“That’s disgusting.”
“No, it’s good,” he says. “And cheap. My mother used to make it for us when things were tight.” He lets it sizzle until the edges curl and then tucks it between two slices of white bread. He takes a bite. “Want some?”
I grimace. “No thanks.”
The kitchen is so small there’s no room to sit and we head to my cramped bedroom. Mark studies the flower poster on the wall.
“So you were against the war?”
“Of course. Weren’t you?”
“I was nearly drafted,” he says. “Missed it by a hair.”
“Would you have gone?”
“No. I would have been a conscientious objector.”
“I can’t imagine you carrying a gun or even in a uniform. In fact,” I say, “I can’t imagine you wearing anything else than what you’ve got on right now.” He wears a thin cotton shirt tucked into faded jeans, a brown leather belt that hits just above my hipbone when we hug, and leather boots with thick heels.
“I don’t want to go to Vietnam. Except maybe as a tourist someday,” he says.
We sit on my Indian-print bedspread and he finishes his sandwich. “So you must be against Rocky Flats,” he says.
“You know about Rocky Flats?” I’m surprised.
“Everyone knows about Rocky Flats.”
Not in my neighborhood, I think. “No one talks about it. What’s there to know?”
“There’s a lot to know.” He shakes his head. “You live right next to it. Don’t you know what they do out there?”
“We used to think they made cleaning supplies.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No, I’m not kidding. Scrubbing Bubbles. Dish soap. And who knows what else?”
“They make bombs, Kris. How can you be antiwar and not know about Rocky Flats?”
“You don’t know that for sure.”
“You really think they’re making cleaning supplies?” He sits up. “They make plutonium detonators, but that’s not what they call them. Disks or buttons or pits. I don’t know what they’re called. But they make a lot of them. Besides,” he adds, “there’s all sorts of crap out there. Plutonium and who knows what. Probably right where you live. Isn’t your house out by the lake?”
“They would tell us if there was anything really bad, right?”
“You think they would?”
“Stop it, Mark.” I’ve never seen him get so upset.
“Don’t you know about the protests?”
“Yes. Of course.” I try to pull him back down on the bed. “But those protesters are just people without jobs, you know, people with nothing better to do. Like students and housewives. They just want to get their names in the papers.” I’m quoting my dad, but suddenly it occurs to me that even though I have negative feelings about my father, I’ve never really disagreed with him, and I’ve never confronted him. In fact, I’ve never disagreed with or questioned anything about Rocky Flats, either. Maybe I just don’t want to know. I drive past the plant all the time and see protesters out there every weekend.
“You should listen to what they’re saying, Kris. Read one of their pamphlets.”
“I don’t have time for that. I’m trying to put myself through school, remember?” I hear the bitterness in my voice. “Besides,” I say, “nothing they say can be proven.” My own vehemence surprises me. “Don’t you think the government would tell us if it wasn’t safe?”
“The government!” Mark explodes. “The government is busy covering things up!”
“How do you know that?” Suddenly it dawns on me. “You’re going out there, aren’t you?” I recognize my father’s critical tone in my voice. “You’re one of those people!” One of those people like Karma and her angry hippie friends. Or maybe like Kurt and Karin, who just want an excuse to have a good time.
“Yeah,” he says, standing above the bed. “You’re right. I go out there. Someone’s got to pay attention. And you should, too—that is, if you give a damn about anything.”
He walks out the front door.
It’s our first and only argument.
Half an hour later, Mark comes back. I’m still lying on the bed.
“You okay?” he asks. “Sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too.” I feel shaken.
“Good.” He grins. “I just want to say one thing. There’s a big rally coming up. Do you want to go?”
“No.”
We drop the subject.
ON THE morning of Saturday, April 28, 1978, as many as six thousand people gather at the west gate of Rocky Flats to demand that the plant be moved or shut down. The spring sun is bright and the day starts out warm. The crowd is peaceful. The press is there. After the speeches and music, clusters of wild doves are released to the sky as a symbol of peace.
Somewhere in the crowd stands Mark Robertson. My sister Karma is also there with her friends. One of the security guards is Debby Clark.
As the day goes on, the wind picks up and the temperature drops. Rocky Flats is known for extreme weather, especially in the spring, and it begins to rain. As the protesters walk to their cars to pack up their belongings and head home, the rain grows cold and turns to snow. A group of about 120 protesters, including Daniel Ellsberg, stays behind. They take their signs and sleeping bags and pitch camp on a rail spur on the south side of the plant, where the railroad tracks cross Route 72. In front of the camp they post an American flag and the solar energy flag—ironically, the DOE’s Solar Energy Research Institute is just down the road. As darkness falls they pull together their sleeping bags and sing the familiar Vietnam-era slogan “Hell no, we won’t go” with a slight twist: “Hell no, we won’t glow.”
As the night wears on, the weather turns fierce, with high gusts of wind, sleet, and snow. The protesters put up a makeshift shelter of plastic sheeting over the tracks, but it’s almost impossible to stay warm and dry. When the sky finally begins to lighten and turn pink over the dark blue mountains, Daniel Ellsberg emerges from his sleeping bag to discover two wild doves perched on a tent frame and sixty-five soaked, freezing people—more than half of the original group—still huddled on the tracks.
After coffee on camp stoves, the group discusses strategy. Ellsberg and many others want to continue the occupation on the tracks. President Jimmy Carter is scheduled to speak at the Solar Energy Research Institute. Since he took office in 1977, one of Carter’s major foreign policy objectives has been to reduce the production and number of nuclear weapons in the world and establish a second Strategic Arms Limitation Treaty (SALT II), work that began with SALT I. SALT II would further limit the number of nuclear arms in the United States and the Soviet Union. In his inaugural address, Carter spelled out his hope for a world without nuclear weapons.
“The world is still engaged in a massive armaments race designed to ensure continuing equivalent strength among potential adversaries,” he said. “We pledge perseverance and wisdom in our efforts to limit the world’s armaments to those necessary for each nation’s own domestic safety. And we will move this year a step toward our ultimate goal—the elimination of all nuclear weapons from this Earth. We urge all other people to join us, for success can mean life instead of death.”
With the world’s press focused on the protesters and on Carter’s visit, it seems a perfect opportunity to increase public awareness of Rocky Flats. The activists believe they are effectively obstructing the flow of radioactive materials in and out of the plant. Some want to stay.
Others disagree. The protest has already been successful, they note, and they don’t want to jeopardize the positive effects of Saturday’s nonviolent action and the careful negotiations that helped achieve it. But Ellsberg’s group stands its ground. They decide to create a new name to distinguish themselves from other groups associated with Rocky Flats. One activist suggests satyagraha, Mahatma Gandhi’s term for the philosophy of nonviolent resistance, a concept that influenced Martin Luther King Jr. The literal translation of
satyagraha is “truth force,” and the group settles on the Rocky Flats Truth Force. They hold a press conference to announce that they plan to remain on the tracks. Someone hangs a mailbox on a fencepost printed with the words ROCKY FLATS TRUTH FORCE, and supporters bring food and supplies.
The word gets out. Even people from other states and countries send food and supplies and letters of support.
Rockwell’s first response is to appear unconcerned. They announce that they don’t use that particular spur of track anyway. Making note of the ongoing blizzard conditions, one Rockwell official says, “All I can say is that I hope they don’t catch cold.”
On Friday, May 5, however, their patience runs out. Rockwell and the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department order the Truth Force to leave. The activists refuse. When the first train approaches, they sit down on the frozen railroad tracks. The train slowly chugs to a stop, and officers step forward to make arrests. As the group is led to waiting school buses that will take them to Golden for legal processing and then on to the Jefferson County jail, Daniel Ellsberg flashes a victory sign to reporters.
Marian Doub is with that group. At seventeen, she’s the youngest member of the Rocky Flats Truth Force and a senior at Boulder High. She calls her parents that night, after her arrest, to tell them she intends to go back out again. Her mother is upset. She wants her daughter back in school the next day, studying for final exams. “One arrest is plenty for one school term,” she says. Ellsberg sees Marian on the phone in tears and pulls her aside. He says he has a daughter just a little older and he understands how her parents feel. “Protect your relationship with your parents,” he says. “It’s important to maintain their trust.”
Marian decides to go home.
Two days later the Rocky Flats Truth Force is back on the tracks. Wearing down jackets and wool caps, the members trek through snow carrying a huge American flag. They set up a new campsite and pack walls of snow to shelter it from the wind. People on cross-country skis and snowshoes bring supplies, but it’s not long before security officers in black riot gear show up to warn them of their impending arrest.
The train comes again: a brown diesel locomotive pulling several cars, including a white car with the familiar sign that indicates radioactive cargo and the words FISSILE MATERIAL—RADIOACTIVE. Once again the protesters sit in the path of the oncoming train, some lying across the tracks with their heads on one rail, feet on the other. The train continues to chug toward them. For a moment it seems like a crazy game of chicken. Finally the train slows and stops. There is silence. Suddenly the doors slide open and two rows of officers in black helmets emerge from each side of the caboose, moving as if in silent slow motion through the deep snow. The protesters offer no resistance, letting their bodies go limp, and sing “We Shall Not Be Moved.” The officers lift the bodies from the rails and carry them to the waiting bus. This time twenty-three people are arrested.
“We’ll be back,” Ellsberg tells the press. “We are effective here, as the arrest shows. If they keep us in jail, it doesn’t matter, because there are so many more ready to take our places.”
The booking process lasts into the evening. Later that night, Ellsberg finds himself in a room with two women who’ve just been arrested. One is seventeen-year-old Marian Doub. Ellsberg is surprised to see her. She tells him she spent the day in classes at Boulder High as promised, but saw the arrest of the Truth Force on the evening news. She saw that no one was sitting on the tracks. “So the two of us,” she says, nodding to her companion, “went out there.” The camp was deserted. Carrying flashlights in the dark, the two women held hands and began walking down the tracks toward the plant, singing “We Shall Overcome.” When they saw the train coming toward them, they sat down in the snow between the rails. The train chugged to a stop, and a solitary security officer emerged and tried to pull them off the tracks. They went limp. He called for backup and they were arrested.
“The two of you stopped the train again?” Ellsberg asks. “Alone?”
Marian nods.
“Who is your friend?” Ellsberg asks.
“My mother,” Marian answers.
THE PROTESTS at Rocky Flats continue. Many of the workers at Rocky Flats are unhappy about the negative publicity. About seven hundred plant employees sign petitions condemning the DOE and Rockwell for “taking the criticisms [by the antinuclear activists] passively.”
Karma attends many of the protests, sometimes taking along Karin or Kurt. The rallies turn into long afternoons of sunshine, music, and impassioned speeches. Sometimes they talk about whether it’s safe to stand out there on supposedly contaminated soil. “I guess it doesn’t really matter,” Karma says. “Whatever there is to get, we probably already got it in Bridledale.”
“That’s why we all have such glowing personalities,” Karin says wryly.
Mark and I spend weekends together at my place in Boulder. When he drives past the activists on the way to visit his parents, he honks in support. When I drive down to Arvada to visit my mother, I take the long way around so I don’t have to see the protesters. They seem a little crazy with their signs and handouts. They scare me. I look at the rolling hills, the fields where I galloped my horse. The wind is fresh, the sky turquoise blue. How can there be contamination here? It looks so pristine.
One evening Mark picks me up after work and we drive to a local park. He takes a six-pack from the trunk and we sit on a bench in the dark, cupping our cans of beer, sipping the cold foam and watching the stars above the black line of mountains. “We should get married,” Mark says suddenly.
I’m stunned.
“There’s an artist I know, a jeweler, who’s making a special ring. I designed it just for you. It’s not ready yet, but he’s working—”
“Mark—” I feel a weight in my stomach. “Don’t say this now.”
“What do you mean?”
“It can’t be now.”
He dips his head between his knees.
“I’m not even twenty-one. I’m in school and working like hell to stay there.” I feel terrible. Guilty. “I can’t get married now.”
“You could stay in school.”
“I don’t need your permission.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I don’t—” I feel choked. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know where I’m going yet.” Everything feels ill-timed and off-kilter. Maybe this is the only good man I’ll ever meet. Maybe this is my only shot at love. But I need to finish school. I don’t want to end up like a housewife in Bridledale, cleaning house and folding laundry. “I just want a chance at things, I guess.”
“Well,” he says. “All right.” But it’s not all right.
“Maybe we can wait awhile. I just need time. I love you. But marriage …”
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s give each other time.” He doesn’t look at me as we walk back to the car.
Later that night, alone in my room, I can’t sleep.
My mother is upset when she hears I’ve turned Mark down. “You could settle down and start looking for a house. All I’ve ever wanted is for you girls to get married and bring me grandchildren. I’m ready for grandchildren.” College, for me or for any potential husband, is less important to her than seeing me married. She’s proud of her daughters, but a woman’s primary role is to be a wife and mother.
I don’t ask her how we might afford a house and children when I can’t pay my tuition and Mark can barely pay his rent. “Mom, I’m not ready.”
She sighs and grasps my arm. “You never know what’s going to happen,” she says. “These things don’t always come again.”
But that summer is wonderful. Mark and I go rock climbing up Boulder Canyon. We sit on the grassy banks of Standley Lake and watch the sunset. He plays softball with a local team and I rarely miss a game. One weekend we drive all night to Las Vegas in his tiny orange Honda to see Burt Bacharach in concert. We spend the night on the old part of the strip in a cheap hotel with tattered furnitur
e and glitter on the ceiling. Mark buys a cassette tape and we sing Bacharach songs all the way home. “That man,” Mark says, “sure knows how to write a love song.”
THROUGHOUT THE summer, contentious public debate over arms control and SALT II fills the media. President Carter refuses to comment on Rocky Flats during his visit to Golden. Many activists are crushed—he’s become a hero of sorts. Although Carter and Leonid Brezhnev, the leader of the Soviet Union, will reach an agreement in the coming year, SALT II is met with opposition in Congress, as many believe it will weaken U.S. defenses. (Signed by both Carter and Brezhnev, the treaty is never ratified. Both sides, however, honor the commitments laid out in SALT II, until 1986, when the Reagan administration withdraws from the treaty.)
In 1978 the world is watching what’s happening at Rocky Flats. Groups stand with signs at both the east and west gates, handing out flyers to workers and people who drive by. A white canvas tepee becomes the symbol for protests at Rocky Flats. Erected by members of the Rocky Flats Truth Force, the tepee that straddles the tracks just outside the plant boundary becomes a familiar landmark to drivers on Highway 93. Two flags mark the tepee: the American flag and the solar energy flag, green with a golden sun. Some drivers honk and wave or stop to drop off food and supplies. Others make threats and obscene gestures. Protesters come and go, some staying for days or weeks. Patrick Malone is one of the most steadfast members. His face is dark from the sun. In his black beard, bandanna, and gold earrings, and wearing the fingerless wool gloves of a mountain climber, he looks more like a pirate than a peace activist. The protest goes on month after month, but Patrick remains. When the train approaches once a week, Patrick and the others quickly dismantle the tepee to save it from being taken away by the authorities. Then they sit on or lay their bodies across the railroad tracks. The train stops, police approach, and they’re arrested. Each week the scenario is repeated. As the protest continues, Patrick is arrested ten times.
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