A Tyranny of Petticoats by Jessica Spotswood
“STREETS BELONG TO THE PEOPLE!” The new chant has finally reached us. “STREETS BELONG TO THE PEOPLE!”
I join in, shouting along with the others. The hippie girl does too, her voice low and gravelly.
Diane leans in to talk into my ear. I wish I couldn’t hear her over the chanting, but I can. I could probably pick out Diane’s voice in the middle of the Ho Chi Minh Trail.
“Tell me the truth,” she says. “Tell me the real reason you picked him instead of me.”
I sigh again, trying come up with some explanation about how much I like Floyd. Then I see Diane’s face out of the corner of my eye. Her eyes are wide and pleading.
She wants the truth. She deserves the truth.
“Everyone would look at us,” I say slowly. Diane blinks. For a second I think she didn’t understand me, but then she starts to draw back, pulling her arm away from where it’s linked with mine, and I know she heard. “If we were together for real. They’d stare at me everywhere I went. I’d know they were talking about me, and I’d know what they were saying.”
Diane looks straight into my eyes for a long moment.
“That’s what matters to you?” she finally says. “What people you don’t even know say behind your back? What about what I think? Don’t I count more than whoever walks by you on Riverside Drive?”
“Of course.” I don’t know what she wants me to say. I gaze down, which only reminds me of how disheveled I look. The sleeves of my blue button-down are wrinkled and stained. I fell in the dirt back at the band shell when the cops first charged. Diane stayed behind to help me up and got kicked in the leg by a cop for her trouble. “It’s just — I don’t know. It’s complicated.”
Diane pulls back again, like she’s about to leave. I want to reach out and take her hand. I don’t.
“WHOSE STREET? OUR STREET! WHOSE STREET? OUR STREET!”
The chant is getting louder. Angrier. Fists are waving in the air above us.
“They didn’t get the permit for the march!” the hippie girl shouts next to us. “It’s over!”
It looks like she’s right. There’s fury roiling in the front of the line, filtering its way to the back along with the chant. One of the marshals shouts into his bullhorn for people to stay calm.
“We should go!” I shout to Diane. At first she ignores me, but then she glances my way and nods.
I let go of the hippie’s arm. Diane and I slip out of the line and into the trees with some of the other marchers.
“Let’s try to find the others,” Diane says. “I think they’re up at —”
Behind her comes what sounds like a bomb going off. Then the screaming starts.
“Shit!” Diane yells. We both scrabble into the back pockets of our jeans for our bandannas. “Damn pigs! Nobody’s even doing anything!”
This has happened at least a dozen times this week, but it’s always just as scary as it was the first night. And it always, always hurts.
I tie my bandanna around my nose and mouth and swivel my head from one end of the park to the other. A white cloud of tear gas wafts toward us from the north. We can already smell the thick chemical odor. That means the pain is only a few seconds away. Behind the cloud there’s a row of National Guardsmen wearing gas masks. They’re advancing toward us. Gas spews into the air in long streams.
A man near us picks up a gas canister that’s fallen to the ground and chucks it back toward the Guardsmen. Then a coughing fit overtakes him and he collapses to his knees.
Diane grabs my arm. We run together through the park, trying to outrace the white cloud, even though we both know that never works. Where there’s one cloud of gas, more will follow.
Around us people are shouting, running, clutching cloths to their faces. The gas creeps into my eyes, my nostrils, down my throat. My lungs twist in on themselves. My cheeks burn. Tears roll down my face, leaving streaks behind them that scald my skin.
This isn’t the same gas I’ve been breathing all week in Lincoln Park. This has to be stronger. Military-grade.
We run south, deeper into the park, but the gas only gets thicker. Diane is coughing so hard I don’t know if she can run much farther. I blink against the pain in my eyes and scan the park for a safe place to wait it out, but the Guardsmen keep moving, their faces invisible behind their gas masks as they get closer and closer to us.
Whenever there are too many of us in one place, even if all we’re doing is standing around, the pigs spray tear gas. They have their masks, but all we have are bandannas and handkerchiefs and Vaseline to spread on our cheeks, and even that barely makes a dent against the pain.
Diane stops running. She bends at her waist, coughing harder. Her eyes are squeezed shut. Her hand is pounding against her chest.
Oh, no. She’s panicking.
“Move!” I yell, grabbing her arm and pulling her forward so hard she has no choice but to follow. She stumbles at first, but then we’re running together, back toward what’s left of the line of marchers. I cough harder, resisting the urge to wipe my eyes. I learned the hard way that it only heightens the pain.
The whole park is covered in the white haze. Our only choice is to take one of the bridges across Michigan Avenue toward the hotels.
My cheeks are on fire. I shift my bandanna higher and grab Diane’s hand. She takes mine, still bent over, coughing, as I lead her to the closest bridge.
We’re almost there when I see the rifles. No, machine guns. There are rows and rows of National Guardsmen lined up in front of the bridge with machine guns.
I think again about my little brother, so eager to run off to war. Machine guns are for soldiers fighting in the jungle. Not cops in the park here at home.
They’ve got the bridge blocked off. I guess we’re supposed to stay here and breathe in the tear gas until we collapse.
“The Jackson bridge is open, man!” someone shouts behind us. The crowd surges north. I scan the crowd for Floyd and Tom, but if they’re here, I can’t see them.
We shuffle toward the bridge with the rest of the crowd, the gas still rolling over us in waves. Diane hasn’t let go of my hand. I squeeze hers without thinking.
It’s chaos as everyone charges across the bridge. The gas thins out as we get away from the heart of the park, but it’s still in the air, coating our skin, burning our throats. Diane’s eyes are red and puffy. Her face is streaked with tears. I want to help her, to wipe her face clean and hold her until she feels better, but there are too many people around, and besides, we’ve got to keep moving.
It’s getting dark as we approach the end of the bridge. Ahead of us, Michigan Avenue is full of people. The mood is different here than it was in the park. Protesters are milling around, talking. I even see a few smiles. There are cops in the crowd and the lingering memory of gas in the air, but the police on this side of the bridge aren’t wearing masks. Maybe they’re used to the smell.
Down the block, toward the Conrad Hilton hotel, where most of the delegates are staying, there are carts with mules pulling them. I thought I’d seen everything there was to see this week, but I never thought I’d see mules walking through the streets of Chicago. Diane is standing up straight now, looking recovered from the gas, and I’m about to point out the mules when I see Floyd and Tom. They’re far down the block, close to the hotel. They’ve taken off their handkerchiefs. I take off my bandanna and shove it in my pocket.
There are a few hundred people between us, but we can catch up if we walk fast. The cops are moving out of the street and forming into rows on the side streets, so it’s easier to make our way forward now. Diane is walking fast already, moving ahead of me through the crowd.
I raise my voice so she can hear me. “There’s Floyd and Tom! Come on, let’s catch up with them!”
Diane looks back over her shoulder at me. It’s hard to tell from her face what she’s thinking. She turns back, weaving her way through a group of hippies with peace signs painted on their faces, and shouts, “I don’t think I can
“What?” I don’t think I heard her right.
She slows down enough to let me keep up with her, but this time she doesn’t look at me.
“Jill.” Diane shakes her head. “I like you, okay? You’re funny and you’re smart and you helped me get through the gas just now and you’re one cool chick, but I don’t think I can keep doing this. Not after what you said before. I get that it’s complicated for you, but for me, it just hurts too much. When we leave here, you’re going to have to find a new best friend.”
“Oh, come on.” I try to grab Diane’s arm, but she pulls out of my grasp, darting through the hippies too fast for me to follow. “Diane! Wait!”
It’s no use. Her light-brown braid is already vanishing behind a group of cops. It feels like I’m losing something I’ll never be able to find again.
I start moving south toward the hotel, but I’m not eager to meet up with the others anymore. Is Diane going to tell them? No, she wouldn’t do that. But what will the rest of the summer be like if we aren’t even friends anymore? What about next year, and the year after that?
I’m still staring off at the spot where Diane disappeared when something sails over my head. Another rock. I turn to see who threw it so I can tell him to give it a rest, but the man behind me is standing with his arms folded. The sharp look on his face is enough to make me shut my mouth. This man doesn’t look like a protester. He’s wearing a sport shirt and slacks, and he’s at least ten years older than most of the men here.
I wonder if he’s a plainclothes officer. Tom said there were some mixed in with the crowd. But a police officer wouldn’t have thrown a rock, would he?
Chants are rising around us. The murmurs and laughter in the crowd are fading. The cops Diane passed have moved out of the street and into a lineup. There are more cops here than there were before. It looks like there are more of them than there are of us.
“PEACE NOW!” a group near me starts shouting. They’re holding up their fingers in the peace sign. “PEACE NOW! PEACE NOW!”
“PIGS ARE WHORES!” the man in the sport shirt shouts.
It’s completely dark by now. Even with the streetlights it’s difficult to see. I push through the crowd toward the hotel, but everyone is jostling, and it’s harder to move than it was before.
“PIGS ARE WHORES! PIGS ARE WHORES!” More men have joined in the shout. I glance over at the cops. They’re staring out into the crowd underneath their blue riot helmets and clear plastic visors. Their hands are locked on their clubs.
This doesn’t feel right.
I’m only half a block from the hotel now. I try to move faster, but the crowd is making it impossible. The chants are changing again.
“DUMP THE HUMP!” one group shouts. Across from them, another group is trying to drown them out with “HELL, NO, WE WON’T GO! HELL, NO, WE WON’T GO!”
In front of me, a long line of protesters is standing with elbows linked. I duck under a pair of arms, holding up the peace sign as I go so they’ll know I’m one of them and not a plainclothes cop. Not that there are any black woman cops in Chicago.
I’m almost at the hotel when I catch a glimpse of Tom and Floyd fifty feet ahead. I look around for Diane, but she’s not with them. Floyd is arguing with a man wearing a vest. The man is holding something over his head. A bottle, maybe.
“Floyd!” I shout. Floyd looks around for me. When his back is turned, the man in the vest throws the bottle. It shatters on the pavement in front of the row of cops. Oh, God.
Floyd shouts at the man in the vest. The cops aren’t looking at where the bottle fell, though. They’re looking at something to their right, like someone’s giving them a signal.
“SIT DOWN!” the protest marshals yell into their bullhorns. The other chants die out. “SIT DOWN! SIT DOWN!”
No one knows what to do. The people nearest the cops start to sit down on the pavement. I do too. So do Floyd and Tom. Some men stay standing, though, like the man in the vest. The man in the sport shirt stays up too. He’s looking right at the cops, and he doesn’t look afraid at all. He’s got to be one of them. The man in the vest isn’t, though. He’s trembling, his eyes wide.
All at once, the cops are walking toward us, fast, like they have a purpose. They’re all in neat rows. Hundreds of them.
They’re getting closer. They aren’t stopping. Are they seriously going to march right over us?
I scramble to my feet when the cops are nearly on us. Around me, everyone else is doing the same thing.
The cops don’t slow down. I don’t understand what’s happening.
A vehicle barrels down the road. A paddy wagon. I’m staring at it, my mouth gaping, when a cop charges at me.
I scream. Everyone’s screaming. The cop is coming straight at me, his club pulled back, ready to strike. All around him, the rest of the cops are running too.
I bend down, covering my head with my arms, and feel a rush of air as the officer runs past me. He brings his club down on the head of the parade marshal behind me, the one who was shouting for us to sit down.
They’re everywhere. Every direction I turn. Cops, shouting. Cops, swinging their clubs. The marshal behind me is lying on the ground, blood pouring from his head. The cop swings his club down on him again and again, striking his chest, his back, his head.
Diane. I’ve got to find Diane. I dart my head from side to side, frantic, but it’s impossible to see who’s who in the darkened chaos. I’ve lost sight of Floyd too.
A man sprints past me, four cops on his heels. One of them strikes the man across his head. He collapses onto the ground. The cop charges toward someone else. Other people come running by, trampling the man on the ground. He cries out, but no one seems to hear him.
“Hey!” I shout. “This man needs help!”
No one seems to hear me either.
Everywhere I turn it’s more of the same. People shout. Clubs wave in the air, then crash down onto heads and shoulders. Protesters are dragged through the streets by their arms or legs and then stuffed into the backs of the paddy wagons. Blood pours from their wounds.
Between the screams, people are shouting, “THE WHOLE WORLD IS WATCHING! THE WHOLE WORLD IS WATCHING!”
I look up. It’s true. There are TV cameras pointed at us from the Hilton. I wonder if we’re on live right now. If the delegates are watching us from the convention floor. Chanting might not change anyone’s minds, but this — seeing this on their TV screens — this should make them see things differently. No one could watch what’s happening here and say this is right.
Then I see Diane. I think it’s Diane, anyway. From the back, it looks like her light-brown hair has come loose from its braid and is spilling over the collar of her denim shirt. A cop is running at her, but she’s looking the other way.
“Diane!” I scream. I run toward her, ready to knock her to the ground to get her out of the cop’s path.
I’m about to grab her when she turns. Only it isn’t her. It’s a boy, his eyes wide with fear.
I’m staring at him, my eyes just as wide, when a hand clamps down on my shoulder and yanks me back with a strong grip.
The cop swings me around to face him. He’s tall and fat, his face spread into a grimace behind his clear plastic visor. His eyes are blue and beady. He looks straight into my face as he slams the club down onto my shoulder with all his strength.
I collapse to the ground, sprawled on my back. The pain shoots into my neck, my head, my arm. It feels like I’m on fire. A heavy boot crushes my hand, someone running past me without looking where he’s going. I barely feel it.
My father was right about the police. I should have listened.
Above me, the cop lifts his club to swing again. I try to cover my body with my arms, but I can hardly move. I close my eyes and wait for the blow.
“Hey!” someone shouts above me. The club doesn’t come down.
I open my eyes.
It’s Diane. She throws herself in front of the cop, b
“She didn’t do anything!” Diane shouts. “Leave her alone! You already hit her!”
“She’s with those longhairs!” the cop shouts.
“No she’s not!” Diane shouts. She’s standing ramrod straight. It would take a bulldozer to get her out of the cop’s path. “She’s with me!”
Maybe the cop realizes she’s right, that I didn’t do anything. Maybe he doesn’t want to keep arguing over some black girl. Maybe he gets what Diane really means — that I’m with her, with her. Whatever it is, he shakes his head at Diane, like he’s disgusted, and turns away. His club is still raised, ready to strike someone else.
“Come on!” Diane bends down and grabs my hand, the one the man’s boot didn’t crush. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
There’s no way I can move. I’m certain of it. But when Diane pulls me up, somehow my muscles respond, peeling me off the pavement. I stare at her hand, at her face. She’s the only thing in the world that makes sense right now.
“THE WHOLE WORLD IS WATCHING! THE WHOLE WORLD IS WATCHING!”
When I’m on my feet, Diane starts running, pulling me after her. Everyone around us is running east, back into the park, but Diane pulls me west, dodging protesters and cops and clubs. I have no choice but to trust her. I don’t even know how my legs have the power to carry me. Around us, people are on the ground, moaning, bleeding. Cops are dragging more and more people through the streets.
Diane pulls me under an awning.
“Floyd,” I mutter. “Tom. We’ve got to find them.”
“I saw them when I was looking for you,” Diane says. “They were running back into the park, but there weren’t any cops after them. They’ll be all right.”
Oh. Floyd didn’t wait for me.
All right, then. I guess I know where that leaves us.
Diane looks back over her shoulder. The pain is shooting down my side now that we’ve stopped moving. Diane loops her arm under my shoulders to prop me up. Her grip hurts, but I don’t tell her that. It feels good to have her holding me, even with the pain.