August 5, 1968
by Amy
Dad was pissed. When I walked into his study last night, he held a drink in one hand, and a newspaper in other. He gently put the newspaper down in his lap and glared at me.
It didn't matter. I know I'm completely correct in bringing a suit against Dick Daley and his merrymen. I know that we have a right to protest during the convention. We also have a right to ask the city to open the parks for people to sleep in during the convention. Where else are thousands of people go? It's public land, and the public has a right to use it.
Since Dad would rather have burned holes in my face than start talking, I went first. As I spoke, he did that newpaperman thing of listening intently, as if he had a giant steno in his mind. I know him. I know he's listening for a contradiction or some kind statement that will hang me.
So rather than defend the suit, I talk about conviction. The certainty that you are right, and that even if you are later found wrong, you know that you did the right thing at the time. He raised me to question everything and avoid nothing. Everyone may tell you that you're wrong, but that doesn't make it so.
He rubbed his nose while he listened. After I finished, he told me that he also raised me to understand that there would be consequences for my actions. Why didn't I understand that Daley was the most powerful man in this city? That he had a temper and a propensity to take everything personally. There would be repercussions that went far beyond our group. The whole city could be affected. How could I be so selfish?
I tried to explain to him that it wasn't a matter of selfishness. How could one man - Lyndon Johnson - cause so much death and destruction to an entire generation? How about those men who come back from Vietnam with one arm or no legs? Who gave him the right to do that to us? Who gave him the right to destroy our country?
Dad sighed and gulped his drink. "We gave him the right by electing him."
"But those 18-year olds who can't vote... They didn't give him the right. The government doesn't own us. It doesn't own our bodies. They have no right to order people into battle. And when they do it, we certainly have the right to protest."
He did one of those deep sighs. "Amy, you know I agree with you. I don' t know why you are fighting this way."
"Because you're angry with me."
"I'm angry because you didn't bother giving me a warning about all this. I had to find out through the Chicago Police."
The Chicago Police? What the hell?
We didn't even get a chance to publicly announce that we were moving forward with the lawsuit. And no one, I mean no one outside our group, knew that I was going in on the suit. So how did the Chicago Police find out about it?
He wasn't sure, but he did say that it's well know how many undercover agents are going to be working the convention. Perhaps I needed to start looking for people instead of bugs.
