January 27
by Amy
I think this would be a suitable introduction:
I became involved in the Movement in 1966, after meeting a new friend in our college commons. I used to be a student in Chicago, where I was studying childhood education. I hated it. I’m not sure why I chose that major. It was expected of me. I was bored.
Really what I wanted to do was be a journalist like my Dad. He’s a hard drinking, cynical son-of-a-bitch. You would know him if I told you my last name. That’s the reason I’m not telling you. Sons and daughters are always judged by their parents. It’s not right. I’m my own person.
My new friend certainly knew who my Dad was, and she wanted to meet him. They were trying to persuade him, to get him involved with their group. And they were using me to do it.
Normally, I would be upset by that. I’ve had people use me before, because my Dad is well-known and powerful. But those reasons were stupid. These reasons – world peace, fighting poverty, equality – are admirable and valid. I understood why they picked me to befriend. I knew I was targeted and that it was all pre-planned.
I attended a few of the meetings before becoming involved with a member of the group. His name was Jack. He was a leader, someone that the others looked up to. He held my hand, so to speak, during this time. Gradually, he courted me with literature and position papers and promises. The promise of a different society.
When I brought him home to meet my Dad, that’s when things got interesting…
