WE ARE NOT YET DONE WITH THE SIXTIES

In 1969, Pennsylvania Avenue was coated with muddy slush as marchers from all walks of life streamed down, mostly single file, in the March Against Death. We marched past the White House to our destination. As we walked we saw others returning from dropping their placards in the caskets at the Capitol building. Some looked relieved; some eyes were wet with tears.  We were all tired. There was a searing question that many shared: “Are we making a difference?” This march brought out our best...and our cynicism.  Yet our hands were held high, hoping somehow that our fingers, separated for peace, could stop the war.

In the last block, we drew up close beside an old monument. Each of us, cold and depleted, wore a placard around our neck with the name of a dead American soldier. The wind whimpered against the caskets now heavily laden in tribute to those dead. I dropped my placard into the pine casket. Some turned away. I could see them vacantly staring. I imagined them looking into that blank space that lies somewhere between life and death.  

Barb nudged me. Her eyes fastened on a large black Pontiac that slowly pulled up behind the caskets. A man in a servant’s uniform got out and went to open the back door. His arm held fast the elbow of a wrinkled old woman. Her gray-veiled hat was ready to topple into a mud puddle. Her worn back was crippled over. Her tiny black glove clutched tightly to a white name card and her eyes met the caskets in resignation.

The man had one arm around the old woman’s arched back, holding firmly to her left shoulder. The old woman took tiny solid steps toward the caskets. She was as old as wars were old. She was as tired-looking as the time of killing is tired. Her face was as worn as the flag. Her eyes filled with tears and a look of pity that the dead now could never know. Her steps remained as slow as the movements for peace remain slow.

She took one final step to the casket. She quivered as she stretched out her hand, gently easing the name placard from her fingers into the overflowing casket. She didn’t waste time for goodbyes. Yet she glanced out into the crowd of people and nodded slowly, then turned quietly and walked back to her car.

Suddenly I knew why I was there, why we all came, why we were fiery, angry and sad, trying to make sense of a war that had no meaning. This one woman, solemn and bent over, shared her love for life that was no more.

“Karla, how did you feel in that moment?” Barb asked. “Well, somewhere in our aching uncertainty, there’s some hushed meaning in what we’re doing.” Put this on your resumes, America. We were there. That moment lives in us. It will lead us home. We are not yet done with "The Sixties".

"And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee."
                                                                              John Donne