The next major protest was going to be in Chicago, at the Democratic National Convention. Everyone I knew was planning to go, trying to talk me into going. But no way was I going to go. No way was I going to press my luck.

I was scared. I admitted it. But I didn't believe I was a coward. I'd never had much confidence in my physical self, that kind of bravery. My strength, my coordination, my speed were never in my muscles. Like I said, I was no athlete. My body was not to be a weapon for or against any war. Whatever strength I had was in my mind. I didn't want to get my skull bashed in just to prove how bad the bad guys were.

Also, I didn't believe that the only place for an honorable man--or woman--was jail. When I lived at the CNVA (Committee for Nonviolent Action) in Voluntown, Connecticut, the political commune where I baked bread and did some draft counseling, everyone who’d ever been arrested for acts of nonviolent civil disobedience enjoyed sharing their story. And, of course, anyone who'd actually served time in prison for such an offense was a hero. I, however, had to admit that the thought of being imprisoned or of getting arrested--just the thought of some cop, even briefly, having power over my body--made me crazy.

The only way I could be good to anyone, to any cause, was as a free agent. The thought of having handcuffs around my wrists, of being pushed, forced to march in some direction not of my own choosing.... The idea of anyone being able to force me to do anything! I couldn't take it. Couldn't stand it. When push came to shove in reality, outside of our nonviolent-civil-disobedience training sessions, I knew I would never be able to go limp.

History coursed through me. Other people had gone passively, not believing what would be done to them. It wasn't that I expected another Holocaust every minute. I just didn't want to risk being in their hands for a second.  Putting myself in that position would reduce my struggle for world peace and social justice to my own immediate personal struggle.

Still, in spite of my misgivings, I did attend many demon­stra­tions. Sometimes I'd think of all the people who'd had no choices, whose bodies didn't belong wherever it was they'd wound up--above or below the ground. I knew that too often the wisest, kindest, noblest individual voices were drowned out or turned a deaf ear to. If someone shouts "Peace" or "Love" and no one listens.... It made me think of Horton Hears a Who. Sometimes we have to put all our voices together. If the orchestra of war is playing loud, we need a large chorus singing for peace. A solo will not do.

It's still hard to believe, isn't it? More bombs were dropped by the U.S. on Vietnam than were dropped by all sides in World War Two. I don't understand it now and I sure as hell didn't understand it then. But if a New York City cop could have been ready to run me through with a bayonet, I guess Nixon and Agnew could have found reason enough to bomb the hell out of Indochina.

So, in the early seventies, when I was a student at UB (State University of New York at Buffalo), I did my share of demonstrating. I marched with lots of other UB students and all sorts of pissed-off Buffalonians.

We'd march downtown, many of us with our arms linked in solidarity, chanting antiwar slogans. "The people united will never be defeated!" is the one I remember best. We chanted it in Spanish, too.

We'd usually rally at Niagara Square in front of the City Hall. Every time I saw Buffalo's City Hall, I was impressed by how much it looked like the Daily Planet building in Superman. I'd point out the resemblance to anyone within range. It wasn't the kind of thing most people noticed. But it was appropriate: What was our rallying about if not "Truth, Justice, and the American Way"?

Anyhow, people who protest together can’t help becoming acquainted, and after several marches and rallies, I started to feel almost comfortable. More and more of my fellow and sister protesters’ faces (if not their names) had become familiar ones. And before too long, the crowds were transformed; they had become my community.

The Community Chorus was originally published in Bridges, A Jewish Feminist Journal (Autumn 2006: Vol. 11, No. 2). Permission to reprint provided by Indiana University Press. It is also an excerpt from the manuscript of Landsman's unpublished novel, BUFFALO BRAIN.

Peggy Landsman grew up near New York City and always spent a lot of time there. The first poetry reading she ever took part in was at St. Mark's Church in the Bowery. Her writing has appeared in both online and print publications, including Breathe: 101 Contemporary Odes (C&R Press), Iodine Poetry Journal, The Muse Strikes Back (Story Line Press), and Spindle. Her poetry chapbook, To-wit To-woo, is available from FootHills Publishing. She has also published a contemporary romance novel, Passion's Professor (Midnight Showcase), under the pen name, Samantha Rhodes.

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Keywords : Protest, Community, Anti-war

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