Marching In Solidarity, But Not “In Fashion”— Why Didn’t Vogue Call Me?

On January 27 I wrote a blog titled “A 48-Year Déjà Vu” about the similarities between the post-election Women’s March and the march to end the war in Vietnam in Washington DC on November 15, 1969. I’d been at both and have just finished a novel about the latter.

I commented on the longtime gap between issues that were compelling enough to get me back on my feet, and the “wake up” from my “radical sleep.” To illustrate my argument, I’d carefully combed through a circa ’69 photo of me in a protest march and lined up a corresponding shot from today.

The post was heartfelt. I received many comments (yes, a few about my hair) and reestablished connections from long ago. We were still all in it together.

Out Of Fashion, But Not Out Of the Question

Recently, in the May issue of Vogue magazine, of all things, I turn to a page labeled “Nostalgia” and see an article titled “March With Me,” comparing the author’s dual experiences of marching in DC long ago against the war, and this January against the potential loss of women’s rights. Great minds, yes?  

Photo credit: Vogue

However, next to the article was a photo of what can only be called a Yardley girl from the ‘60’s. She’s what we all wanted to look like—doe-eyed, with long, stick-straight hair and hip clothes of the moment. Though the caption indicated she thought her “protesting outfit” was the essence of cool—bell bottoms and turtleneck—I was incredulous. This shot had all the benefits of professional hair, makeup and lighting, as well as a stylist who hung those sunglasses so insouciantly low on that skinny circumference of a hip. And the arch of her wrist as if she’d just flipped that glossy hair—seriously? She wouldn’t have lasted a mile marching in that getup.

But I read the article anyway and was surprised at how much our experiences had in common. The author, Pilar Crespi, had participated in the anti-Vietnam War March on Washington of 1967. That was two years before the one I attended and prior to the outrage of the Tet Offensive, The Democratic Convention and the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy that jolted my class out of high school at the end of 1968 into a truly frightening world.

As I read her story, and as I’ve recounted in previous blogs, I kept thinking about how so little changes, so few lessons are learned and the hamster wheel of history just keeps going around. Pilar’s (I’ve now forgiven her photogenic self) experiences were spot on with my own. Despite the photo caption, her actual ’67 march outfit consisted of “genuine” bells and a blue work shirt—I had one of those, but marched in ‘69 in a fatigue jacket found in a Salvation Army resale shop in the small town where my University was located.

Like Pilar’s mother, mine had also been appalled by my evolving radical appearance, pointing how much more flattering my previous stretch pants and mohair sweaters had been versus these clunky jeans. My mother just didn’t get how much clothes credentialed you in those times. I also didn’t tell my mother I’d gone to Washington—well, not until after the fact, when the phase I was in required appropriate mom-baiting.

The tone of our ‘60’s marches was also the same—male—and the focus, early feminist “lady-like.” We never would have worn pink (that was for out-of-touch sorority girls), made anything solely a women’s issue (we were equal in the struggle), or discussed body parts of any kind.  In this year’s Women’s March, the tone was welcoming and friendly, the colors politically pastel, the men supportive, and the anatomy right up there in all the made-for-TV posters and on our pussy-hatted heads.

We had even both been spurred by the Women’s March to call our congress representatives about the same issues—the Muslim travel ban and the Affordable Health Care Act. We were SO aligned.

We Still Have the Power To Galvanize

My in-the-day fashion moment
Photo credit: Karen Thompson

What struck me above all, was how Pilar noted that our focus back then had been singular—to end the war, a generation-galvanizing stance that ultimately touched us all.  Today, we’re both concerned about the multiplicity of the urgent issues—from the environment and women’s rights to immigration—and question how we’ll focus to make the proper impact on each. I wonder, is there a thread we can work through and pull these concerns together like we did over the Vietnam War?

That observation is similar to my additional concern about diversity.  At the Women’s March in Chicago each speaker welcomed in turn every potential subsection represented by the women’s faces in front of her--transgender, queer, Hispanic, immigrant, previously incarcerated, single mothers, African Americans, victims of abuse, etc.—versus our overarching, and all encompassing female umbrella. And yet, SISTERS, it’s our commonalities that will provide the strength for change, not all these differences, right?

Finally, though both Pilar and I had been warmed by seeing the daughters and granddaughters who marched alongside us in January, we are objective about the difficulties for the quest ahead. Can we galvanize to the same degree as in the ‘60’s and fit all our issues, however diverse, under one powerful effort? 

We can figure this out, Pilar. We have this in common—with our generation, with our gender.

So, I’ll bury the hatchet over your radical-chic and admit you were/are Vogue worthy. My look, back in the day I’d say was March worthy, save a few sporadic fashion moments.

Do you think there’s a photo shoot in it?

Any chance you hung on to that cute little tunic? I’m afraid my hat bit the dust long ago.

What My Radical Mentor Taught Me About Protesting Today

In January, I wrote a blog post A 48-Year Déjà Vu, about how the Women’s March in reaction to a newly threatening political climate had caused me to wake out of my “radical sleep,” and reactivate to find an appropriate role for a contribution that would make sense today. I realized I was fascinated by how former political “radicals” were newly responding to the world. I now envision a series titled #Re-Radicalized, which will, from time to time, spotlight the inspiring stories of others who are still out there, newly recharged, working to change the world. This blog post is the first in that series.

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The Northern Star, October 1969

Back in the Fall of 1969, I was increasingly disturbed by the direction of the Vietnam War and just sticking my toe into the campus counterculture at Northern Illinois University. I would comb notices for events advertised on posters and began to attend a few—a planning meeting to support a student strike, a gathering of the campus chapter of the SMC (Student Mobilization Committee to End the War). I’d cling to a wall at the back of the room and try to blend with my brand new jeans, and be amazed at how order would arise from the chaos before me—everyone yelling at once, purposefully raucous, yet somehow arriving at decisions. I’d slink out, without interacting. Intrigued, but not ready to engage.

Sign This

One day at the union, Marcia Fradkin plopped herself down next to me, shoved a petition under my nose, dared me not to be apathetic and told me to sign it. I don’t remember what it was for, but I certainly obeyed. She had seen me at all the meetings and knew a ripe convert who needed a push when she saw one. From that moment she became my radical mentor, schooling me in all the important things—we were “freaks” not “hippies;” it was “grass” or “weed” not “pot;” proper attire meant the bells of your jeans had to be a complete circle, not sticking out like triangles from your ankles; and there were “right” ways to get involved (SMC yes, SDS and YSA—the Young Socialists Alliance, no). She immediately introduced me to her expansive circle including virtually any non-straight person on campus (back when “straight” meant “conforming,” not sexual identification) and gave me the name I am still called by to this day, “Lovely Rita.”

A Woman of Substance

We called her “Heavy” Marcia, a label coined by a mutual boyfriend (no, not at the same time), from I Want You (She's So Heavy) on the new Abbey Road album. And, it was fitting. She was a woman of great substance… our leader. Everyone followed Marcia and we were thrilled when we heard her exclaim “Oh wow!” when impressed or excited. She had a way of getting past all the attitude and reminding people of the essence. Forget wounded US pride and failed Paris peace talks. People were dying. The war had to end. Period. Love conquers all…really…think about it. “Give me one instance when it doesn’t. You can’t can you?”

As a one-issue radical, once the war ended I moved off into a business career. But Marcia kept at it, always involved in causes to help the underdog, people in need. We reconnected in recent years when we lived closer together. She’s on the board of Bridge to Success, helping people get a second chance, always recruiting others to become involved in causes she’s identified, still marching when it’s called for.

When I didn’t hear from her about the recent Women’s March, an activity that after the election woke me out of my everything-will-work-itself-out stupor, I contacted her. I figured she must be planning to go to Washington to march.  Her response was quiet, thoughtful and puzzling. The eternal fighter said simply that given the new administration our voices would fall on deaf ears, and her response from now on would be more spiritual. Peace and love over fear and anger. Healing, not raging at, the world.

The Women’s March without the Key “Woman”

I went with others to the march I wrote about here, but I felt Marcia’s absence everywhere. Only she would have seen all the parallels to 1969. I wrote an entire chapter in my novel, The Fourteenth of September, about the March on Washington we’d been on together. I wanted her to be with me now to revel in the music, about how open and engaged everyone was, over the fact that there were so many people we couldn’t actually march, just like back in our day, and how fantastic it was that we’d overwhelmed expectations yet again. I knew she’d have beamed out “Oh wow’s” all over the place.

“Heavy” Marcia and Lovely Rita have lunch…Oh wow!

I had lunch with her last week and told her all about it. She’d read my blog. We reminisced. She spent a lot of time since the election, she said, seriously thinking about what direction was right for her and she’d reached a conclusion. She decided that her best contribution would be to ensure that everyone she encountered—whether it be the receptionist at her doctor’s office or someone on the bus—would feel seen, heard and valued. She was stopping—to be pleasant, to ask about their day, to listen to them. She wanted to make a difference, she said, if only one by one. She was apologetic, almost embarrassed, as if she knew it was small and I’d be disappointed in her.

Instead, I thought, she’d done it again--cut through the political rhetoric and reduced the problem to its essence.  After all, wasn’t that the issue of the election? Large swaths of people were frustrated they hadn’t been listened to, taken seriously….seen? If we had been doing this all along, where would we be now? If we all do this--from each individual to all of congress--on a larger and larger scale moving forward, where do we have the ability to be as a country? If we see, listen and value instead of shriek, sneer and blame?  

So simple. So heavy. Oh wow!

A 48-Year Déjà Vu

The last time I was part of a massive protest march was November 15, 1969, in Washington DC to end the War in Vietnam. It was major. I wrote a novel about it. This past Saturday, I was in Chicago, part of the Worldwide Women’s March to maintain our hard-won rights.  It was bigger. It will be mentioned in inevitable books to be written four years from now. In both cases, I immediately knew I just had to be there, if for nothing else than to be counted.

The first song at Saturday’s rally was Let it Be and 48 years dropped away

Back in ’69 I’d arrived in DC sleepless, after an all-night trip on one of three school buses taking 200 of us from Northern Illinois University to what we were certain  would be the end of the war. I froze in a threadbare pea coat left over from high school and gym shoes that got so muddy I had to pitch them the minute I returned. I had three PB&J sandwiches in my paisley bag along with a knit hat to hide my red hair so my military mother wouldn’t see me on TV and realize that I’d gone even though she’d pitched that fit. “What do you mean you have to be there?”

We were full of purpose and joy –everyone was so friendly, eager to know where you were from, what protests were going on at our campus, to show off their homemade signs and share buttons. “I’ll trade you my green Texas SMC (Student Mobilization Against the War) for your blue SDS. We were walking posters of cross-country solidarity. The only tension was over how to greet new friends.  But soon, even if you got it wrong and they answered your peace sign with a clenched fist or vice versa, embarrassment turned to giggles and it didn’t matter. So much was going on. Though we were there to demand that Nixon end the war, there were lots of ‘isms” about other issues that blurred in the background—communism, Marxism-- debates about peace vs violence. I warmed my hands by a fire while listening to an anarchist. He was cute so I listened.  It didn’t matter. I was there and would be counted in the million plus number we were certain we’d hit and Nixon wouldn’t be able to ignore.

Pink Hats

The New Yorker called  Saturday’s pink sea “radiant with love and dissent.” It was equally full of purpose and joy. We snapped selfies instead of traded buttons, showed each other our witty—sometimes smutty--signs, marveled at how far people had travelled, asked each other what activism we had planned, and obeyed orders by staying off the grass. I was in a perfectly warm Cole Haan jacket and Mephisto walking shoes. The only tension was wondering how long my lower back would put up with standing on pavement. I was not nineteen any more. The message was equally messy. We were there to demand Trump not roll back our rights, but the speakers spilled over into calling for Rahm’s ouster… union rights. Someone was trying to give away a free pair of Ivanka Trump sandals. I laughed, having fun while knowing I’d be counted among the numbers that were escalating from 50,000 to 75,000 to 250,000. Who’d ever seen so many people in one place? I mean…not since ‘69. After, we stopped for lunch in a cozy spot over hip health food and reflected.

Had to be there

I was motivated in ‘69 to do whatever I could, including putting myself in jeopardy, to be counted as against a policy that simply could not stand. After that I moved on from activism. Nearly 50 years later I feel equally threatened.

My late mother often told my sister and I that she’d been certain we’d have so much more freedom than she’d experienced in career, marriage, family—all of it. She’d gone as far as she could in her day and wanted us to go farther and we did. But she was disappointed it hadn’t been more.  Yesterday, there was a post from my second cousin who is a diplomat in the foreign  service awaiting the birth of her second child, with no paid maternity leave. She has to decide to take either a financial or a professional hit over her “choice” to have a baby. She hopes her two-year old daughter won’t face the same decision.

The past is not past, it isn’t even dead. What I object to is the hamster wheel of things. I reject the way a new administration is coming into completely repeal the work of the previous one, and how that will tee up the next to do the same.  Massive programs like Medicare and the Affordable Care Act don’t arrive perfectly operable. There are a lot of moving parts. We start with what makes sense based upon what we know and then we need to work to make it better. Sure it’s messy. If we repeal instead of refine, they’ll be another plan with its own messes that will either be rejected or refined and we’ll keep going in the wheel of negative progress so my cousin’s daughter will still be fighting and being threatened by the repeal of Roe vs Wade. Just Let It Be.

That’s why, after so many years, the Women’s March has helped me come out of my radical sleep. The voice of my own novel reminds me. This time, my mother would have agreed it was worth it. She may never have understood the antiwar part, but the woman’s rights part, she’d SO get that. She would have come to the march. She looked great in pink.

She would have known it was important just to be there.