That Did It! I Was Going To Washington D.C.

Pride Of Man, Do You Understand, What You’ve Been Stealing


St. Andrews Church
Toronto '69

I did nothing the next day. I guess I was depressed. After dark, I
went to the Free Soup, Donut And Coffee Gospel Kitchen, or at least
that's what I called it. There, you never had to worry about
deciding between the different entrees and the texture of the food
was always consistent. The coffee was weak, the donuts were heavy,
and the soup was tasteless. If you were really hungry, the
incompetence of the chef, or in this case the hymnal singer, was
quickly overlooked. While I was eating, the cat sitting across the
table from me, started up a conversation. Usually I like to eat
alone, but the cat was interesting, so coffee and donuts took second
priority. He told me about a church, St. Andrews, which promoted
artistic creativity among Toronto's transit population.

After dinner, before he said good-by, he took me to the church. In
the basement, I found lots of rooms, each specializing in some form
of art. There was a room for woodcraft, pottery, painting, and there
was even a dimly lit room equipped with a record player, but it was
strictly for dancing, not listening. There was also a room with a
television set. This was the room I came back to after I checked out
the possibilities of the place. I wish I would have known about this
church earlier because I would have put it to good use.

As I settled into a cushy chair to watch television, there was a
reporter talking to a protester on the Capital steps in Washington
D.C. who was protesting the Vietnam War. This part of the protest,
according to the reporter, was being held to honor the Americans who
had died in Vietnam. In a slow procession, the demonstrators were
lighting a candle for every soldier who had died in Vietnam. This
Death March, as it was called, had already gone on for more than a
day and was scheduled to continue right up until the weekend
Moratorium rally where anti-Vietnam War protesters would march on
the Capital. As I listened to the kid struggle to tell why he felt
the war had to stop and stop now, I could feel something inside me
click.

At first, I felt extremely alienated and lonely watching what was
happening on TV, but listening to the protester say what I could not
say for myself, I began to feel as though I was taking part in what
was happening back in Washington D.C. I was ashamed of my country
when I thought about the Vietnam War, but I wanted, with all my
heart, to identify with the Americans who saw the war as an
injustice, with the Americans who said, "Enough! Stop the war in
Vietnam and bring the troops home!" Listening to the interview,
hearing the kid's words on the television screen, my whole body
started to tremble. I wanted to go to Washington D.C., but I didn't
want to go to prison. I became tense and agitated. I did not know
what to do. Like the head butts of two rams struggling for
dominance, I was tortured by these conflicting desires. As I was
about to open my mouth and scream, I heard the kid on TV say he was
from Detroit, Michigan. That did it! I was going to Washington D.C.
and I would leave tomorrow. My decision made, my body
collapsed. All the tension that had been building for days vanished.
My fate was in society's hands now. The only thing I had to do was
cover ground and get myself to Washington D.C.

After I left St. Andrews church, feeling as though a thousand
pounds had been lifted from my shoulders, I envisioned the streets
of Washington D.C. filling up with protesters for the big Moratorium
rally. The march on the Capital was scheduled for Saturday, but that
was still a whole day and a night away. I already had my ticket
home, and twelve dollars in my pocket. I was concentrating on the
trip and wondering if I could get there in time when I crossed the
street against the light and was almost hit by a car. I started to
pay attention after that and it was then that I noticed a guy on the
street crawling, as best he could, up the steps to an apartment
building door. I figured he was drunk and trying to get home. It was
obvious he wasn't going to make it without help. I didn't realize
how drunk this dude really was until I got close enough to ask, "Can
I help you?" When I put my hand on his jacket, he let go with a
right cross that fell just shy of its mark. As I backed away, he
verbally pounced on me with every swear word in the book. That was
the second time in less than ten minutes that I put myself in
danger, and I wanted it to be my last. I left the old man lying on
the steps and headed straight for my apartment. After walking a
couple of blocks, I looked over my shoulder and the man was still on
the same step. It's a pity that pride can't help him climb those
steps. When I got home, I put my things together for my trip to
Washington D.C. Lying in bed, I pitied that old man, and the whole
of the human race, myself included.