coursed through my mind.
Time seemed suspended and a low hum filtered through my mind, urging me to be silent and brave. Bill walked quickly by the three men and out the door. Gage ambled by, looking down his long, boney nose at each guy, then he too headed to the door, but stopped and waited. As I faced Christine’s boyfriend, the last in line, I stopped and looked directly into his eyes. My jaw clenched slightly. The room was quiet. The aggrieved man stared back, but only for a few moments. The Chicago man broke his gaze, stared down, then to the left. I waited a second, then slowly walked out the door, Gage closing the door behind us.
We walked to the car and the waiting beauties.
“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry!” Christine exclaimed as she reached for my hand. “What happened?”
Gage and Phil looked at me.
“He looked away, Christine, so we walked out.”
“You’re kidding! He never backs down. I can’t believe this!”
As we flowed into the car, Phil was unable to stop talking about our great escape. Gage leaned back and closed his eyes. Christine rested her head on my shoulder and her now warm hand cradled mine. My mind cleared, time resumed, and it was hard not to smile.
HERO
Dr. Robbin Fleming slowly rose, pushed his chair carefully under the table, and studiously gazed at his assembled colleagues. All leaders and scholars, many were also his friends, yet tonight they were far apart. As University of Michigan president, Dr. Fleming encouraged open discussion, but now needed consensus. In 1968, most of the academic faculty opposed the Vietnam War and were vocally in favor of the anticipated student demonstrations. The alumni representatives were both World War II veterans and were disturbed that students would not support the war effort of their own government against the nefarious communists. The administrative leaders were concerned about order; the university must appear in control. But order was difficult at best to maintain in 1968. Earlier, both Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy had been assassinated, and racial riots had rocked Detroit the previous summer. All present were alarmed that the Ann Arbor mayor had called for support from the National Guard to line the street and quadrangle adjacent to the Presidential Mansion.
President Fleming was middle-aged, intelligent, alert, and clearly in charge. A trained labor negotiator, he was adept at gradually coming to and coordinating agreement from disparate factions. Patience and reason were his allies.
“We’ve agreed then that we will permit the peaceful student demonstrations against the Vietnam War tomorrow night. The faculty,” he said, nodding at the faculty chairman and vice-chairman, “may publicly express their views on the war and demonstrations, but not take part physically. The police and National Guard will keep order,” he said, his eyes shifting to the Chief of Campus Police, who looked both anxious and dyspeptic, “but avoid direct contact with the students. All those in agreement raise their hands.”
No one spoke or moved, but a few shifted in their chairs. Compromise always left everyone a little unsatisfied. Finally the faculty chairman, then the administrators, raised their hands, followed reluctantly by the rest of the group. Dr. Fleming smiled and nodded approvingly. He was a reasonable man. What could go wrong? As a parting comment, the Chief of the Campus Police pointed out that the National Guard was not under his authority.
Across campus, Malcolm sat down slowly in his chair, having just finished a passionate antiwar speech while urging nonviolence in the spirit of Martin Luther King. Malcolm was tall, black, and young, with long hair, dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and horn-rimmed glasses. Malcolm was a graduate student and scholar as well as a member of the Black Panthers. Unlike most of his colleagues, he had witnessed violence up close and personal in Mississippi during racial protests. He knew the students were always the ones hurt. He agreed the protests were vital, but he also knew both the police and National Guard were being called out, which raised the risks for confrontation.
Gail rose next to castigate the capitalist pigs and their henchmen, the National Guard. Gail was dark haired, white, strikingly attractive, with fierce green eyes and a full figure daringly outlined by her tight t-shirt and jeans. As an economics major, she viewed the war and life as a materialist struggle of the people versus the powerful. She questioned if the Black Panthers were really black pussies, afraid of physical contact. After all, she reasoned, if there was violence, the press would be close behind and the antiwar movement needed exposure. Gail was an ardent Marxist who considered Stalin an aberration of a just ideology. She liked to refer to the triumph of her perspective as historically inevitable. Gail’s only exposure to violence was when her Connecticut lawyer father spanked the dog for an untimely accident.
The National Guard Headquarters was off campus and dated back to the thirties. The lead guard, Major Dennis, was in full uniform. Dennis was fit, tough, white, and hardened by combat. Recently returned from a Vietnam tour of duty, he was committed to winning the war. He had witnessed firsthand the militancy of the Viet Cong and the unfortunate fate of the South Vietnamese villages that resisted Communist pacification. His impatience with student demonstrations was visceral, and he often stated to subordinates that the naive students needed to be taught a lesson. He had two hundred troops to line South University Avenue, which passed by the old, stately main campus as well as the dignified Presidential Manson. Against the advice of his two young lieutenants, Dennis had ordered full combat dress, including fixed bayonets in case the demonstrations turned into a riot. His lieutenants were younger, recent students, and had no experience with either combat or violence— they were horrified by the idea of shooting or bayonetting University of Michigan students.
The Peon was the new student newspaper of the University of Michigan Medical School. Although the small editorial staff was, in general, against the Vietnam War,