#1000WordsofSummer

The Brittle Sound of Intention: Driving home too late to avoid the George Floyd protest at Chicago's Federal Plaza, I was shocked to see my I-90 exit at Ohio blocked, as well as the three exits after that. Was the entire city closed? I instinctively knew it must be crowd control, and we drivers were unintentional collateral damage, forced to exit at Washington, only blocks away from the Plaza—worst time, worst place.

I could see a bobbing of heads framed under the Geary in Millennium Park, and knew I couldn’t risk going all the way to Michigan Avenue. I figured Wacker was my best bet. I’d swoop around the curve and take the first street heading north. Instead, the bridge was up at Wells, and then every bridge on every block, totally cutting off access to home. For a nanosecond, I swore through my teeth, thinking this was a hell of a day to lift the bridges for boats. Then I saw what was ahead and I got it: more crowd control. With nowhere to go, our three lanes were being funneled towards a mass of stalled cars and standing protesters, waving signs, carpeting the street and sidewalks the full block back from Michigan. We crept towards the inevitable—to stalled here for the duration. I had claustrophobia and experience: my live-participation protest days were over; I had my scars and had written a book about them. No way should I get stuck in the middle of street action, however right-intentioned and peacefully it may begin.

I hesitated before cutting off options and took care not to get too close to the car in front of me. A jeep to my left suddenly pulled a U-turn over the median, and another car followed in the next beat, opening a pocket across two lanes. I lept into the pocket and performed the same U-ey, waiting for the scraping sound of concrete destroying my chassis. I made it and prayed as I dodged protesters on foot, in cars draped with people hanging on doors open into the street, pointing to signs saying silence was complicit, equating my escape with cowardice. Back in the day, complicit had been my favorite protest word. It is rich and many-layered and pretty much covers it all, intentional or otherwise.

Heading back west, I suddenly realized LaSalle was open—an escape route. I pulled into the crosswalk, screw the no-turn-on-red sign. There were legions of protesters ready to cross—when the light turned, whoever started second would sit out the next light and be sucked into the spreading swarm. I held my breath, turned right ahead of the light—and hit a wall. Cars were stalled a full block back from what must have been another red light. In seconds, a cloud of protesters was climbing over us. They strutted alongside and darted between cars. I thought for sure I’d inadvertently run over a foot or squash a knee or pelvis. Scenarios of what would I do if that happened screamed through my mind. I pulled within a fraction of the car in front of me after another person slid through, his white t-shirt stained with my bumper dirt. We inched and inched—one block, then the next. We were invisible except as impediments to get around and over, only a matter of time before someone would crawl on my hood.

The crowd was mostly young, male, mask-less, ready for action. One guy had climbed up on a concrete planter. Stripped to the waist, with impressive muscles, he bounced on his toes and shook his hands, like a fighter warming up, a look of glee on his face. A plump, red-headed kid waved a sign and howled. They were gearing up. Not knowing what would happen, only that it was important, it would be exciting, and they would be part of it.

I knew that look, I knew that bounce. I knew the night was gone. Another night, after the Kent State shootings, when we’d also been aghast to see our peers unbelievably murdered on television, we’d done the same. Universities across the country were ablaze. At mine, we’d gathered with rage and energy, pacing in the Student Union like lions. Something needed to happen, to honor the fallen. We had to use the tragedy to finally change things. There were factions for destruction—street action, they called it. Hit the man in his property. These are just things, versus lives. Others pleaded for calm, a forum to present our position: End the draft, stop the war in Vietnam. Intentions would clash. Intentions would change before the night was over.

We continued to inch through the lights until the slope of LaSalle straightened to reveal a sea of blue helmets, attached to uniforms with billy clubs in their belts. They waved us through. We were free, but I felt the chill of guilt. I went as far north as I could so I wouldn’t get cut off again. I turned right on Erie and looked through each side street vista as I passed to see the helmets advancing toward Wacker. I feared it would be ugly.

The planned response to Kent State at my university had been to be peaceful; reason had prevailed. But being powerless for years and draft-age targets, the rage was hard to contain. The chilling sound of the first broken window signaled all bets were off. Hundreds of students streamed out of the union—half went into town where they broke every window, pulled up landscaping, turned over benches, alienating the townies. The other half went to the dorms, destroying the glass front of the utility building, plunging the campus into darkness, setting a cop car on fire, alienating the university. There were arrests. The National Guard arrived with their helmets and rifles. They were the Kent State killers. We thought they were going to shoot us, too. It was ugly. It took time to recapture the message. Kent State ended up being very important, a turning point in support for the war—some for us, some against us.

It's a no-win proposition to make comparisons. Issues of privilege and history complicate. But there is one thing I know. The minute the first piece of glass breaks, that sound is all anyone hears.

I parked my car and raced up to my apartment. I turned on the television to see the live news. Glass was beginning to break.

#1000wordsofsummer