Project 1968

Hube the Pube

August 29, 1968

by Janine Stephenson

 

12:30 a.m.

I hope Hubert Humphrey feels awful because he won. Someone from the Wisconsin delegation tried to start a chant: "Hube the Pube!" It didn't go far. Some people were upset by the foul language. Others were afraid that security would crack heads.

 

It's over for tonight. The convention, that is. But no one knows what to do now. The delegates are still walking around, with lots of people muttering. I haven't seen Craig or Becca and I'm starting to get worried.

 

Ron has invited me to the Drake Hotel. They are having a big meeting to determine what we should do, what the next step is. But then, some of the delegates are gathering to talk about having a candlelight march to speak out about what happened outside.

 

I personally am scared to go outside. Some alternates report that the police violence has subsided, but I just don't know. Are they going to attack us like they did everyone else? I was stupid enough to wear heels tonight too. I don't think I can run fast in bare feet.

 

Right now I'm waiting for Mrs. Stoutmiller outside of the powder room. We'll figure out what to do in a few minutes.

 

I just feel awful... about everything.

 

In the News: August 29, 1968

Unstoppable

August 28, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

5 p.m.
Craig is gone. He yelled at Ron that he was going to burn his convention pass in the park. It's horrible. She told him that it was important not to give up, but he just kept saying over and over again that it was all a set-up. The entire convention was a big fake, phony exercise and that the whole thing was rigged.

I have to admit, it looks like he's right. It doesn't matter what the people want. We have no say in our own government. "IT'S A SHAM! THE WHOLE GODDAMN THING IS A SHAM! WE'VE WASTED OUR TIME!"

That's what he screamed before he left. Becca followed him, but then she turned back and looked to me to see if I'd come too.

But then I looked back at Ron, who looked so tired and awful. He was sitting in front of his clipboard, so hurt and wounded. I asked him if he was going to leave for the park as well. He shook his head. "It's too easy."

So I stayed. Becca was disappointed and I admit, part of me wanted to go with them. But I couldn't. So I stayed.

7 p.m.
They are getting ready for nominations. Why does everything move so slow here? It takes forever to get anything done.

I haven't been down to the floor of the convention. Ron says the place is depressed, but most people behind the scenes look angry. I told Mrs. Stoutmiller what happened to Craig and Becca. It was very upsetting. She is very worried that something is going to happen to them. It is like a war zone outside and some of the delegates are making provisions in case they can't go back to their hotel. Is there a back room where people can lay down?

I'm angry at Becca. And I'm also afraid for her. What if she gets arrested? She hit that policeman in Madison. What if she does it again?

9:30 p.m.
We're standing by a television watching what is happening outside. I can't believe it. No one can. Mrs. Stoutmiller says that some delegates are planning to protest inside the convention. I certainly don't want to be on the floor when that happens.

Ron keeps trying not to stare at the television. He's talking with people, chatting up The Senator's aides. We wonder how The Senator will get to the Amphitheatre. What kind of security precautions are there?

I just saw a cop hit a demonstrator across the legs. It was a blonde girl. He broke his baton.

Disgusting.

10 p.m.
They're going to try to move the convention. I don't know where yet, but everyone is saying that democracy can't happen under this kind of threat. You can't shut people up by force.

Ron is sitting next to me, his eyes glued to the television. "It's an historical moment, blondie. Let's get this convention moved."

10:30 p.m.
We can't get enough organized quickly enough to get it through. The Humphrey/Daley people are ramming it through.

We can't stop them.

Peace Platform Vote

August 28, 1968

by Janine Stephenson

 

At 1:30 a.m.

 

There's a huge demonstration going on right now in the hall. They are fighting over the platform. Hump and his friends are trying to get the platform voted on tonight. We are trying to get them to agree to have a platform of peace. But Ron says that the only way we can get them to agree to peace is through brute force. That's what he says, but he says he didn't say it. We absolutely cannot let them vote on the platform now. Absolutely not. No one at home is watching television.

 

Can you hear the booing? It's loud. So much so that when people come out of the hall, we can hear it echo and reverberate all the back where we are. Becca is wondering if there will be a riot inside the hall. If so, will anyone get killed? She's scared.

 

I am, too. But I'm tired of being afraid.

 

****

At 2:30 a.m.

 

We're back at the hotel. . It's too noisy to sleep. It feels like it's broad daylight outside, but it isn't. I can't see the people out there, but we can hear them. They chant and yell into bullhorns, or maybe that's the police. I hear cars beeping their horn. It feels like the world is focused on our hotel. That the crowd thinks that if only they can persuade us, then maybe we can stop the war. But they don't understand. We don't have the power to stop the war. We're not in control.

 

Becca keeps flicking the lights in response to the chanting. They want to interact with us. They want us to hear them. We do, but it isn't going to help.

 

****

Noon

 

I feel much better. As soon as my bed hit the pillow, I feel asleep. I woke up with the hot sun shining right into my face. Becca was already awake. She asked me if it was possible to get a tan through the window. I wonder...

 

Ron said that he went to bed around 4 a.m. After the session ended, he went into the hotel bar and gulped a few. He always wanted to do this politics game, but maybe he needs to do something else, like advertising. But then, you can't have a heart if you go into advertising so he isn't sure what he wants to do. Usually politics is as exciting as hell, but now it's just hell.

 

We'll have to stop the convention, if we want to stop the war.

 

Mrs. Stoutmiller came by again to say hello.

 

****

At 1 p.m.

 

Becca and I went down to the floor of the convention to be with Mrs. Stoutmiller. It seems that security is extra tight if you support the wrong person. Anyway, Becca and I hung out with Mrs. Stoutmiller for a while. It was sort of fun and exciting and sort of boring. It's hard to hear people talking down there and carrying on a conversation is close to impossible. It's like everyone is jammed into a place, such a tiny place, so they're agitated. If you brush up against someone by accident, they get upset. And if you're wearing the wrong button, they stay upset.

 

I'm the first in my family to be at a political convention, so I can't wait to call home to tell them. Becca wanted to wave to the television men, but I thought that was silly. Though we did get to see Chet Huntley. How exciting is that? It's hard to believe that people you see on television really exist, but sure enough, Chet Huntley does!

 

****

at 3:30 p.m.

 

They're voting on the platform. Craig and Becca are tracking the total. Ron is sitting quietly. He looks like he's going to cry. I feel so bad for him, and for all of us. Mrs. Stoutmiller came by. She's pursing her lips.

 

I feel sick to my stomach.

 

In the News: August 28, 1968

Surrounded by Rage

August 27, 1968 - Around 2:30 a.m.?

by Janine Stephenson

 

Oh dear God. I'm still at the convention. I don't know when people plan to sleep - maybe they don't - but you would never believe what just happened. There was an actual FIGHT on the floor!  Let me see if I can explain this right:

 

As I mentioned earlier, there were two Georgia delegations. One was official and the other had come to the convention in the hopes that the official group would be kicked out. The fight was over the official delegation had been elected through racist means. I don't understand the intracacies of all that, except that it's not a stretch to think that Georgia would try to cheat black people. So when they announced that the official delegation would remain seated, the challenging delegation rose up and started going after the official delegation!

 

I didn't see it happen. The only thing I know is that someone yelled "FIGHT!" into our room and everyone rushed out to see what was happening. Not all of us could get onto the floor or even see what was happening. There was a loud chanting and people running off the floor to talk to various people. Complete chaos.

 

I'm still trying to find out what's happening.

 

More on the Georgia delegation: The official ones were chosen. I'm not sure who chose the unofficial ones. Were they elected? I don't know. But I have heard that the official delegation is all-white and the unofficial one is black and white.

 

****

Around 5 p.m.

 

We finally made it back to our hotel room at 4 in the morning. Ron said that I would have a hard day ahead, so we should meet again at noon. Becca and I rode the passenger bus back to the hotel. It all seemed so eerie outside, so dark and quiet. I wondered what happened while we were inside the convention - if anything. I saw some things strewn in the street and there were people walking around. Otherwise, I don't think anything has happened.

 

I wonder if Baby John has been here.

 

Becca and I slept soundly and got up around 11 a.m. My hair doesn't look right, but I also know that no one is looking at my hair. I have a list of delegations that are supposed to get literature to pass to their delegations. Of course, not everyone is friendly to us, so we're not asking for trouble. We pass on the unfriendly ones and concentrate on the doves.

 

Everyone is still talking about the Georgians. Some say that they've never seen anything like it. Ron still wants me to go to the floor of the convention - tonight. He says it's an experience I have earned. But I don't know. I'm afraid of being surrounded by angry people. And everyone here is ANGRY!

 

In the News: August 27, 1968

Back Rooms, Again

August 26, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

Ron is still talking to people. Becca  and Craig are handling the process of passing out literature to delegates. But we’re having a problem getting them to the floor. Guards won’t let us in with them. Humphrey’s material makes it through security, but we can’t get our stuff in.

Someone has just shouted that there’s a problem with Georgia. I don’t understand what’s happening, but evidently, some states have two delegations. Craig says that it has something to do with how they’ve picked their delegations. There’s a racist way that they’re doing it and now the Democrats have to prove that they aren’t a racist party.

“Either you represent white folks or you represent everyone.” How this Georgia thing turns out will determine everything.

But we still don’t know how we’re going to get our stuff on the floor of the convention. And we still don’t know how we can fight against the President. Why doesn’t Humphrey just tell Johnson to go jump in a lake?

I hope Mrs. Stoutmiller stops by again. She’s been coming by to ask us if we need anything. Just like the old days. It’s nice to see her again.

Back Rooms

August 26, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

There is so much swirling around of people and paper that I can barely keep up with it. I am in one of the back rooms of the convention right now. It’s a windowless room with bare lights on the ceiling. There’s a fog of cigarette smoke above me. Every now and then, I look up and watch the fog gather around the bare lights.

But there isn’t much time for that. All day, I followed Ron around as he tried to contend with people shouting at him about the platform. Is our proposal – what they call a “plank” – going to be nominated? What have you heard? How can we push it through? What words do they want changed?

It looked like things were going to go well until Ron got word that Humphrey was going to back out of any deals that we’re even on the table. There would be no peace plank. Nothing. President Johnson bullied his way in and that was the end of it.

I asked Ron if it was true and he said, of course. Johnson has been doing this all along. Why would he stop now? But why doesn’t anyone know this? Why isn’t anyone telling the newspapers? Ron looked at me like I was stupid and then apologized. “I’m sorry, sweetie. You don’t have any idea what is really going on, do you?”

Someone has just come in to tell us that the convention has started. I don’t dare go out on the floor of the convention. From what I understand, it’s difficult to walk. Ron says that he think it would be a good idea for me to go, and I agree. It would be a good idea, but it may not be a practical one.

Becca and Craig are walking around the hallway. Becca said she wanted to see what was going on. I sure wish she’d come back.

In the News: August 26, 1968

The Day Before

August 25, 1968

by Janine Stephenson

 

We are strongly discouraged from going to the park. The campaign has given us the strictest of orders not to go down - even for curiosity sake. But that hasn't stopped Becca from nagging me about it. Our room overlooks the park, which is filled with people just like us. It is tempting. We won't be fired from the campaign if we go, but Ron said that a bunch of weird people were there. If we do go, Ron says that we should take off our campaign buttons so we don't get harassed. Make sure that there is nothing that identifies us.

 

The police do look scary. Last night, we saw them gather up in a line around the perimeter of the park and announce the curfew. A man in a black sweatshirt got right into the face of one policeman and screamed at him. Then we saw the police officer take a swing at him. The man ducked and ran. Becca and I did a double-take at that. I asked her if she still wanted to go down to the park and she said that she just wanted to see what it was like.

 

Neither of us could believe that the cop tried to hit the man. Frightening.

 

Ron says that we should study a map to get acclimated to the city. Even if we've been to Chicago before, we should still know major Democratic areas. We should also know where the buses will pick up delegates to bring them to the convention.

 

So today, we spent most of our time on the 15th floor of the hotel, meeting other campaign workers and getting our papers in order. Ron stopped by to inform me of the schedule. He also said that both Becca and I would need to be careful at the convention. As the policemen and security were on edge.

 

He didn't have to tell us twice.

 

I haven't been to the Amphitheatre yet, and part of me is afraid to go. I've been told that there's barbed wire around the area, and that men will yell at you even if you have the right credentials.

 

It makes me wonder if something will happen at the convention. Maybe we won't even get to have a convention. But I don't want to think that.

Meanwhile, at the Conrad Hilton in the Chicago...

August 24, 1968

by Janine Stephenson

 

Dean Martin stayed at our hotel. So did President Kennedy and Lucille Ball, but not at the same time I don't think. Queen Elizabeth stayed at the Conrad in 1959. The busboy told me. I asked him if he ever met anyone famous and he said, "Of course!" Too bad I didn't have a chance to ask who it was he met.

 

The woman at the gift shop is snooty. Becca complained about it, but I told her that if she wasn't snooty then we wouldn't remember that we were staying in a fancy hotel. We are very lucky that we're not out in the park with the rest of the people. I haven't seen Baby John yet. But I can only imagine what it's like to sleep in a van under conditions like this.

 

But what's even better about everything is that Mrs. Stoutmiller found us! There was a knock on the door, we opened it and there she was. Exactly like I remember her. I missed her sooo much. She was very pleased to see us. She's staying with the rest of her delegation at the hotel next to ours, which I think is called the Blackstone or something like that. She was very proud of us for staying with the campaign. She said it showed commitment on our part... Even though we had our doubts.

 

Anyway, Mrs. Stoutmiller was very scared about the way the town looked. She hadn't been to Chicago in 20 years and it hasn't gotten much better since then. That, coupled with the wild people (that's what she calls hippies) and the barbed wire around the Amphitheatre... She told us to be sure to be very careful and to promise that we wouldn't go into the park.

 

We did. But as soon as she left, Becca told us that we have to go to the park. This is an extremely bad idea, especially in light of what happened at the Dow Protest. Becca punched a cop by accident. Or maybe it wasn't by accident. Either way, she could easily do something like it again, which is why we shouldn't go to the park. Besides, we promised Mrs. Stoutmiller and my feet hurt.

Arriving!

August 23, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

WE ARE HERE! How exciting is this? Ron told us to go to the reception desk at the Conrad Hilton to get our room assignments. So as soon as we made it into town, Becca and I jumped out of the Galaxie and ran into the reception area.

I can't even begin to tell you how gorgeous the hotel is. There are chandeliers in the reception area and spiffy men in uniforms that open the front door for you. They look like toy soldiers. Such a fancy place, and we're going to be staying in it! The campaign gave Becca and I a room overlooking the street. Across the street is a park with a bunch of hippies milling about.

From the window to the hotel, we could see that Craig was impatiently waiting for us. So we ran back downstairs and into the car. A Chicago staffer offered to park Craig's car at his house. That way, no one will break into it during the week. Even though Craig tells us not to worry about security, I think he just wants to be sure that his car won't be damaged in a riot. The staffer will drive us back to the Conrad.

I wonder what this week will be like. I can't wait to find out!

In the News: August 23, 1968

On to Chicago

August 18, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

Ron told me very quietly yesterday that if I was still afraid of flying, then we should arrange to drive to Chicago first thing tomorrow morning. The Senator will be arriving within a day or two and we need to get everything set up for him right away. I thought: Hallelujah! We can all finally leave this awful city. I was only too happy to track Craig and Becca down to give them the good news.

Craig agreed that we needed to leave sooner rather than later. He dropped us off at his room so Becca could get stuff. Then we went to my room so we could do the same. Becca kept grabbing clothes out of the drawers and throwing them into my suitcase. I asked her nicely if she would mind folding them. After all, I folded her clothes when I helped her pack. It's the least she could do. She apologized and said that she was just as anxious to leave as I was, but not nearly as neat about it.

Both Becca and Craig grabbed my suitcase while I stood there for a moment, thinking about Baby John. It made me really sad to think of him being outside the convention with the rest of the others. He worked just as hard as the rest of us, but Craig said it was his choice. In a way, none of us could blame him. Everyone thinks that this may be one of the most important elections in history. It may even be the last real election. America can't continue this way. Everyone feels that this is an ending, but what's really spooky is that no one senses a beginning.

Maybe humans aren't equipped to handle freedom. When they get it, they do stupid things with it. Things that aren't relevant to anyone but themselves. I've wondered that for a while, and it's terrible to think that way. I don't want it to be true. Ron says that our main problem is that Americans don't know what it means to be an American. They think they do, but they really don't. Since they have no identity, they're easily manipulated by anyone they deem trustworthy. The myth of America isn't really true, and people don't want to listen to us.

The campaign has tried to focus on solutions, ways that the myth could become a reality. But because people don't see that there's a problem, it's only going to get worse. America is sick, and maybe it's not going to ever get better again.

In the News: August 18, 1968

A Moment of Honesty

August 17, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

While I was taking dictation, Ron stopped and smiled at me. He said that he should've thought about making me his assistant a long time ago.

But I told him I was glad that he didn't because he can be annoying sometimes. He laughed and said that his Mom thought so too.

I told him that he really ought to fix that.

In the News: August 17, 1968

Shuffling

August 16, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

I guess with our sudden promotion, Craig is now Assistant Delegate Coordinator. He's just one of a number of Assistant Delegate Coordinators. I don't know what they all do. Craig still answers to Ron, for what that's worth. It would be easy for me to think that Becca and Craig are hiding in a closet somewhere making out, but I know that Becca is honestly trying to do right by the campaign, especially considering the hoops that we all had to jump through.

As it turns out, I learned quite by accident that Ron and Craig pledged that they would take care of us during the convention. Which struck me as very odd. Like we were a bunch of kids or something. If the campaign was going to go in that direction, I would've thought that our parents would be contacted. But no. Instead, they made some kind of promise to someone that we would not cause trouble or be affected by trouble. Something like that.

My new job being Ron's assistant is certainly not boring. When he's working he's a bit of a bully, but his feet up everywhere and demanding that I get this person on the phone or that person. I do have a special desk where I can sit now for the next few days. It's made out of boxes. Since the boxes are scheduled to be shipped out in a few days, I may have no desk at all. Or I might be shipped out with them.

But really, I think I'm happy with the arrangement. I now have something to do and the campaign is finally using my skills again. Maybe I'll even get to meet The Senator. That sure would be a gas.

In the News: August 16, 1968

With the People

August 15, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

I asked Baby John if he would like to come to the convention with us. He said he would rather not. He wasn't angry with us for rejoining the campaign and he understood why we wanted to be a part of the convention. But he also hoped that we would understand why he wanted to be outside it, with the people.

That made me think for a while, especially the part about being with the people. A year ago, I was going away to college. I thought all hippies were strange, dirty people who lived out in California. I didn't know that they cared about things. I just thought they were always stoned.

Then Becca and I found out that Dow Chemical wanted to recruit people on campus, and that their chemicals were actually weapons that burned the skin off of innocent people. We found out that they're making a profit on all of this death. Then we took part in that protest that turned very ugly, and Becca punched a policeman. We were so afraid that we'd be arrested. For a week we by wearing hats.

Then we decided to become part of the McCarthy campaign, because it seemed safer. For the most part, it has been. Becca hasn't punched a cop since then, and we haven't been in any riots. Though we cut it close in Indiana.

They keep telling us that we will have to be very, very careful. They don't know what's going to happen. I'm nervous about it, but if it's like everything else, maybe it will all work out.

In the News: August 15, 1968

Left Out

August 14, 1968

by Janine Stephenson

 

Becca insisted that we talk to Craig, as soon as we could find him. We figured out that he must have been attending a meeting with Ron across town. So we went back to our rooms and packed our bags. By the time we got to that point, we were good and angry over everything that happened. How dare some strange woman tell us to leave the campaign - just because we were young. We're adults in almost every way, except for the fact that we can't vote. Therefore, it doesn't matter if anyone offends us or fires us.

 

How hypocritical that the campaign is protesting how black people were left out of the primaries, but they're leaving us out of the campaign! Ridiculous!

 

So we gathered all of our belongings and met at a coffee house. We decided that we were going to stage a sit-in at the front door to the campaign offices. Because we know that there's nothing worse than bad publicity. So about thirty of us walked back to the campaign headquarters and lined up, careful not to block the front door. Immediately, the volunteer coordinator came out to talk to us. She invited us in, away from the public view. So we went to a big conference room (not ANOTHER conference room) and sat on top of our backpacks and suitcases. Then she left to go call someone.

 

That's where Craig and Ron found us, sitting in a conference room on top of our luggage. They called us out of the room and into the hallway. Becca gave them an earful. She told them that they had one hell of a nerve to dismiss us, after all the work we did. I didn't say anything, because Becca explained it for both of us. Craig kept telling her to settle down and that they would take care of things. We should give them a chance to straighten it out.

 

So we went back into the conference room. By that time, all the young people started singing "We Shall Overcome." It was off-key and occasionally no one knew the words, but it made us happy anyway. The parts we didn't know, we hummed. It took almost 15 minutes total for someone to come back to speak to us. I think it's only because we started chanting: We Count Too.

 

A man in a goatee came back to address us. He looked quite nervous, like he was afraid we were going to attack him. Just as he cleared his throat to speak, Craig and Ron pulled us out of the room again. This time, they said that not only could we stay with the campaign, we got a promotion. We were now their assistants. Becca was highly suspicious of this, especially since nothing changed. It's not like we suddenly aged. We didn't become 21 over the past 15 minutes. Craig finally admitted that they had to sign papers saying that we would "take care of us" or something like that, during the convention.

 

I didn't know what to make of that. Take care of us? Like we would never know what to do during a riot, assassination or mild confrontation. Ron said that the paper was merely a legal document, and it didn't mean anything other than that. But don't legal documents mean something? Then he added: "That's politics!"

 

We told them that we'd go along with it. Which means that Becca will be Craig's assistant, and I will be Ron's secretary, or something like that.

 

I don't know how I feel about any of this, especially since the campaign is still encouraging young people not to attend the convention. Baby John told us afterward that the campaign expects the convention will be rough and maybe even violent, though they hope that isn't the case. But it didn't change anyone's mind. Baby John said the convention won't be any harder than a war, and being there is the least we could do for the boys in Vietnam.

 

 

In the News: August 14, 1968

FIRED!

August 13, 1968

by Janine Stephenson

 

We were fired!

 

Oh, they tried not to call it that. A woman I've never even seen before pulled both Becca and I into a room and told us that the campaign was letting us go.

 

"The Senator is encouraging all young people like yourselves to go home and become involved with your community." Or something like that.

 

Becca and I looked at each other. She had that "Is this really happening?" look in her eye.

 

"But we've been with the campaign since the very beginning. We traveled all the way from Madison, Wisconsin and missed a semester of college. And we bartered and ate peanut butter sandwiches and spent our own money to travel with the campaign. And now, you're telling us to go home?"

 

She said yes. Since we were under 20 years of age, we could not go to the convention.

 

Arguing was useless. She had it clear in her mind that we were just too young to go to Chicago. Even though we are not too young to have our boyfriends killed in a stupid war.

 

We walked out of the meeting quietly.I began to cry. Becca tried to be very comforting, telling me that the woman was obviously some know-nothing jerk. Becca said she would talk to Craig.

 

But I told her. I said that maybe Craig can't save us. Maybe this is the end of the line. Clearly they didn't care about what we did while we were here in Washington. They don't know what to do with young people. Which is strange because this was our campaign.

 

I told her to forget it. That we need to go pack our bags.

 

Outside of the office, a bunch of younger volunteers had gathered. They were also being sent home. I was surprised to see Baby John there. He told me that he decided to stop by to see if we had been kicked out of the campaign too. I told him that we had, indeed. Then I began to cry again, which I hate.

 

Anyway, Baby John said that we could go with a bunch of his poverty program friends in a van to Chicago. That, in fact, we absolutely needed to go because this was our campaign and our convention. "They can't fire you from your own campaign. What kind of nonsense is that?"

 

I told Becca that we oughtta go with Baby John. He's a great guy. She seemed to give it some serious thought, especially since she likes vans.

 

So I said for certain that I'd like to go. Becca said that she would talk to Craig, but that she really wanted to go with Baby John as well.

 

Who would've ever thought that we'd be stuck outside of our own convention? Baby John says that like everyone else in the country, we're disenfranchised. And just like everyone else, we're locked out of the political process.

 

In the News: August 13, 1968

Cretans and Stumps

August 12, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

I still hate George McGovern. There is nothing or nobody in the world that will make me like him. He's a sniveling little creep. Or Cretan, as Craig calls him. I like creep, but Craig says that Cretan is better because all Cretans are liars. So says a guy named Epimenides. Then he laughed a lot, but I didn't understand why.

So he told me that if he said that all Americans were liars, and he was an American; would that make his statement true or not? I didn't know how to answer that, because I could tell that this was going to be another one of those confusing Craig conversations. Any answer you give is wrong, and for no apparent reason. I'm not a big fan of logic anyway. It's too tricky and I don't think it serves a useful purpose. Regular logic is just smart thinking. Hypothetical logic is dumb. Life is complicated enough without having to think of the answers to questions that have no answers.

He exasperates me sometimes.

The campaign issued a bulletin today that we are to prepare delegates for what Chicago "may be like." We're not supposed to alarm them, though we're becoming more aware of the hostility that we've created by existing. Simply put, the people in charge hate us. I don't understand why they hate us, but they do. Craig says that Ron says that it's Johnson all over again. Except this time, Johnson is dressed up as a big goofy guy named Humphrey. According to Ron, the Hump lacks a Stump, which is codeword for meaning a backbone. Becca interrupted and said that it actually means that The Hump lacks a male organ. That's what "stump" means. Craig blushed and said that at some point during the convention, we will shout it from the rooftops.

Hump lacks a Stump is far catchier than McGovern is a Cretan. Though both statements are true.

In the News: August 12, 1968

A State of Being

August 10, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

Becca said that Craig said that Ron might want to ask me out. I told her to tell Craig to tell him that when he makes up his mind, to be certain about it. Fear is not an aphrodisiac.

Really, I've never met a man who is so powerful and yet, so powerfully weak. Ron can walk into a room and take command. He can talk to powerful people, like The Senator, directly. He can hob-nob with rich people comfortably. But he has to ask me out through my friends? How awful!

It makes me respect Benjamin more, in hindsight. Now that I think about it, Benjamin must have been very nervous asking a white girl out. He had no idea if I was a bigot or not. I could've been terribly insulting for all he knew. But if he was afraid, he never let on. I was proud to stand by his side, regardless of what anyone else thought about it.

I miss him. It makes me sad.

Besides, I don't understand Ron's fear of asking me out. I see him with girls all the time. They drape themselves all over him. Maybe his nerves are really a trick to make me chase him. Maybe he thinks that by appearing weak, I'll want to take care of him. Or something like that. Well, he couldn't be any more wrong. If he wants to ask me out, then he needs to do it directly.

Becca says that I've misunderstood the situation. But I don't think so. A girl wants a boy to be a man. It's the least he could be.

While I'm at it, I'm still not over that George McGovern. He's a louse of the worst order. It makes me want to work 22 hours for The Senator, just so we can teach that man a lesson. You can talk peace all want, but if you're a jerk talking peace then you're also a big phony.

Tonight being Saturday night, I figured that I would watch television and maybe read a book. Becca would rather I go to a coffeehouse with her and Craig. I hate being a third wheel, but she says that being a third wheel is far better than being a drag.

In the News: August 10, 1968

Boxes to Chicago

August 8, 1968

by Janine Stephenson

 

I am so excited to go to the convention! I can hardly wait! Two more weeks, I think. But chances are, we'll leave a whole lot sooner.

 

Ron came by today to tell us that we should get help the campaign volunteers pack for the convention. A truck arrived and men began bringing in boxes of stuff. A ton of signs, banners, hats, buttons, key chains and phone lists. Incredible. I've never seen so much. Becca broke open one of the boxes and put a McCarthy for President straw hat on her head. I have to admit, she looked cute. Craig kissed her smack on the lips. I looked over at Ron, and he just rolled his eyes.

 

Craig and Becca invited me to wear at hat or a button as well, but I didn't want to because that would be stealing. I especially didn't want to do it in front of Ron. But then he came over and planted a hat on my head and smiled. "I guess it would be presumptuous to kiss you on the lips, wouldn't it?"

 

It would've been, but I didn't tell him that. I smiled because I didn't know what else to say.

 

The boxes are headed toward Chicago. From what Craig told us, they were supposed to go there directly but someone checked the wrong box off on an order form. So they arrived here. Trucks will be coming by tomorrow to pick them up. It seems like a giant waste of money, something the campaign can't afford to do.

 

Everyone is bitter about George McGovern entering the race. Ron says that The Senator is very angry over it. I don't blame him. Just who does George McGovern think he is anyway? He didn't run in the primaries, and he certainly could have. All he is doing is helping The Hump. His entry into the race is going to split the anti-war vote. But since George is only thinking about his own ego, he doesn't care about that. He actually thinks that he is going to fill the shoes of Bobby Kennedy. He can't even spit shine that man's shoes! Talk about presumptuous!

In the News: August 8, 1968

Nothing Doing, Doing Nothing

August 6, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

I called my parents today to let them know I was still in this God-forsaken city. She told me that I received a letter from someone named Benjamin. My stomach dropped. It's been almost three months since I've seen him, and I feel like such a drip for not writing or calling. I've tried to put it out of my mind, but it's hard.

Mom asked me if I needed to have the letter forwarded. I was afraid it would get lost, so I told her no. I'd read it once I came back from the convention.

Becca and I still have not yet heard about our new assignments, which is odd considering that other people are getting ready to go. Craig told Becca that we should just be patient. It would work out soon.

I don't get a good feeling about it though. We've been shelved here in D.C., given dumb jobs while other people work madly. Normally, such a thing wouldn't bother me. After all, it isn't the job you do, it's the quality of work you achieve. But I can't help but feel like I'm an extra leg on a paralyzed man. Completely useless.

Today we answered the phones and watched the Republican convention on television. Craig hung out, mostly because he feels sorry for us. He keeps telling us that the campaign values our work. But that's hard to believe since we don't do much of it.

We noticed that the Nixon girls look pristine. It made us wonder what it's like to grow up in a famous family. Then we wondered how Mr. and Mrs. Nixon had sex. Then we saw an interview with Ronald Reagan and I told them that Ronald Reagan was a very good-looking man. Becca made a vomiting sound. Craig said that he never wanted to hear me say that again. Didn't I know that Reagan had a temper? He was a jerk to all the people protesting at UCLA. But if you ask me, he's governor. It's his job to be a jerk.

So that's been our day. It wasn't nearly as interesting as it sounds. I just wish they'd give us our new assignments soon. I don't like uncertainty.

In the News: August 6, 1968

Baby John Redux

August 4, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

I ran into Baby John at church this morning. We very nearly ran into each other in the communion line. I was crossing the pew he sat in. We motioned to each other that we would talk after mass.

When I met him outside, I told him that I couldn't believe he was still in this awful city. I thought he would've gone back to California by now. Heck knows, if I was living in California, I would spend most of my time there. He said that being in D.C. was still worthy since there were so many poor people just miles from the White House. How could Lyndon Johnson sleep at night? I said he probably sleeps quite well, since thousands of boys dying overseas doesn't seem to bother him all that much.

Anyway, Baby John said that he is still with The Campaign, albeit on a local, volunteer basis. They have all sorts of activities for 18-year olds this summer. Along with his poverty work, Baby John became involved with voter registration campaigns and phone banks. I thought that was quite admirable, considering how disgusted he was with our D.C. headquarters work.

I asked him if he planned on going to Chicago. He said most definitely. I told him that Becca and I are waiting for our campaign assignments, but that we were excited to go. No matter what they wanted us to do, we would do it.

We agreed to meet again, in a few days. Just before saying goodbye, he hugged me and apologized for dropping off the planet. I was glad to see him too.

In the News: August 4, 1968

August Excitement

August 1, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

August is finally here. Everyone is excited to get to convention, including Becca and I.

Chicago is dreadfully hot in the summer. No one thinks that the Midwest can get so hot, but believe me, the heat waves are deadly. I remember one summer when a number of elderly people died. When I was seven, Grandma Pat had heat stroke, and that was north, in Wisconsin. I know that some places in the country are far worse than the Midwest, like the desert for instance. But the city of Chicago is a simmering pit in August, which is what my Father always says.

Becca is particularly excited to go to the convention. She says that we are finally getting the reward for all of our hard work. I have to agree. We didn’t join the campaign to go to the convention. In fact, we didn’t even think that far ahead. But our time here in Washington has been so lonely and boring and awful that I would consider going to the convention a just reward for our time spent in this terrible place.

We still don’t have word yet as to what we are doing next, though maybe we will help set up the main office at the Chicago Hilton. That would be nice. Maybe we’ll even get to stay in the Chicago Hilton. But with the room shortages and telephone strikes, that might not be an option. Which is fine because while going to the convention is a fantastic opportunity, staying at a hotel might be too far out.

I can’t get my suitcase packed fast enough.

In the News: August 1, 1968

Convention Hopes

July 30, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

Ron asked me today how I like my job. I told him, quite frankly, that I hated it. The calls about Chicago hotel reservations for the convention are fine, but when they get into the details about how things are run, I just get so frustrated. We have no information about anything else. How can I answer questions about the convention itself?

He told me not to worry. Then he gave me a booklet by the League of Women Voters. It’s filled with all sorts of information about the election, delegates and even the convention itself.

I wish he gave it to me sooner. Becca and I expect to be reassigned in the next few days. Since Craig is helping Ron, she’s positive that they will let us go to the convention. It will be so exciting!

That’s another reason why I need to study this booklet. When I’m on the floor of the convention, I want to understand exactly what’s going on.

So I’m going to be sure to study this booklet.

In the News: July 30, 1968

Becca & Birth Control

July 29, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

Becca is swearing up and down and back and forth that she will not step inside a church. Pope Paul has officially banned birth control. They announced it today. I think Becca knew this was coming all along. She keeps up with these types of things.

Since she has not been attending church regularly, I think Becca is being overly dramatic. Do you know how many Catholics say that they will never go back to church, only to come back again? Something bad happens and sure enough, they're sitting in a pew saying their Hail Marys. I wonder how God puts up with it, the whole love/hate relationship? Maybe that's why he loves everyone unconditionally. He knows how fickle human beings are, especially when it comes to temporary matters.

I think Becca is mostly upset because she thinks the Pope is just like her Father, telling her how to be and what to do.

She says that I would feel the same way she does, if I was going all the way with a boy right now. I suppose that would be true. But I just wonder what kind of effect something like that has on your body. Also, birth control is against the law, at least for people like Becca and me.

But Becca thinks that laws are stupid. They're only meant to make life harder instead of easier. Laws are a weapon that authorities use to keep people under control. That's what she says, anyway.

In the News: July 29, 1968

Lucky Layoffs

July 19, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

Becca and I decided that we would not leave the campaign entirely if we were laid off. Instead, we would become volunteers. After all, this is our campaign. We're not doing it for the money. We're still supporting The Senator because it's either him or Hubert "The Hump" Humphrey.

The Hump will not bring an end to the war. He is Lyndon Johnson, without the cowboy hat or Texas twang. Not that there's anything wrong with Texas or the way they talk. But at this point, it's better to start with a fresh beginning. That means no Hump.

The only other conceivable person that anyone could support would be Nelson Rockefeller. But Mrs. Stoutmiller would never vote for him because he's a Republican.

If we became volunteers, Becca and I could then ask to be put somewhere else... Anywhere else. Evidently Craig likes his job being Ron's assistant. Ron is stuck in Washington right now, so we would have to remain here. But there has to be a better job than what we're doing. If we stayed on as volunteers, we could ask for better assignments.

As it turns out - unbelievable as it seems - the whole discussion was pointless. We were not laid off. Instead, they kept five of us at the phone bank on payroll. Which is shocking because the campaign is running such a deficit we honestly thought that we would become volunteers.

People were disappointed, but the whole thing ended up being a nonevent. Most people are continuing on as if nothing happened.

I don't know about Becca but I feel guilty now. I'm earning money while some other people are doing the same job for no money. Those of us who are still getting money for the campaign are putting our funds together to buy peanut butter and bread for the rest of us. It seems like the only right thing to do.

Layoffs Tomorrow

July 18, 1968 by Janine Stephenson

They are going to announce layoffs tomorrow. Becca and I are nervous about it for two reasons: 1) We're not exactly indispensable. Since coming to Washington we've sat in a room and done nothing. Then they put us on the telephones so we could give out wrong information. It seems that no one really cares what we do here, so if they got rid of us, I couldn't exactly blame them.

The second reason is related to the first: We're not allowed to contribute anything to the campaign. I'm not talking about money. Becca has had ideas about how to do certain things and no one wants to hear her suggestions. For example, she developed a terrific way of organizing campaign literature. But we're not allowed near the closets to help them with that. The one time she tried to go over there, she was told to go back to the phones.

I really hope that we aren't laid off. Becca and I decided that once the day is over, we will talk about what our choices are in terms of staying with the campaign.

In the News: July 18, 1968

That Terrible Familiar Fear

July 16, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

Maybe it's because I'm spending too much time alone, but I feel lost right now. It's as if a massive tidal wave is in the distance. People are continuing their lives, taking care of their patch of grass. Sometimes I wonder if they're looking so closely at what's in front of them that they don't see what's going on around them.

It didn't hit me until I went to bed last night. Something ugly is coming. I feel it, and so would everyone else if they just slowed down a bit. It worries me because I don't  know who the tidal wave will drown. I can't even tell where it's headed. Are they going to drop the bomb on Hanoi? Is something going to happen to The Senator? Maybe someone I know is going to die. I don't know.

I tried to think of all the awful things that could happen. Then I went through all the people I know and tried to figure out who was in trouble. Because it definitely feels like someone is in trouble. It almost made me call home, but then I was afraid to get out of bed.

When I finally did fall asleep, I had dreams of people on trains. I was traveling the country alone, and I switched stations in Chicago. I didn't know anybody there, but I knew I was on my way home.

I woke up this morning, feeling like I had to get out of Washington. It makes people feel so disconnected, lonely and afraid. All of these white buildings promising so much. Why would they put our nation's capital in such a terrible city?

In the News: July 16, 1968

Alone on a Sunday

July 14, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

I went to church alone today. Baby John must have gone to an earlier Mass. Becca hasn’t been to church in months. She’s staying with Craig now, so I spend a great deal of time by myself. It’s alright, though I wish it wasn’t that way.

It’s good to be alone. It gives me time to think about everything that’s happened and everything that might happen for the rest of the year.

After Mass, I went out to breakfast at a neighborhood diner. The place was filled with church-going couples, mostly older folks. They looked so sweet, drinking coffee and chatting with each other. It made me feel like I was back in the old days, maybe the 1940s after the war. I tried to imagine what it would feel like. Then I thought of my parents, and then I thought about how I haven’t called them in a long time. Then I felt guilty.

Then I wondered why we couldn’t be a part of their society. Why they have a right to tell us how to behave, when our life isn’t anything like theirs. Craig would say that we’ve inherited an imperfect world, and it’s our job to perfect it. We have to make it better.

I don’t blame them for being imperfect. Unlike Becca, I don’t know if they could’ve done anything about segregation or poverty or the war. After all, they had their own wars to fight. But I don’t see why they should stop us from changing things, from making things better. And I don’t understand why they’re angry about it.

In the News: July 14, 1968

Favorite Sons

July 12, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

Our new job isn’t going well, at least not for me. Becca and I are working a telephone hotline where The Senator’s workers can call in and get information. The calls are usually for questions about the convention, but every now and then, we get a phone call about the process itself.

Remember back in New Hampshire, when I said that I had no idea about delegates and what they do? We get those types of calls, often quite a bit.

For example, a man from Arizona called today to ask about “favorite sons.” He wanted to know if I could explain why there is such a thing and did the Democratic Party have anything in place so that the convention wouldn’t be tied up with such nonsense.

Now how am I supposed to answer that? I’m not the Democratic Party. I’m just a girl from Wisconsin. I know there is such a thing as favorite sons at the convention, but I don’t know what they do.

Since I didn’t know, I tried to make it up. Which is very bad, I understand. If you don’t know something, you should never try to pretend you do, except on a test or exam. Then you should at least guess an answer.

So I told the caller that favorite sons would kept to a minimum at the convention because the favorite sons would gather together at the end and elect someone. Then he asked me who they’d elect and for what. I didn’t know, so I told him that they would elect a most favorite son. That’s who they’d elect, the most favorite son.

He was more puzzled then ever, but at least I got him off the phone. I wish I didn’t have to guess at these things, but the campaign doesn’t have any literature to train us. There’s no Election 101 Booklet and everyone seems to think that we know everything. I don’t, but I don’t want to get fired so it’s better to guess. I hope I did the right thing.

In the News: July 12, 1968

New Assignment

July 9, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

We haven’t seen Baby John in several days, which makes me sad. He’s now spending time with a D.C. poverty project. I think he’s moved in to their boarding house as well. He was discouraged by our efforts being wasted. At least that’s what he called it.

I don’t feel as wasted anymore. The campaign is inefficient, true, but I can’t complain any longer. For the month of July, we’re going to help out on the election question hotline. This is a special line that delegates, volunteers and staff can call into if they have any questions. I’m so excited about it.

Plus, it means that we’ll get to meet people instead of staying in a conference room folding brochures. Which is especially good because my fingers were getting too many paper cuts.

In the News: July 9, 1968

Sermons Not Profound

July 7, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

During church today, we heard a sermon comparing servicemen entering the military to the Apostles leaving their lives for Jesus. I was horrified. Baby John had the same reaction. His face lost all color. I knew if we made eye contact, we would’ve made a mutual on-the-spot decision to walk out of church.

He sighed and picked up his rosary. Then he prayed, ignoring the rest of the sermon.

I couldn’t stand listening to it, so instead, I looked around at the rest of the parishioners. It was easy to see who they were. They worked in Washington. They have never been to Indiana or Wisconsin or New Hampshire. It made me sad, to think that our country is being held hostage by people who really don’t know us. And we really don’t have much of a say in what happens here.

I remember when I started working for The Senator, how excited Becca and I were. Now, Becca is all but married to Craig. I still go to church, but I’m stuck here wondering if the past seven months wasn’t an exercise in futility. I don’t want to think that.

After church, Baby John and I took a long walk. He began to cry. At first, he didn’t want me to see. He kept turning his head. I told him it was okay. I had the same reaction to the sermon.

He shook his head and said that he was a child of God first; an America second. And there was nothing Christ-like about what is happening to our country.

The Remnants of Resurrection City

July 6, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

We went to see the remnants of Resurrection City. You would’ve thought that we would’ve gotten there already. It wasn’t that far away from the office, but no. You can’t miss the top of the Capitol Dome, and if you are busy looking up, you won’t see the remaining poor people gathered on the ground.

Other people milled about, walking along the freshly exposed dirt. It made the air smell musty. You can still see the deeply embedded tracks from the bull-dozers.

I couldn’t help but wonder if the people who took part in all this were the same people who were at the March on Washington. It seems to me that bad elements have taken over.

Craig says that the same people have taken part all along; they are just angrier. If you’ve been demanding change for so long, working hard for it, and nothing changes, wouldn’t you get frustrated?

And if you add hunger to that equation…

That was Craig’s argument. I think the problem with hunger is that it weakens people and makes them more vulnerable. Hungry people will do anything for food and they will listen to terrible dictators, like Hitler. All common sense goes away.

I think Baby John would’ve agreed, but he decided to meet with a poverty project this morning. He says he’s tired of sitting in a room in Washington, not doing anything. Time is too precious to waste. The country is falling apart.

Fireworks and Fear

July 5, 1968 by Janine Stephenson
We had a lovely July 4th, albeit a somewhat boring one. The Senator had a campaign stop the night before, and then he went back to Minnesota for a short vacation. Since Ron has become an “aide” for the summer campaign, he stayed here in Washington.

Craig, Baby John, Becca and I walked near the famous Cherry Trees before settling down for dinner at a restaurant. Becca and I had to dress nicely for eating, since restaurants here are used to getting harassed by hippies. They won’t serve you if you don’t look right.

That is a form of discrimination, I think, but hippies are notorious for not paying their bills and leaving a mess behind. The hippies we’ve met on the campaign have been quite considerate and pleasant. I have no doubt that they would pay their bills, if they owed money. But the thing about hippies is that they would make sure that they didn’t buy anything to begin with.

After dinner, we went to see fireworks over the Washington Monument. It was beautiful, but it also made me feel very melancholy.

I wish it was 1965, when everything seemed good. People were still sad, but we all felt safe at least. Now, it feels like everything is falling apart. I don’t know what life will look like months from now. Riots, murders… All of it. How will this country survive? Are we every going to stop fighting with each other?

What if there is no country next year? Are people going to start killing each other, like they did in the Civil War? Are we going to be safe in our own homes? How many people do I know who will die in the war?

But what scares me the most is this: We have no control. The people we elect lie to us. No one can be trusted. How can we vote for men who lie to us?

We have no say in what happens to us. And that goes against everything I’ve ever learned about America.

Still Hiding at National

June 30, 1968

by Janine Stephenson

 

Who knew that an important place could be so boring? I called Mom collect last night and told her that we were having a wonderful time here in Washington. I told her that Becca and I had learned a great deal about how this country works, and that we're very proud to be a part of The Senator's National Staff. She said that they were all so proud of me and that I had grown up quite a bit over the past few months. She could tell because I don't call her as much as I used to, and though she wishes I could call more, she understands that I'm an adult. Have I found a boyfriend yet?

 

Her question made me think of Benjamin, who I haven't written or called since leaving Indiana. I wonder if he thinks about me at all anymore. Becca said that last month isn't so long ago and that I should drop a dime and call him. Or a note, a postcard. Anything. But then I told her about what happened with his family, and how they didn't want us seeing each other at all. Her eyes grew very wide. She kept shaking her head and saying, "Screw them."

 

I don't think that's right. I don't think I could disregard their fears, which were very real. I just don't know if sending a postcard would get his hopes up.

 

Baby John says that, from the sound of things, Benjamin liked how I could get him out of his circumstances. People living in poverty often dream of winning the lottery or marrying their way out of their misery. While that might be true for poor people, Benjamin had a steady job. I don't think he was poor; not in the way Baby John thinks.

 

So that's what we talked about yesterday. In fact, that's all we do at National. We're talking and we're hiding out. Ron told us that we might get a job, talking to other people. Maybe working a phone bank. Part of me still feels useless, though seeing Ron's smile lifts my spirits.

 

At least we're not in a rough space like Craig, who is forced to follow Ron around from meeting to meeting.

 

We're staying at a hotel with other volunteers. The hotel is nothing fancy, though I am grateful that it's not a dorm room. I just wish we could be more useful to the campaign.

 

Our time will come.

Stranded at National

June 27, 1968

by Janine Stephenson

 

I find Washington to be a drag. It's dull and white and too self-important. It's also very exciting being around power. So I guess that makes me confused.

 

We're sitting here in the national McCarthy headquarters. The air conditioning is running high, which makes the office cold and barren. Whereas before, when we were surrounded by heat and sweat and young people who serenated us while we stuffed envelopes, now it's cold and professional. It's also too quiet. People talk in whispers, as if they're afraid of disturbing the peace.

 

It's all very serious. Baby John thinks that he hasn't brought the appropriate clothes for a place like this. I'm inclined to agree. He does look quite dumpy, even though he's from California. Not hippie-dumpy, but grubby dumpy. There is a difference. Someone here would think that Baby John's dirty. Really, all he needs to do is take assemble himself correctly. For instance, he probably should wear the same color socks. Whenever I've asked him about this, he tells me that there are somethings that are more important than socks. While that's certainly true, it doesn't take away from the idea that if he can't pay attention to his own feet, then how will he know where he's going?

 

So we sit here at National Headquarters where everyone is serious and older and far wiser than us and debate whether or not socks should match each other. We talk in whispers and try not to create a scene or make noise or be noticeable. Even Becca is quiet, which is quite a change because she's usually pretty loud and racuous. She brings a magazine to read and then slips it into a U.S. News & World Report, so it looks like she's studying world events.

 

When I see Ron - if I see Ron - he has his business face on. The last time I tried to talk to him while he looked like that, he told me that I should be a dear and leave him alone. He didn't say it exactly like that, but you get the idea. It was thoroughly unpleasant. Craig spends most of his time being Ron's assistant, which means working on special projects. They have yet to figure out anything special for the rest of us.

 

Which is funny, in a way. It's our campaign, but as Baby John says, our campaign isn't in this building.

Arriving in D.C.

June 25, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

The only thing we could see for miles were the white buildings. Everything here is white. It looks Roman, I think, and Craig says that's the point. Everything is based on something else, only we call it our own.

The area around all the white buildings is despicable. Poor, run-down, they are still recovering from the April riots. Baby John said it was 'deplorable.'

How can human beings live like that? How can we stand by and allow people in our own country to live like that? We watched a couched being dumped out of third story windows. The tenements are beaten down and the residents are beaten up. Baby John says that it's like that in every city, not just D.C. Maybe it's just me, but the irony of seeing the God-forsaken surrounding all those white buildings is just too much. Symptomatic of what's wrong with the country.

If more people saw what we did, then they'd understand. Too bad that will never happen. As soon as we got to Virginia, we kept hearing people say things like, "Those people like living that way."

That's just not logical, though it is certainly Darwinian.

- Intermission -

(For both girls and the project, this is where intermission takes place. It won't last long. In fact, it will be quite short. 

Intermissions are the only reason why you will see me commenting on this front page.

Storywise, Janine is arriving in Washington D.C. Amy is about to receive some troubling news. This second part will involve the lead-up to the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago.

Please note that the Associated Press raised Hell with bloggers last week about quoting from their stories. I stopped the news segments until I could figure out what action to take regarding the news. In the beginning, that segment was merely to provide footnotes to the story. People have enjoyed those news updates, and I look forward to continuing them after the Intermission.

As well, I've received a number of inquiries as to whether this project will take other forms at some point down the road. Short answer: Yes. Although this web project stands on its own, I plan on either bringing it back to the stage or publishing it as a book.

As always, I'm available by email at magentagreen2000 (at) yahoo.com if you have any questions or would like to talk about 1968. If you know anyone who you would like to see interviewed, please contact me.)

What Will Happen Next

June 20, 1968

by Janine Stephenson

 

I'm writing this in the back of the car. Craig is driving again, with Becca in the passenger seat. Baby John and I are in the back. We just passed Nebraska.

 

For a while, Baby John was awake. But he has since fallen asleep with a rosary in his hand. I think he's been praying. I'm not sure.

 

All of us have been listening to an AM radio station. A priest was being interviewed on the topic of "What's Wrong With America?"

 

I think that's what caused Baby John to take his rosary out. He needed to pray.

 

Some people say that there's too much violence on the television and in movies. They think that we get all of our ideas from what we see acted out in front of us.

 

Other people think its our upbringing, that we're allowed too much freedom. It's all Dr. Spock's fault.

 

But I think it's because we're taught that violence equals power. We see the war on the television and we hear about it in the news. We're told that it's alright to go to other countries and kill people. Murder is right under certain circumstances.

 

It's not. I don't understand anyone who believes in God and thinks that it's okay to kill people. It's never acceptable.

 

Craig says that the violence in our country is karmic. Becca nods her head in agreement, like she knows what he's talking about. Maybe she does, but I have no reason to think so.

 

I don't know what karma is. Baby John says that we're just reaping what we sow. He's said other things too lately, about how we're a violent society who solves all of our problems by clubbing and killing people. If we're really a democracy, or even a partial democracy, why do we have to kill people who are different from us?

 

I guess self-defense is okay, but Craig says that even that is iffy. After all, how many threats are just our imagination? Fear is a part of the Monkey Mind.

 

I don't know what Monkey Mind is, but if it means something like "it's all in our head" I can believe it. I don't think it's human nature to beat and kill people. I don't think that civil war is inevitable.

 

I just hope that the country can continue to exist. I'm just not sure what will happen next.

All the Way Without LBJ

June 18, 1968

by Janine Stephenson

 

The primaries are just about finished now and here we are, still in California. The good news is that we received our marching orders to go back east, to Washington D.C. The bad news is that we have to leave California to get there.

 

I do love it here. I love the weather, the pebbly beaches and how everyone looks so fresh-scrubbed and clean. It's fun here. Playful and happy. It's hard to be sad when it's always sunny. Plus there are so many young people like me around. Everyone seems to be from somewhere else. There's lots of good bands in town. It's so alive here.

 

But now, we're on our way back east. Baby John is coming with us, even though he doesn't know what he'll do when he gets there. Craig is relieved that someone else will be driving, though he keeps asking Baby John if he's steady on the wheel. "How good are you? How fast will you go over the limit?"

 

Craig's hair is getting long and he doesn't want to cut it. It's past his ears and, he says, there's no need to cut it since the primaries are essentially over. He might talk to people, or he might talk on the phone. But either way, he's not going to cut his hair for anyone. It's pointless.

 

It's easy to say that here in Los Angeles, where all the hip people are wearing their hair long. But when he goes back east, it's going to be different. I'm willing to bet that we'll all get our hair cut when we go back. I don't think long hair is in style in Washington.

 

In fact, I might even have to start wearing stockings again.

 

Tomorrow, we leave. Bright and early. Ready or not. And no stopping at hotels this time. It's going to be a straight through, all the way.

 

What Moratorium Really Means

June 16, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

Things have been utterly confusing, mostly because the campaign continued without us. Although we were supposed to be on a moratorium, everyone traveled and got ready for the New York primary. Everyone except the few who took the campaign at its word that a moratorium meant stopping.

As Craig says, we didn't realize that the campaign moratorium was like the bombing moratorium. If we had known, we would've left for New York days ago.

Instead, we're still here in Los Angeles waiting for our next assignment. The New York primary is about a week away now, so driving there is pointless. Even if we flew, we would only be lending a minor hand to what should be a monumental effort. Chances are, we'd only be getting in the way.

So we've been hanging out with the local California staff, which includes Baby John. I have to admit, I like him, though I obviously can't like him the same way I liked Benjamin. Still, everyone assumes he and I are together and to be honest, neither of us are fighting it. When people say our names together, we don't argue. When Becca nudges me and winks, I know it's because she's waiting for Baby John and I to collapse into bed together any second. But that's not going to happen.

Still, I find Baby John to be sensitive and deep - and not in a phony way. He spends most of his time thinking about others, or trying to figure out how God wants him to be in the world. Over the past few days, he's told me that original sin has messed him up inside and that he feels permanently stained. He feels guilty for not fighting in the war, but then, he doesn't think there should be a war. He prays a whole lot, carrying his red rosary in a leather pouch in his pocket.

He'd like to do something for soldiers coming back from Vietnam, the ones with partial limbs or who cry alot. But he's afraid because he feels like he should be the one to die or be maimed instead of them.

I asked him if he wanted to go into the priesthood and he said he thought about it but doesn't feel worthy. There's only so much a priest can do in the world. Too many priests and not enough spiritual lay people.

Hopefully we'll find out today where we should go next. I'd hate to have to go back home, especially when there's so much more work to be done.

Post-Haste

June 12, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

We're on our way back to Los Angeles post-haste, as they say, since The Senator has now declared that the campaign moratorium is officially over. Baby John is driving just a wee bit over the speed limit. He says that since he makes this trek quite often, he knows where all the police hide to catch speeders.

It's hard to beat the scenery, the vineyards and fields of fruit. Avocadoes, maybe. Every now and then we pass a fruit stand. I can't tell how much they're charging because we're going too fast. Part of me wishes we could stop and then part of me knows that we need to keep going.

In between, Baby John and I talk about poverty and working for national. He's very curious as to what we do. I told him it was the same thing that he does, except we travel around the country to do it. Occasionally we train people, though I haven't been in a situation where we did that.

Baby John asked if we planned on going to Chicago and I assured him that we would be there. After all, we've come this far. There's no point in stopping now.

I don't know where we'll end up next - probably New York. I asked him if he's like to come with us. I'm sure it would be fine. Craig probably wouldn't mind the extra driver. He smiled and said he'd think about it, which surprised me. But he's never been to New York and besides, what chance will he ever get again to go?

"And I guess I'd like to continue working for McCarthy," he said, almost as an afterthought.

I laughed, and he shrugged, then laughed too. If nothing else, Baby John is honest.

Download McCarthy_Resumes_Campaign_Audio.ram (Courtesy of Minnesota Public Library)

In the News: June 12, 1968

Labels

June 11, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

When Baby John came back from the induction center, he was steamed. "Why didn't you tell me that they bombed the Berkeley center? I would've left home earlier."

Linda sighed. She thought she left a note on the counter for him to find, but maybe it was thrown out. Then she asked him if it was settled. He told her it was.

I overheard everything from the living room, and it made me wonder if that happens here a lot. You know, things getting bombed. It doesn't happen in Madison, but then I've heard stories about San Francisco and Berkeley and the whole area. Maybe it really is as wild here as they say.

Nevertheless, Baby John was anxious to get going. We loaded ourselves into the car and he took me for quite a ride. Across a big bridge (not the Golden Gate Bridge), we rode all the way into San Francisco. I didn't ask him about the induction center, yet. He seemed relieved that he was finally done with "the matter" as he called it, and I didn't want to be a downer.

We drove all the way past Market Street and then went on a roller-coaster of a ride. Through steep hills where we were almost vertical to absolutely breathtaking views of the Bay. We could see Alcatraz at certain parts, and it seemed so tiny in the distance. Colors are more vivid here - the blue of the sky, the beige of the buildings. Baby John thinks that has to do with the percentage of water in the air.

He showed me North Beach and we went to City Lights Books. I had hoped to see Jack Kerouac there, but no luck. We ate pastries at a cafe and then took off on another long roller-coaster ride. He dropped the car off near Golden Gate Park, and we walked to Haight Ashbury. People laid across the sidewalk, some asked for money. A bus of old people rolled by, staring out at us. Baby John shook his head and shrugged. A few hippies made peace signs at the bus, but got no response.

It made me think of how we've all become a spectacle, how adults don't even see us as people. Instead, we're just cartoon characters to them. Like animals in a zoo, except the zoo is us. We're not even human to them. No wonder they can send us off to war and kill people in foreign countries. They're the ones who aren't human. They've lost their humanity. All they can do now is observe and react.

Seeing that bus put me in a bad mood. We stopped at another restaurant, this one run by Hari Krishnas. I had no idea what a Hari Krishna was, and I still don't. All I know is that they don't eat meat, wear orange, gauzy robes and shave most of their hair. Except for a little pony tail in the back, which was rubber-banded.

When Baby John sat down, I figured it was time to ask him what happened at the induction center. At first, he was very vague about the whole experience but he did say he was relieved it was over.

"How is it over?" I asked him.

He sighed a bit, sounding just like Linda.

"I'll kill myself before I kill anyone else. Since they're putting the screws to conscientious objectors, I had to do something else. I don't want this thing hanging over my head. I can't deal with that either. Sooo... I told them that I had a... certain thing, that I did a certain thing in the past."

Drugs? A felony?

"No. I told them that I had a homosexual experience. I told them that I was a homosexual."

I gasped. I couldn't picture doing anything like that, especially in front of a bunch of strangers. "But that goes down in your permanent record," I told him.

He shook his head. "I feel at peace with it."

"But it's a lie. They'll find out that you're lying to get out of the draft. Lying is a sin."

He looked down. "I told them the truth, about the past. I told them what they needed to know. I made a public confession of a sin to prevent a greater sin from happening. I told my parents what I was doing, and they understood. I promised them that it would never happen again."

A period of silence came over us, as a Hari Krishna filled our water glass. He stared at me for a moment. "You understand what I had to do, right? Why I did it?"

I told him I did, and I guess I do. It made me think about those guys who purposely got arrested for felonies so they wouldn't be drafted. Which is worse, being labeled a felon or a deviant? And how messed up is it, that it's the ones who don't want to kill people who have to get labeled at all.

In the News: June 11, 1968

Oakland, Zen and the Selective Service

June 10, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

All the way to San Francisco last night, I kept thinking about everything that's happened. I thought about Mrs. Stoutmiller in New Hampshire, and how we used to watch the Smother Brothers and drink hot cocoa. I thought about Dr. King and the Indiana odyssey with Benjamin and his family. I even thought about the Dow protests and how Becca punched that cop. It seems like a million years ago now.

I feel like a far different person, older and more tired. I can barely remember who I was, and that scares me. I used to want to be more experienced, and I still do. But no one told me that when you gain experience you lose something. Maybe what I lost was never mine to begin with.

Baby John brought me to his parents' house in Oakland last night. It was a large, sprawling white house on top of a steep hill. As we drove up, I got slightly nauseous. For all practical purposes, we were vertical, which was a scary sensation.

As he opened the door, I saw his parents in the living room, with drinks in their hands. They introduced themselves as Tom and Linda. I'm not used to calling adults by their first names, but they insisted.

His Mom was Twiggy-like, with a red mod dress and plastic white glasses. I felt so plain, just looking at her. His Dad wore a v-neck sweater and baggy pants. They just looked like the coolest parents ever.

We got in late, so Baby John directed me to the guest bedroom. It was quite sparse, with a bed very low to the ground. Baby John said that his parents had recently redesigned the room with a Zen motif. I have no idea what Zen is, but I do know that my Mother would kill me she ever knew I was sleeping in a bed like that. He called it a platform bed, and it had no box spring.

It's a strange experience to squat down to get into bed, but in the end, it didn't matter. I was tired.

When I woke up, Baby John had left already for the induction center. His Mom, Linda, wore a very pretty lime green mini-dress, with knee high go-go boots. I wish I had her wardrobe. She made me breakfast and told me all about how she ended up in California. Tom and Linda were high school sweethearts, and then he got drafted, so they quickly married. After the war, he ended up with a job offer in San Francisco, so they moved. Linda says that they've been happy ever since. Unlike most women, she's not bored with her lot in life. There are plenty of activities in the Bay Area, like book discussions at the public library. If they want to go to a poetry reading, they go to San Francisco. "It's heaven on earth," she said, "and you'll see when John comes back."

They all seem so confident that he's coming back, that he won't be drafted. I wonder why.

In the News: June 10, 1968

Going to San Francisco

June 9, 1968
by Janine Stephenson

No one knows what to do. We don't know when the campaign will start again - not that I'm anxious for that to happen. National doesn't know what to do because The Senator hasn't decided. They'll get back to us when they know.

Some people are scared that The Senator is going to drop out of the race. Then what will we have? Nothing. No candidate to represent us. Then what will happen? I don't even want to think about it.

Some people are going home because they're scared. What if they get shot during an assassination attempt? Even I know that's silly, but the girls down the hall from us were talking about it this morning. They're scared of seeing blood in real life.

I'm not scared of any of that. I just don't like indecision.

Craig, Becca and I have been trying to figure out what we should do with ourselves. Since we're not supposed to be working on the campaign, they would like to go on a tour of Los Angeles. Becca wants to see what the beaches look like, especially since we've heard so much about them. Maybe we could even go on a tour of movie star mansions. 

Normally, I'd love to do something like that. But now, it just doesn't feel right. Not after what happened.

They left to go hang out in Hollywood, which made me feel even worse. I guess Baby John overheard our conversation. He asked me why I didn't go and I told him. I don't want to go look at glamorous homes when everything around us is falling apart. It doesn't seem right.

He was surprised because he thought I was a "Rat Pack Radical" whatever that means. I do love the Rat Pack, but not right now. Not today.

So he asked me if I wanted to go with him to San Francisco. Northern California is very different from Los Angeles, and since I'm here, I might as well see what it's like. He's from Northern California and he has to go home to get his physical examination for the draft. He's not nervous about it because he has a plan. He didn't want to tell me what his plan was, but he was very certain that he'd be able to drive me home in a day or two.

"San Francisco is beautiful. It's a city governed by the people for the people. There's very little hypocrisy there, unlike LA. It will definitely cheer you up, and maybe it will help you decide what you want to do next. You do need to get out of here for a bit, I think."

So we're leaving in an hour. I'll write Becca and Craig a note so they don't worry. Baby John says it should take us about six hours or so to get to San Francisco. He promises that he's a careful driver. I hope he's right.

In the News: June 9, 1968

1968 in 2008: An Article Wrap-Up

Not Right

June 8, 1968 by Janine Stephenson It doesn’t seem right. We were always told that adults would take care of us. They would make sure that nothing bad would ever happen. But so many bad things have happened already this year, and it’s only June.

I don’t know how we’re going to go on. I don’t know what’s going to happen to the campaign, or to the country.

Mrs. Stoutmiller said there has never been a year like this one. That she didn’t know what would happen next, but that she blames the President. “If Lyndon didn’t drop from the race, then none of this would’ve happened.” Then I heard her sniffle a bit.

My parents were also very upset and worried that perhaps I was in danger from working on The Senator’s campaign. I tried to tell them that we were fine. But I couldn’t tell them that no one wanted the Senator dead because I know that’s not true.

Maybe Mrs. Stoutmiller is right. If the President didn’t start this lousy war, then we wouldn’t be in the soup.

The Death

June 7, 1968 - 6:30 a.m. by Janine Stephenson We stayed outside the hospital, waiting for him to get better. We kept hearing rumors that he was dead, but we didn’t believe them. Then, at around 2 in the morning, they announced it on the radio.
“Senator Robert Francis Kennedy died at 1:44 a.m. today, June 6, 1968. With the Senator at the time of his death was his wife, Ethel, his sisters, Mrs. Patricia Lawford and Mrs. Stephen Smith, and his sister-in-law, Mrs. John F. Kennedy. He was forty-two years old."
I heard sniffling around me, and saw people wiping their faces. We stayed until the sun rose and it became light again. People sang so where ever he was he could hear us. Then we all went out for breakfast, but no one ate. We went to bed and I fell asleep for a long time.

Prayers

June 5, 2008 at 11 p.m.
by Janine Stephenson

I called my parents collect. Mom was glad to hear from me and said that she and Dad were praying for Bobby.

The campaign has been suspended. We’re going to stay here until Bobby leaves the hospital. He will get better.

Vigil at the Hospital

June 5, 2008 at 7:19 p.m.
by Janine Stephenson

We slept on the floor of the hotel last night, in a meeting room under a table. A bunch of us. A few cleaning women gave us pillows and blankets. The women in one room; the men in another. I didn’t feel like sleeping for a while. Someone kept a radio close by, and we listened and prayed.

He’s alive. Bobby had brain surgery, but he hasn’t died.

I fell asleep, thinking about how we always thought he was the wrong one. Wrong for waiting so long to get into the race. Wrong for stealing our victory back in New Hampshire. Wrong. Maybe we were the ones who were wrong. Maybe we egged him on to run when he knew it would be too dangerous.

When we woke up, Becca’s makeup had run down her face. Her eyes were swollen. We went back to the dorm room and took a shower.

Then Ron and Craig brought us to the hospital. There were thousands of people there. They had candles and signs. I heard people in the crowd chanting and saying prayers. McCarthy people and Kennedy people and even some from the Democratic Party stood around and sang songs. We wanted Bobby to hear us. We kept hoping that he knew that we loved him, even when we hated him. We still love him, and he will get better.

A Foggy Mourning

June 5, 1968 - 12:40 a.m.
by Janine Stephenson

The Senator just came down to tell us to pray for Bobby Kennedy. Becca is crying now.

Baby John has gone on with a group to pray for Bobby in another room. Some people have taken their rosaries out to pray.

There’s also a Rabbi here who is also trying to counsel people.

Roger Mudd says that his color was good at the Ambassador. They’ve taken him to a good hospital and he will go into surgery. The reporters are optimistic, especially since the facilities are so good.

I hope everyone gets the same care as Bobby, and I hope they all survive.

People Shot

June 5, 1968 - 12:40 a.m.
by Janine Stephenson

The Senator just came down to tell us to pray for Bobby Kennedy. Becca is crying now.

Baby John has gone on with a group to pray for Bobby in another room. Some people have taken their rosaries out to pray.

There’s also a Rabbi here who is also trying to counsel people.

Roger Mudd says that his color was good at the Ambassador. They’ve taken him to a good hospital and he will go into surgery. The reporters are optimistic, especially since the facilities are so good.

I hope everyone gets the same care as Bobby, and I hope they all survive.

Hospital

June 5, 1968 --12:30 a.m.
by Janine Stephenson

They’ve turned the TV lights off. A woman is telling reporters that they’ve taken him to the hospital. She says there’s no blood on him. He wasn’t conscious.

Someone gave him a rosary and said the Act of Contrition to him. He said that there was blood on Bobby’s hand and ear. Thank goodness another Catholic was there. His eyes were looking straight up.

Oh God, I hope he’s not dying. I hope he’s okay. I hope no one dies.

They carried one of the people out on a table. Someone on the TV just said that the shooter was caught! Bobby has been taken to the Good Samaritan Hospital. He was shot four times. The head and the hip. Rosy Greer caught the shooter.

Oh God, please let him be okay.