The Studs Terkel Reader_My American Century

by Studs Terkel

  I was not one of those GIs who came back and didn’t say boo about it. I was vocal. Anybody asked me, I told them it was a lot of evil bullshit. We did mean things to people. It made you into a mean person. I stayed away from the other vets. It was self-imposed isolation. I was going through the classic symptoms of what is now called delayed stress. Luckily some people started putting books in my hand.

  I knew something was wrong when I saw the Vietnam Veterans’ Parade in Chicago. There were an awful lot of K-Mart cammies marching in it. Camouflage fatigues. Overseas everybody wore these jungle fatigues, just plain faded jade green. Now the fashion is these K-Mart cammies, which are like costumes. Nobody in his right mind would have worn them overseas.

  When I heard General Westmoreland was going to be the parade marshal, I said, No way. I’m not marchin’ in that fuckin’ parade. I wouldn’t get in line behind him if he was goin’ to the shithouse.

  I had ambivalent feelings about the parade. There were good things and bad things about it. You weren’t allowed to have any banners expressing any political opinion. There was this celebration of the war being a good thing and why didn’t we do more? At the same time, we were together for the first time in twenty years as brothers.

  Now there’s a kind of amnesia. But a tremendous curiosity. There are college courses on it. I’m lecturing at Lindblom76 next week in the history class. It is beginning to happen. My daughter who is nine wants to know. The war is in our house.

  Vietnam veterans took a lot of shit from World War Two people. They said we lost the war. I was never in a firefight and lost. We killed plenty of people. I mean me, me, me. A soldier is a soldier and the process is the same. We’re simply sons of bitches, just as mean as anybody else.

  I think the kids today want to do the right thing and get on with their lives. I see a lot of energy used pointlessly. I don’t think Americans understand exactly the way the rest of the world sees us. We don’t understand what people respect about us and envy or despise us for. They just wish we’d go home. We feel everything has to go our way, no matter what. I think this attitude is gonna get us into big trouble.

  I haven’t seen my oldest brother since 1970. My next younger brother loves Reagan. He and I never talk politics. My youngest brother, the two-time marine, hasn’t talked to me for ten years. He thought we did the right thing. He despised me because I went to our old family lawyer and asked him how I could get my kid brother from going over the second time. He wanted to go. When he left, I couldn’t bring myself to write to him. Our friendship ended with a bitter argument. My little brother, I haven’t seen him since 1982. I don’t know what he’s doing.

  I don’t think the country’s learned anything from the war. The guys who organized the Vietnam Veterans’ Parade wanted it to be remembered as a nostalgic positive experience. They wanted so hard for it to be all right. It’s not. It’s going to be an evil thing in our lives and nothing’s gonna change it.

  JEAN GUMP

  A grandmother; mother of twelve, ranging in age from twenty-two to thirty-five. She and her family have lived in a middle-class western suburb of Chicago for thirty-two years.

  She has, all her adult life, been active in church and community work: Christian Family Movement; president of the high school PTA; League of Women Voters; executive secretary of the township’s Human Relations Council. She was a delegate to the 1972 Democratic Convention. A neighbor recalls: “I’d come into her kitchen, she’d have the phone on one ear, as she’d be mixing a pot of spaghetti and talking to me all at the same time.”

  For something she did on Good Friday, 1986, she was arrested. Along with her, four other Catholics, young enough to be her children, have been sentenced to different terms in prison. Their group is called Silo Plowshares. This conversation took place shortly after her arrest. It had hardly made the news.

  W4e commemorated the crucifixion of Christ by entering a missile silo near Holden, Missouri. We hung a banner on the outside of the chain-link fence that read: SWORDS INTO PLOWSHARES, AN ACT OF HEALING. Isaiah 2, from Scriptures: We will pound our swords into plowshares and we will study war no more.

  It’s a Minuteman II silo, a first-strike weapon. There are 150 of these missiles. If one of these missiles were to leave the ground, it would decimate an area of seventy-two miles. And all the children and others. We wanted to make this weapon inoperable. We succeeded.

  We carried three hammers, a wire clipper, three baby bottles with our blood, papers with an indictment against the United States and against the Christian church for its complicity. Ken Ripito, who is twenty-three, and Ken Moreland, who is twenty-five, went with me. The other two went to another silo about five miles away.

  It is going to be the citizens that will have to eliminate these weapons. They were built by human hands. People are frightened of them, yet view them as our Gods of Metal. It is a chain-link fence with barbed wire on top. We have become so accustomed to these monstrosities that there are no guards. It is nondescript. If you were passing it on the road, you would see this fence. The silo itself is maybe a foot or two out of the earth. It looks like a great concrete patio. It’s very innocuous.

  To get through the fence, we used a wire clipper. We had practiced in the park the day before. Once we were in, I proceeded to use the blood and I made a cross on top of the silo. Underneath, I wrote the words, in black spray paint: DISARM AND LIVE.

  We sat down and waited in prayer. We thanked God, first of all, that we were alive. We expected a helicopter to come over and kill us terrorists. We thanked God for our successful dismantling, more or less, of this weapon. We assumed the responsibility for our actions and we waited to be apprehended.

  About forty minutes later, the soldiers arrived in an armored vehicle. There was a machine-gun turret at the top. The commander used a megaphone and said, “Will all the personnel on top of the silo please leave the premises with your hands raised?” So all of us personnel [laughs] left the silo. I was concerned because it would be difficult getting out of that little hole in the fence with our hands up. We made it fine.

  They put the men up against the fence in a spread-eagle position. They asked the female—myself—to “take ten steps and stand with your hands raised.” I did it for a few minutes and my fingers were beginning to tingle. I put my hands down. The soldier said, “You must put your hands up.” I said, “No, I have a little funny circulation.” He said, “You must put your hands up.” I said, “Shoot me.” He chose not to, which I thought was good.

  I said, “I’ll compromise with you. I will raise my hands for five minutes and I will put them down for five minutes.” He said, “You can’t put them down.” I said. “But I will.” It was hysterical.

  I wanted to turn around to see if my friends were being maltreated. The soldier who had his gun aimed at me said, “You can’t turn around.” I did. I was watching them try to put handcuffs on the two men. I have been arrested in Chicago. I’ve seen an efficient police force put handcuffs on people in two seconds. It must have taken these soldiers fifteen minutes. I had to tell them they were doing it wrong. With my suggestions, they finally did it right.

  There was a big discussion about what to do with the female suspect. Apparently they weren’t allowed to frisk a female suspect. I was kind of wondering what they were going to do with me. They asked me to remove my coat, which I did. He said, “Throw it ten feet over here.” I said. “I’ll never make it, but I’ll do the best I can.”

  They took things out of my pocket and put them on the ground. One of the items was a handkerchief. I said, “It’s getting a little chilly. I think I’m getting a cold and a runny nose. I will have to get my handkerchief.” It was about three feet away. The soldier said. “Don’t you dare move.” I said, “I’m going to get this handkerchief and I’m going to blow my nose.” I did that and put the handkerchief in my pocket. The soldier said, “You have to leave your handkerchief over here.” I said, “All right. But if my nose should run again, I’ll go over
there and I will get my handkerchief and I will blow my nose.” At this point, the poor soldier looked sort of crestfallen. He was about the age of my youngest child.

  By this time, the area was filled with about eight automobiles. FBI, local sheriffs, and so on. They took us into this armored vehicle. On its right-hand side was a big sign: PEACEKEEPER. I said, “Young man, have an opportunity to read Orwell’s 1984.” He said, “I’m not allowed to talk to you.” I said, “I’ll talk to you, then.” He said, “If I had my uniform off, we could talk.” I said, “Maybe we’ll meet and have coffee someday.”

  At the police station, we were treated rather deferentially. Someone from the sheriff’s office asked if we wanted coffee. There had been no charges made. We were very, very tired. We were allowed to make one phone call. We’d been given the name of a young lawyer, who had worked with a previous group, the Silo Pruning Hooks.

  One of the jail guards was handing our tray through a slot in the door. She said, “Mrs. Gump, I want to thank you for what you did.” I said, “You’re welcome.” Then when I saw her lined up with all the other guards, she had a wholly different demeanor.

  The FBI came to interview us. I find them very funny. They come in like yuppies, all immaculately dressed. Probably six or eight. The five of us are now together. The gentleman behind the desk wanted to read me the Miranda rights. “You have a right to remain silent.” I said, “You’re right. I do and I am.”

  At the Federal Building in Kansas City, where we were taken, I was asleep on the bench. A nice young man joined me: “We might be able to negotiate something to get you out on bail.” I said, “Young man, there’s no way I’d pay a nickel for bail money. You’re wasting your time.” Darla, my co-cellmate, she’s twenty-two, agreed also not to answer.

  The judge said he’d like to let us out on a $5,000 bond, with our signature. We’d not commit any crimes between now and the arraignment date. John Volpe said, “I don’t really know if I can, because there are a lot of silos out there.”

  My children knew nothing about this. Mother’s doing her thing, is what they always say. As I leave the house, they often say, “Don’t get arrested, ma.” I’d been arrested five other times for civil disobedience.

  I felt peace marching was fine, but what we needed was a freeze group. After campaigning in Morton Grove, we had a referendum. Five thousand voted for the freeze, two thousand against.

  When I came back from Kansas City on Easter Sunday morning, the children had learned about it. There were tears between times of much laughter. They were supportive, though it’s an imposition on their lives.

  My one daughter graduates from the University of California. I will not be there. My other daughter is getting married. I will not be there. I want more than anything in the world to be there. These are my children and I love them. But if they’re going to have a world, we have to stop this madness. I think they understand that as much as I want to be with them and with my loving husband—He wasn’t with me on this at first, but now he’s all the way.

  About three weeks ago, I had asked for certain things to be done. I wanted the power of attorney for all our property to be in his hands. As he was going out the door, he said, “Jean, you’re planning to die, aren’t you?” It startled me because I’d been thinking about that. I thought it was something that could happen. Hearing him say it made it very real. I said, “Yeah, Joe.” So we took up our lives again and our love affair has never been nicer.

  My mother was a person that believed, I mean really believed, in justice. Maybe it came from her. When the kids were little, I always said, “Don’t ever look to the next guy to affect change. Do it yourself.”

  I remember one day, golly, it was 1967. I was watching television. This was the time when the people came over the bridge with Martin Luther King and with the hoses. My little son turned to me and said, “Mother, what are you going to do about this?” What could I say? I went down to Selma.

  I suppose my neighbors out here think I’m kind of a kook. I’m pretty ordinary [laughs]. When I’m not doing these things, I’m a good cook and I have swell parties. A sense of humor helps. They don’t know yet about what happened in Missouri. There is a suspicion. If somebody has cancer, you don’t say, How’s your cancer today? If I meet somebody on the street, it’s, “Hi, Jean, how are things going?” “Swell, how are things going with you?”

  Shortly before she entered the federal prison, she and two other members spoke at her church: St. Martha’s. Four people attended. They had come to tell her they disapproved of her actions.

  Joe Gump: “At a gathering in our church two weeks after Jean’s arrest, not a single person came up to me to ask how she was doing. At another gathering, they seemed shocked that anyone they had known would do something like this.”

  The Gumps had been regular parishioners of the church for thirty-two years.

  “Now and then, there’s an encouraging word,” says Joe. “I dropped something off at a repair shop and the salesclerk whispered, ‘Mr. Gump, God bless your wife.’ ”

  Their son, Joe, Jr., has occasional encounters: “Once in a while, a person who knows about the case comes up to me, holds my hand, and says, ‘God bless your mother.’ ”

  There’s a ripple effect from what we’re doing. That’s quite exciting. You never know where it’s going to hit. You just know you must do what you must do and let the chips fall where they may.

  All I wanted to do when I was young is to be like everybody else. The same thing all nice little Catholic girls want. Periodically, I found I had to separate myself. I tried not to do that, because who wants to be different?

  When I started dating my husband, right after World War Two, my aunt said, “Jean is going to marry a Hun.” I thought, What the hell is a Hun? My husband’s of German descent. We had just gotten through a war and we had to hate Germans. They were bad people. We certainly had to hate the Japanese. They were bad people. Through these years, I found out there’s a lot of people that I have to hate.

  We have to hate the Iranians, ‘cause we have to go over there and kill ’em. I had to hate the Vietnamese people. I have to hate the commies. Everybody has to hate the commies. There is no end to my nation’s enemies. But I don’t think they’re my enemies. I think, God help me, these are people.

  What I did on Good Friday in Holden, Missouri, is only the expression of my Christianity. This is God’s world, okay? We are stewards of the earth. I think we’re rather bad stewards.

  You know, I have never been so hopeful. If I can change my way of thinking, anybody can. I don’t want to be singled out as anybody special, because I’m not. We have got to have a future for our children and we’ve got to make some sacrifices for it, okay?

  Call it a legacy, if you want to. What else is there? My grandchild, I want to offer him a life, that’s all. We all had a crack at it, so I think it’s fair that this generation should.

  POSTSCRIPT

  Jean Gump was sentenced to eight years at a federal penitentiary on the charge of conspiracy and destroying public property. The presiding judge, at Christmastime, reduced her sentence to six.

  For the past eleven months, she has been number 03789-045 at the Correctional Institution for Women, Alderson, West Virginia.

  POST POSTSCRIPT

  Since then, she and her husband, Joe (who had himself committed an act of civil disobedience and was sent to a Minnesota Federal Penetentiary), were freed. Neither recanted nor paid any fine. They are still at it.

  Race:

  How Blacks and Whites Think and Feel About the American Obsession (1992)

  INTRODUCTION

  Obsession, n. 1 (archaic) The state of beset or actuated by the devil or an evil spirit. 2. a. Compulsive preoccupation with a fixed idea or unwanted feeling or emotion, often with symptoms of anxiety. b. A compulsive, often unreasonable, idea or emotion causing such preoccupation.

  —American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language

  Obsession, ... The action
of any influence, notion or fixed idea, so as to discompose the mind.

  —Oxford English Dictionary

  “It obsesses everybody,” declaimed my impassioned friend, “even those who think they are not obsessed. My wife was driving down the street in a black neighborhood. The people at the corners were all gesticulating at her. She was very frightened, turned up the windows, and drove determinedly. She discovered, after several blocks, she was going the wrong way on a one-way street and they were trying to help her. Her assumption was they were blacks and were out to get her. Mind you, she’s a very enlightened person. You’d never associate her with racism, yet her first reaction was that they were dangerous.

  It was a slow day. The waitress and I were engaged in idle talk: weather, arthritis, and a whisper of local scandal. She was large, genial, motherly. The neighborhood was an admixture of middle-class and blue-collar. On its periphery was an enclave of black families. As I was leaving, she said. “Of course, we’re moving. You know why.” It was an offhand remark, as casual as “See ya around.”

  You know why.

  During the Boston school crisis, some twenty years ago, the leader of the fight against court-ordered busing proclaimed, “You know where I stand.”

  You know where I stand.

  In Chicago, during the black mayor’s first campaign, his white opponent’s slogan was “Before It’s Too Late.”

  Before it’s too late.

  Why were these people speaking in code? Why didn’t the waitress tell me why? Where did the Boston mother stand? Why didn’t the Chicago candidate tell us what it might be too late for? There was really no need. All of us, black and white, know what it’s about. Yet, why the veiled language?