Patriots' Day

It looked like something on a Saturday Evening Post cover. The Patriots Day parade, a mixture of blacks, bilious yellows, powder blues, and browns, wound past Littauer Auditorium, up Garden street, and marched onto the Cambridge Common's baseball field. There, the town fathers had set up a stage at home plate, and there the parade spread out to form a phalanx-the American Legionnaires taking up positions in left field.

"This is patriotism, strictly patriotism," said a Taft supporter as he distributed publicity handouts, "no Political about it." Whether the speakers heard this assertion or not, their speeches appeared to be in strict accordance with it. The ceremonies officially began with a prayer for the maintenance of our liberties. The next item was a patriotic song. The singer rose to the microphones, peering uncertainly at the band members who were shuffling their sheets of music frantically. Rather raggedly the notes poured forth, the singer usually a measure or two behind the band. Nobody could hear him anyway.

A Cambridge student, armed with a proclamation from Governor Dever, followed Cambridge's troubadour to the microphones and began reading. Just as he was recounting the feats of Paul Revere and the compliments of Paul Dever, a crowd of legionnaires and citizens, all ablaze in oversized Taft buttons, surged down Garden Street from the Northwest. Soon Senator Taft strode into sight, his face set in a tight smile.

When the student had completed his unappreciated task, Taft mounted the steps and, to the tune of The Beautiful Ohio, shook hands all around. Instantly brash placards erupted from the crowd, identifying one idea of what kind of cabinet Taft would choose; Mac-Arthur for Defense Secretary, Chiang-Kai-Shek for State Secretary, and so on. Taft, too busy charting his way through the confusion on the platform, ignored the suggestions.

When Mayor Diguglielmo approached the microphones, the placards fell back into the crowd. "I went to Harvard," the Mayor intoned. "I was proud to go to Harvard...The one thing we learned is we don't mix hell (-raising) with patriotism. This is not a ribbin' session...You are guests of Cambridge,"he paused, "temporary guests."

Soon cameras flashed into position, pencils and paper appeared among the crowd, and Senator Taft began to speak. "Mr. Mayor," the Senator began, "honorable guests,...and members of Harvard University..." A gust of laughter greeted him. "I'm pleased to see that Harvard students still exercise freedom of opinion, freedom of speech..."

Those who had expected a rousing political tirade were disappointed. The Senator spoke of liberty and the sincerity of the old patriots just as hundreds of other men were doing all over New England. His speech was short, and not even the sign wavers found anything to jeer about. When Taft concluded, the Band replayed The Beautiful Ohio.

The final speaker was Thomas P. O'Neil, speaker of the state House of Representatives, who polemicized against the 18th Century British. "We're not fighting the British," someone hollered. O'Neil grinned, but ploughed on.

The Band struck up a few marches until William Dawes could arrive. With a clattering of hoofs and a hail of laughter, he finally appeared, followed by a particularly red-faced Redcoat. In the midst of the resulting confusion, the placard-bearers' chieftan, Roy Gootenberg, was protesting vigorously the police's attempt to remove his signs. "Freedom of speech...freedom of opinion...freedom of speech..."plus a long list of Supreme Court cases was all that this reporter could hear above the din of William Dawes' revisitation. The placard wavers rushed out into Garden Street still citing court decisions, raised their signs once more, and another argument ensued.

Meanwhile, under the shade of an historic tree, an old man-the proud bearer of a large Taft button-argued with a student over the ethics of waving a placard on such a sober occasion. "What's wrong with a placard?" the student asked, "Taft men are distributing political handouts." The old man pondered this, then tentatively suggested "That's communist tactics." He pondered a little longer, then, perhaps aroused by his own perception, suddenly began screaming "Communist tactics, Communist." Wilting fast, the student took up his placard and fled.

By this time, all that remained before the ceremony's end was a shaky rendition of the National Anthem. The parade marched off the baseball field and back down Garden street, and the spectators dispersed. Above the noise could be heard "Freedom of speech...freedom of opinion..."