A Summer in Iowa

Part 6 — The Storm Before the Calm

Monday, March 13, 1972

Six weeks had passed since I sent in my application to the SSTP and four weeks since the deadline for submission of applications. Letters of acceptance and rejection wouldn’t be mailed out until the first week in April, with as many as 20% receiving a letter of conditional acceptance. Although I certainly didn’t want to receive a rejection letter, in many ways conditional acceptance was even worse. Conditional acceptance meant that getting into the program was contingent on someone who’d been accepted deciding not to attend.

By the end of April, participation in the program would be finalized and a 25 percent non-refundable deposit would be required. The balance would be due upon arrival. Until then, my plans for the summer were in limbo. In the meantime, school went on, and I did my best to maintain a nearly straight-A average — nearly, except for gym. At least I’d completed my four required semesters of gym class as of last summer, so there’d be no more B’s to drag me down — unless I managed to screw up in one of my academic classes.

Of course I had activities outside of the classroom that kept me busy as well. Extracurricular activities were said to help bolster a college application, but I enjoyed them, too. At school, I was in the Science Club, the Bridge Club and the Drama Club. The Science Club involved attending seminars offered at the various universities in the area. I really enjoyed those, and I learned a lot. The Bridge Club was something I’d have never thought to join, but my parents used to play bridge with friends and Mom pushed me into joining when I started junior high. Although I never particularly enjoyed chess, I found the strategizing that goes into bridge to be much more challenging, in that it involves negotiating with a partner without knowing what’s in their hand. I became quite competitive in the game.

The Drama Club was for those of us who didn’t want the involvement of enrolling in the formal drama curriculum. Whereas the kids enrolled in drama put on a Broadway musical every year, we performed a couple of short plays that we wrote ourselves. This was my first year as a member of the Drama Club, and I was astounded when I was given a major part in the winter play. Previously, I’d been in the school choir, but it conflicted with advanced chemistry, which was vastly more important. Drama was thus my consolation prize.

The one other extracurricular activity in which I participated was the student council. In junior high, I’d been elected to the council as either a representative or an at-large member in all three years. In high school, there were no at-large seats, and I was competing with students merged from two other junior high schools in the district. I came in second in our homeroom and thus was our homeroom’s alternate representative. I was expected to attend student council meetings whenever my homeroom’s representative was unable to attend.

Our homeroom’s representative was Melanie Taylor, a girl who lived in the far eastern part of the school district and had gone to Eastview Junior High. I lived in the westernmost part of the district, but by virtue of boundaries drawn to minimize school segregation, I’d gone to Northview Junior High rather than to Westlane. Although Melanie and I shared our homeroom, we shared no other classes in common. We even had different lunch hours.

Melanie was supposed to keep me apprised of everything that was happening in the student council meetings, just in case I ever needed to attend in her place, but that just didn’t happen. Not that we didn’t try, but there never seemed to be a time or place for us to get together. I asked if I could attend the student council meetings as a non-voting member, but was informed that it wasn’t allowed.

Thus today, for the first time, Melanie was out sick, and I was to attend the student council in her place. That meant I’d have to wait around for Mom to pick me up after school, but I wasn’t about to let my homeroom down. The problem was that it was already nearly spring, and I had no idea what the student council was up to. I was soon to find out.

The student council meetings took place separately each week for each of the three classes, with the class officers for all three classes holding executive committee meetings once a month. The sophomore class student council met in one of the smaller lecture halls on Mondays, just after school. Although I’d never been there, I had no trouble finding the lecture hall and quickly introduced myself to the sophomore class president, vice president, secretary and treasurer. With about 1200 students in the sophomore class and a homeroom size of 28–30 students, there were 42 student council representatives and an equal number of alternates.

I asked if there was any kind of assigned seating and was told I could sit anywhere. Although I preferred to sit near the front of my classes, I decided to sit in the back of the room, so as to be as unobtrusive as possible. After all, I had no idea what was going on. Getting out my notebook and a pen, I prepared to take notes.

The meeting was called to order about ten minutes late, as was typical for most activities in the Midwest. Indeed, by Midwestern standards, we started early. The first order of business was to review committee reports, and so I kind of zoned out as the various standing committees gave updates on the activities of the sophomore class. Preparations were well underway for the yearbook. The photographers were still accumulating photos from around the campus and at various sports games and other functions. We were reminded we could submit pictures of our own if we thought they were good enough.

Sponsorship of the yearbook was way behind our target, and we were warned that the class might have to pay out of pocket if we failed to sell enough ads. Wondering to myself if my Aunt Milly ever placed an ad in our yearbook, I made a note to ask her if she’d be interested. Not that many teenage girls could afford to buy one of her dresses, but with junior prom next year and senior prom the year after, perhaps some of the girls might be interested in purchasing their prom dresses from my aunt’s store.

The events committee was largely responsible for helping organize the school’s social events. Whereas costs for a dance, for example, were spread equally among the three classes, revenues were tied to ticket sales. Homecoming was a disaster for the class, with few sophomores feeling a strong connection to the school so soon after the start of the year. The senior class more than doubled their investment at our expense, leaving us to dig ourselves out of the hole from that event ever since. Fortunately, the Valentine’s dance was a resounding success, finally leaving us in the black.

Although there was no sophomore class prom, a spring social and an end-of-year dance had proven to be lucrative endeavors in the past. So long as we didn’t lose our shirts, I could’ve cared less. I’d attended a few dances during junior high, but I’d never been to a high school dance, nor did I intend to go to one before I left for college.

After reviewing the committee reports and going over old business, it was time for new business. “As you know,” the class president began, “1972 is an election year. As usual, North Central will hold mock presidential elections, including primaries this spring and general elections in the fall…

Stacy Williams, a girl I knew who was in my advanced algebra and English classes, raised her hand and asked, “Why don’t we hold state mock elections? There’s a governor’s race this year and although there is no race for U.S. Senate, all of the members of the U.S. House of Representatives are up for reelection. And what about the Indiana House and Senate? They’re the ones that pass the laws that affect us the most.”

“That’s an excellent point, Stacy,” the president responded. “You’re right about the importance of state and even local elections, but thanks to gerrymandering, there are three House districts represented in Washington Township, and I’m not sure how many Indiana house and senate seats, or city council seats are up for grabs. It would be too complicated to run separate elections for all of the different combinations.

“It’s true that there’s a governor’s race this year, not to mention one for lieutenant governor. However, I think that once you see what goes into the logistics for just one office, I think you’ll agree that holding presidential primaries and elections will be enough to keep us busy.

“Indiana holds its primaries in early May, so we’ll hold mock primaries in late April. The date isn’t set yet, as we’ll be using the same voting machines that will be used in the real election. The student council for each class will be in charge of running the mock elections. Each of you will serve as a poll worker and will be responsible for verifying the credentials of the students in your own homeroom as they cast their ballot. Indiana has an open primary, so students won’t need to select a party until they vote…”

I kind of zoned out as the class president droned on and on about the election. Not that I wasn’t interested. Not at all. My generation was perhaps one of the most political in history, thanks to the Vietnam War, but the war hardly registered in the minds of Indiana voters. The issue that split voters in much of the state was forced school busing, which had recently come to the forefront in the Hoosier state.

To me, the whole issue was irrelevant. Thanks to the progressive leadership of the Metropolitan School District of Washington Township, I went to schools that reflected the makeup of the district, which was 21 percent black. That didn’t happen by accident. More than a decade earlier, faced with an elementary school that was approaching the so-called tipping point of being 40 percent black, they redrew school boundaries to slowly integrate the school system. Initially, the alteration in bus routes was minor. That didn’t stop parents from complaining, but few left town over it.

As more and more black families moved into the district, reflecting the growth of the black middle class, school boundaries became increasingly convoluted, yet the district remained stable. Eventually, white families began moving into predominantly black neighborhoods and the housing market began to reflect the integration of the schools. I wasn’t the least bit perturbed when a mixed race couple moved in right next door to us. Racism was a thing of the past, or so I thought. I was soon to find out how wrong I was. The attitudes of people in my neighborhood didn’t reflect those of the city overall, much less the state.

The growth of communities like Carmel and Greenwood was a direct result of white people moving out of the city entirely, laying the seeds of the controversy underlying the 1972 presidential race. The federal district court for Central Indiana ruled that there was systemic segregation in the Indianapolis schools and ordered mandatory busing as the remedy. However, no suburban parent, having worked hard to buy a house in the suburbs, would stand for allowing their kids to be bused back into the city schools they’d fled. That was as true for black families as for white.

Rather than face the ire of suburban voters, the court invited the city to submit a plan for one-way busing of black students from city to suburban schools, both within and across county lines. The resulting plan was grossly unfair, placing the burden entirely on black city students, but they weren’t the ones complaining. There was outrage, particularly among those who lived nowhere near Indianapolis.

Richard Nixon was supposed to restore law and order, yet he’d done nothing to rein in the courts when it came to school desegregation. Hoosier voters who were strongly opposed to busing were looking for a presidential candidate who would put an end to the madness. Many thought they’d found that candidate in George Wallace.

“…and with that, we’re adjourned,” the class president exclaimed as he brought down the gavel, bringing me out of my reverie. Looking down, I saw that I’d dutifully taken notes, even though my thoughts were elsewhere. The ability to take notes while daydreaming was one that had served me well over the years. It helped to keep me sane.

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With an hours-long wait for Mom to pick me up, I headed downstairs, to the cafeteria, to wait for her. Some students preferred to wait in the library, but I found the library to be stiflingly quiet. In the cafeteria, I could spread out and use an entire table to work on my homework. I liked the hustle and bustle of activity in the cafeteria after hours. Not that there was any food available other than from the vending machines which were uniformly bad. However, after hours, there wasn’t the distraction of a thousand and one conversations going on all at once as there was at lunchtime.

Nevertheless, the cafeteria after hours was a beehive of activity. There were janitors washing tables and vacuuming and sweeping the floors. Sometimes, they’d close one half and move all the tables to one side while they washed, stripped and waxed the floor. It was a noisy process, but I didn’t mind. The women behind the counters and in the kitchen chatted away as they cleaned away the remains from lunch and prepared for the next day’s crowd. There was always soft music playing in the background — what some would call elevator music. It wasn’t what I liked to listen to at home, but it was relaxing and helped me order my thoughts and work on my assignments.

Getting out my copy of Les Miserables and reading ahead for an upcoming assignment in English, I let my mind wander a bit and went back to thinking about the upcoming presidential election. Beyond a doubt, the Vietnam War would be a major factor, if not in Indiana, in the Democratic primaries in other states. Two years ago, right next door in Ohio, there’d been a massacre at Kent State. Even though Hoosiers were generally supportive of the war, antiwar protests were common at the state universities. We didn’t have the sit-ins and campus unrest seen elsewhere, but we weren’t immune to the turmoil that was roiling the nation.

The one thing I wasn’t worried about was the possibility of being drafted and having to serve in Vietnam myself. The last call-up was of those born in 1952, who participated in the draft lottery of 1971. My next door neighbor’s kid was born in 1952 and his lottery number was 10. He used to annoy the hell out of me when he practiced playing the drums on their outdoor patio, right next to my bedroom window, so I wasn’t sad to see him go. Rather than waiting to be drafted, he enlisted in the army and volunteered for training as an electronics technician. More than likely, that would keep him stateside.

Lotteries would be held through 1975 and I’d have to register for the draft when I turned 19, but my birth year of 1956 would be the last for which a lottery would be held. President Nixon might not be sincere about ending the war — he’d expanded it into Cambodia, after all — but he’d already committed the U.S. to fielding an all-volunteer army. I doubted his presidency would survive if he went back on his promise.

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As I thought about the election, I couldn’t help but think back to 1968, which was such a turbulent year. I was still in the sixth grade when I turned twelve, and not yet in junior high. Politics weren’t much discussed in elementary school, but they were a frequent topic of discussion at our dinner table. Just about every evening, Walter Cronkite reported on both the war and the antiwar protests. My parents were staunch defenders of the war, but they had reason to be. GM and Delco had major defense contracts.

Dad had a top secret security clearance and was heavily involved with the manufacture of electronic components for the military, but I didn’t know that until the North Vietnamese showed off a secret weapon they’d captured. The Walleye missile was the first missile to contain a TV camera in the nose cone. Once released from a fighter jet, it sent live pictures back to the pilot, who could guide the missile to its target. I hadn’t known such a thing was even possible.

It was only after the Walleye appeared in newspapers across the country that Dad told us he’d had a role in designing it. The circuit boards used for imaging and guidance were designed by the navy in their research facility across town. However, a significant number of the missiles failed in flight. Dad discovered that the metal contacts on the circuit boards were cracking at the solder joints, most likely from vibrations. There wasn’t time to redesign the circuit boards or to dampen the vibrations, so Dad came up with an ingenious solution. By inserting metal eyelets into the circuit boards where the components were soldered in place, the metal contacts didn’t come into contact with the solder joints at all.

I asked Dad how he felt about designing weapons used to kill people. He explained that his role was to solve problems that caused weapons to fail, often resulting in the deaths of American servicemen. The weapons were gonna be built, regardless, but in ensuring that they worked as intended, he was saving American lives.

He was particularly proud of his role in designing the Walleye. For the first time, rather than blanketing an area with bombs and killing thousands of innocent women and children, we could home in on military targets directly, avoiding civilian casualties. I was proud of him too.

Although my parents kept assuring me that the Vietnam war would end long before I reached draft age, or that I’d be able to get an educational deferment, I wasn’t so sure. That point was driven home by our neighbors who lived kitty-corner and behind us. We didn’t know them well, but they had a son who was between high school and college when he received his draft notice. He’d thought his acceptance letter from Indiana University would be enough, but it wasn’t. He needed a summer job to afford the tuition, but it left him vulnerable to the draft. He returned from Vietnam in a body bag.

In 1968, everyone assumed President Johnson would be running for reelection. My parents were stunned when at the end of an ordinary Oval Office address on March 31, he announced that he would neither seek nor accept the Democratic nomination. Dad exclaimed, “What?” Even I was shocked. Today, I might have said, ‘Holy shit!’ but I was only eleven back then. Johnson’s announcement threw the race into turmoil and suddenly, the field was wide open.

By the time I turned twelve, my parents were solidly behind the candidacy of Vice-President Hubert Humphrey, believing him to be the most reasonable candidate when it came to the war. Although I was still basically in favor of the war back then, I was beginning to question my parents’ beliefs. Then I heard Bobby Kennedy speak and I was mesmerized. He was young, he was charismatic and he had the Kennedy name. At that age I wasn’t so much enamored of his ideas as of his mystique, but I wanted him to win.

I was already enamored of the younger brother of President Kennedy when on the fateful evening of April 4, Martin Luther King was assassinated. The eminent civil rights leader was just standing on the balcony of his room at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, when James Earl Ray shot and killed him. All around the country, cities burned, but not Indianapolis. It just so happened that Bobby Kennedy was campaigning here and the speech he gave that night in the wake of King’s murder was masterful. I watched it live on TV. RFK had single-handedly kept the calm.

I might have been only twelve but from that point on, I was 100 percent behind his candidacy. I was too young to volunteer with the campaign, but I made up my own fliers that highlighted his accomplishments and his positions. I got permission at school to use one of their mimeograph machines and I bought a multipack of colored paper out of my own allowance. I handed out fliers to everyone in the sixth grade. I stood outside the door and handed them out to kids as young as six as they headed for their buses, to take home to their parents.

Kids my age seemed receptive to Kennedy’s message. I was less successful in trying to convince my parents. Then two months after the MLK assassination, almost to the day, history came crashing down on me…

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Wednesday, June 5, 1968

Today was supposed to be a normal school day, but yesterday had been the day of three presidential primaries: California, New Jersey and South Dakota. Of course I was most interested in California, ’cause of its high delegate count and it seemed likely to go for my preferred candidate, Bobby Kennedy. I would’ve stayed up all night if my parents had let me, waiting for the results from California to come in, but Pacific Time was three hours behind Eastern Time and the initial results wouldn’t have even been reported until after my bedtime.

I might be only twelve, but I grew up in a family where politics were discussed at the dinner table. I learned early on to accept my parents’ views without reservation and only now was beginning to question them. Next year I’d start junior high and not long after that, I’d be a teenager. I was beginning to form opinions of my own.

My first real introduction to political reality came when I was only seven years old and in the second grade. I’ll never forget when the principal came on the intercom and informed the entire school that President Kennedy had been shot. At the time, I was more disappointed that the school’s Thanksgiving family dinner had been cancelled than that the leader of the free world was dead. I’ll never forget the somber mood at the dinner table that evening, though.

For days afterward, our eyes were glued to the grainy video on a TV that was older than I was. I even saw Jack Ruby shoot Oswald on live TV. That was something I’d never forget. I watched live coverage of the Kennedy’s body being brought to the East Room of the White House, where it lay in repose for 24 hours. Then it was taken by horse-drawn carriage to lie in state in the Capitol Rotunda. It was a Sunday and there was nothing much to see, yet I never left my spot on the family room sofa. More than a quarter million people waited in line as long as ten hours in the freezing cold to pay their respects. I was only seven, yet I knew I was watching history in the making.

Now, four and a half years later, I was blissfully unaware that, as Mom knocked on my door to get me ready for school, history was repeating itself. Excitedly I asked, “Are the results in from the California primary?” But then I saw the stricken look on my mother’s face.

She entered my bedroom and sat down next to me on my bed. Slowly, I sat up in bed and she gently brushed my hair to the side. “There’s been an incident,” she began. “Early this morning, after Kennedy had been declared the winner in California’s primary, after giving his victory speech, he was shot.”

I was too stunned to speak. I was practically catatonic. I was silent. Mom continued, “He was at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, and after giving his victory speech, he was escorted through a kitchen, to speak to the press. Someone was waiting for him. The man shot him, multiple times in the head and chest at point blank range.”

Finally getting my voice back, I asked, “Is he alright? Is he gonna be okay?” Even as I asked, I knew it was a stupid question. If he was shot in the head, there’d be brain damage. Even if he survived, he’d never be able to be president. He’d never be okay. Tears started to flow freely from my eyes and down my cheeks. I couldn’t help it.

“He’s in surgery right now, so there’s hope,” Mom replied. “For now, all we can do is pray.”

“What’s the use,” I replied coldly. “If he survives, he’ll never be the same. And as far as praying goes, what’s the point in praying when there’s no god to hear our prayers.” I’d never before questioned my parents’ religious beliefs, but with so much evil in the world, how could I not?

“Jeffy, don’t say that!” Mom responded. “Just because horrible things happen, doesn't mean there isn’t a reason to believe. Man can never comprehend what God has planned.”

“But that’s bullshit,” I replied. It was the first time I’d ever used a cuss word in front of my parents. I hadn’t even cussed in front of my friends.

I fully expected her to hit me, but she just got a sad look on her face and said, “I understand the sentiment, but you are not to use that word in talking to me, ever again. Do you understand, young man?”

“Yes, Mom,” I replied. “I just don’t understand how God can allow something like this to happen. Not that I blame God for the evil done by mankind. I don’t blame Satan either. Blaming the devil’s a cop out. It’s just that with all the bad things going on, it makes a whole lot more sense that the world is the way it is because there is no god. The whole story of creation doesn’t even make sense. Where in the Bible does it talk about the dinosaurs? What about the other planets, and the stars and the galaxies? Didn’t God create the Klingons too?”

“You need to remember that Star Trek is science fiction,” Mom reminded me.

“Yeah, of course I know that, but there’s bound to be other intelligent life out there. Do they believe in the same god? Did our god create them too, or was it just evolution? Yeah, I’d like to believe there’s a god watching over us, but the evidence is to the contrary.”

Ruffling my hair, Mom responded, “You always did sound more like an adult than a child. However, it’s not like there’s anything for us to do besides praying that Bobby Kennedy comes out okay. It never hurts to pray, whether you believe in God or not.

“Now, you need to get ready for school,” she went on. “You’ll never make the bus at this point, so get ready and I’ll drive you there.”

Shaking my head, I responded, “I don’t think I can go to school. I won’t be able to pay attention in class. It’ll be a waste of time.”

“But what else are you going to do all day?” Mom asked.

“Stay at home and watch the TV with you,” I answered.

Thinking to herself for a moment, she replied, “Yeah, I think you’re right. School would be a waste of time for you. You’re too close to the Kennedy campaign to think of anything else. I’ll call the school and tell them you’re sick, but I don’t think they’d have a problem with it anyway. We’ll spend the day together while we wait for better news about the senator.”

I spent the entire day with Mom, lounging around in my pajamas. I didn’t even bother to shower, to wash my face or even brush my teeth. We watched the news on TV all day, but there was no news about Kennedy’s health. His would-be assassin had been arrested and his name was Sirhan Sirhan. He was a 25-year-old Jordanian man who’d been born in what was then Palestine.

Like most Americans, I viewed Israel with awe. I’d just recently learned about the Holocaust. What they taught us in school wasn’t much — just that Hitler murdered six million Jews — so I looked it up in our encyclopedia. I still have nightmares about the pictures I saw there. That the Jews who survived managed to build a new country out of nothing and make the desert bloom was amazing. The trouble was that they didn’t build it out of nothing.

They referred to Sirhan Sirhan as a Jordanian because the country he was born in no longer existed. The UN formally recognized Israel in 1948, formed from portions of Palestine that were already mostly Jewish. But the Arabs attacked the new state and Israel fought a war of independence. What was left of Palestine was annexed by Jordan and Egypt.

Twice more, Israel fought for its survival, in 1956, the year I was born, and in 1967, the Six-Day War. Israel still occupied the West Bank, the Golan Heights, Gaza and the entire Sinai Peninsula. I guess eventually, there will be a peace agreement and the Arabs in Palestine will have a country of their own.

To Sirhan Sirhan, however, Israel had no right to the land where his family had lived for centuries. He shot Bobby Kennedy out of his hatred for Israel and for those who actively supported it. I wasn’t sure what to think, but people lose wars. It’s a fact of life, but that doesn’t give them the right to assassinate world leaders. If anything, it only hurts their cause.

It wasn’t until I got up to get ready for school on Thursday that I learned Bobby Kennedy had passed away. He might well have been America’s best chance for ending the war in Vietnam. Now, thanks to the fanaticism of one man in response to a perceived injustice in another, far-away land, many more people would die needlessly.

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I took Bobby Kennedy’s assassination pretty hard, but there was scant time to mourn his loss. His death threw the Democratic Party into chaos as they sought a leader who could carry the party to victory in the fall. However, the war continued to divide the party, much as it did the nation. As the summer progressed, two factions emerged — one supporting Johnson’s vice president, Hubert Humphrey and the other supporting Senator Eugene McCarthy.

My parents continued to throw their support behind the vice president and I decided he was the best choice, too. Although he was saddled with the stain of Johnson’s involvement in Vietnam, Humphrey was committed to ending the war as quickly as possible, but on terms that were just. McCarthy was an extreme pacifist who was intent on ending the war at all costs. America needed to get out of Vietnam, but not on terms that made us look weak. I might only be twelve, but even I could see the long term consequences of that.

I attended Lienert’s Gym Camp during the summer of 1968. It was a really nice day camp — I’d gone there the two years before. Located on an artificial lake just a few miles from home, the facilities were as nice as what might be found at a residential camp, with a tuition to match. Thankfully, there was a discounted rate available for those signing up for the full summer program. I loved it there — unlike at school, they didn’t discourage me because of my lack of athletic abilities.

The new mayor sent one of his four sons there and occasionally, he picked him up himself. The kid was an absolute terror, but the mayor got to know me because I was one of the few who actually tolerated his son’s behavior. Dick Lugar was a young progressive who’d already made a name for himself. He’d nixed plans for a basketball arena in the suburbs in favor of a downtown arena to house the Pacers. My parents thought he was crazy, but I thought the proposed plan to build it right over Market Street was utterly cool. He seemed to be an okay guy — for a Republican.

In the meantime, national events swirled around me as the anti-war effort heated up. Protests continued every day, culminating with the Democratic convention in Chicago. What a disaster that was as both the protesters outside and the police rioted. The violence that ensued tarnished the reputation of the Democratic Party, paving the way for Richard Nixon to wage a dirty, ‘law and order’ campaign.

Nixon hired professionals to clean up his image. He was the first to employ a ‘Madison Avenue’ approach to a presidential campaign. They ran slick ads that made him look good — so long as you didn’t listen to his message. It was a tight race and in the end, Nixon beat Humphrey by less than a percentage point in the popular vote, but with an electoral landslide. Nixon took that to be a mandate.

I was pretty down in the aftermath of the election. It was a pretty low point in my young life, given how much I’d gotten involved in politics. I didn’t think things could get much worse — but then Dad died.