On the Far Side of the Monument

It rises against the sky without any respect for anyone, defying human perception. Look at it: it is only an image, the stark print of a monolith, pasted on blue paper. Touch it-it is mere granite. It makes no noise, has no odor. Even as you shiver in its shadow, you forget it exists.

The Washington Monument is the Orthanc of America. It is the ancient, magical tower of a Good Wizard, our National Ethos, whose magic has gone bad. Very bad. Until recently, we didn't know how bad; many of us still don't. We went to Isenbard last weekend to protest the Wizard's most evil, most horrible project, the War. But the Wizard has other projects. His magic pervades our souls. Can we do anything to get it out? Did we?

1. TRIP DOWN. We left not long after midnight Thursday. Luck was with us: we had a Volkswagen bus to get us there, and a house in Georgetown to hold us. But all was not pleasant. Outside, a cold rain fell; and inside, with ten people and luggage, we could hardly move.

The Washington we entered Friday morning loomed grey and chill. To our bleary eyes, that was only fitting. Yet, as we drove along, our spirits began to pick up; and by the time we reached midtown. we were exulting. The streets were crawling with freaks! Painted cars, beads, all the paraphernalia; smiles, laughter, peace signs, camaraderie. Even the March of Death, staggered and otherwise unimpressive at that hour, was vibrating with our kind of people. As Ferlinghetti might say, the air was alive with love. How could anything go wrong?

2. MOTHS. That night we made our way over to Dupont Circle. As we walked down Massachusetts Avenue, we tried to understand why we were going. No logic figured here. Intellectually, we would reject the entire rationale for joining that sort of demonstration-and there were persuasive reasons not to join it. Why were we going?

Finally, someone found it: we were being drawn like moths to a fire. We all knew the fire would envelop us, burn us; but we could not resist its fascination. We hardly paused along the way.

And the fire did burn us. Like so many others, we wanted merely to watch , to absorb the eerie scene of militants breaking windows and dodging police under flourescent lights. As it turned out, all we did was get gassed. Gassed three times. We returned again and again to see what we could see. We never saw anything.

3. FLOW. Like the October Moratorium in Boston, the next day's march was fluid-not a march, but a flow, with its own inner currents. Unlike the October march, it was joyous. Even some of the policemen were smiling. The sun was shining, the air was crisp. We chanted some, just to let Washington know. And we sang, because we wanted to. Some of my Harvard friends started the refrain of "Alice's Restaurant," and a few other people joined in. Every now and then an enchanting little tune wound its way down the line: "Oh, what a lovely thing/ if the children of mankind/ would live together/ in a world of peace."

4. MONUMENT. Eventually it became clear that we would have to stop, because we couldn't move much further. Somewhere on the side of the hill we sat down. The Monument rose on our left. A lot of people nearby had to stand. Some of them were very friendly; some were aloof. On the stage, wherever that was, Dick Gregory spoke, and later Arlo Guthrie spoke and sang. Soon someone started speechifying. We tuned out. We ate the best apple God ever made, and we passed eggs and cookies too. A friendly, crazy old man handed us a canteen of "cold wheat coffee."

Empty spaces appeared mysteriously in the crowd. We stood up and moved closer to the stage. The speeches and music went on. It grew colder; people started fires. Wisps of smoke wafted toward the Monument, but disappeared before they got there.

A large group of freaks huddled together for warmth. We joined them. A couple of people in our group returned from a trip to the VW with bread, cheese, and grass. Soon joints and all sorts of food-chicken, mints, cheese, peanut butter-were being passed through the crowd. We sang with Pete Seeger, we jumped for Richie Havens, we laughed at Tim Leary. A fat man frowned and a young girl took pictures while we rolled joints; everybody else smiled. Then they announced Earl Scruggs. We jumped up and began a round

dance. A guy started passing a bottle of Bali Hai wine as we spun around. More and more people joined us: we danced faster and faster. It seemed as if everybody was dancing with us-there were at least five circles swirling around. Laughing and exhausted, we finally collapsed in a heap.

Not long afterwards, people began to leave. The park beneath the Monument looked, in the early dusk, like a debris-strewn battlefield. But the Monument shone in the sunlight. Suddenly, as if they had erupted from some invisible door in its base, a huge crowd of black-jacketed demonstrators came charging down, waving NLF flags and chanting. "Revolution!! One More War!!" They surged past us, regrouped, and charged by one more time. They were very frightening. After a short rest, they headed off to the Justice Department, this time in a fast march.

As we were leaving the park, still a little high, we looked up at the Monument. Suddenly it all became very clear. We dashed up the hill as fast as we could, joined hands, and began a mad round dance-the music was still playing-around the base of the Monument. But it was much wider than we thought, and there were only eleven of us: we pleaded with people to join us. They just stared. Soon we ran out of breath, and we quit.

5. GAS. Down Constitution Avenue, near the Justice Department, people were chanting and shouting. "Venting their frustration with Justice," as one Washington paper put it. How strange it would look if the building blew up. I said to a friend. At that moment tear gas bombs began to explode. Thick clouds of smoke rose, and thousands of people moved away. My group tried to get to the VW. ten blocks away, without being gassed. But the gas got there about the same time we did.

6. SOLDIERS. Early Sunday afternoon, after trucking down to the Waffle Shop on Wisconsin Ave. for a fine breakfast, we left town. Despite a few wrong turns we finally found the highway, and we were off.

A few miles up the Baltimore-Washington Expressway, we overtook a lone Army truck. The three soldiers in the back were shooting peace signs at everyone who passed. We traded signs with them. Then one of my friends, who was sitting in the right front seat, grabbed a handful of lollipops and leaned way out the window-we were going 50 miles an hour-and handed them to one of the soldiers. We dropped back a bit. As we approached again, the soldier proffered his hat: we pulled up close and accepted it. We fell behind again. My friend asked the soldiers, in sign language, if they wanted to smoke. They nodded enthusiastically. As we pulled up again, he climbed out the window; we had to hold his legs to keep him from falling out. He lost his Army cap to the wind-but the soldier got the joint. We jumped up and down in our seats; everybody cheered. Then we passed their truck, and we never saw them again.

The Wizard would not have ceased his War if we had all rioted. He would not have ceased his War if we had all been solemn and proper. He has turned too many Americans into Orcs by now; he can do what he wants. What was important was that we let Him know. Even more important, we came together and, for a few moments, exorcised His bad magic from within us. And some people saw, and understood. Perhaps next time they will be with us.