THE STONE - Zippie Notes - Thieu's Visit to California, April 02, 1973

I am here. After a seemingly short amount of time hitch-hiking from Ocean in Long Beach to Beach Boulevard, where I then scored a perfect direct ride to my destination, I found myself at the exit ramp off the freeway. I had a barely a half mile of road ahead of me before I would join other anti-war demonstrators in front of Nixon’s San Clemente home.

 

As I ambled toward my anti-war compatriots, I was wonder-struck by one of the most beautiful ocean view sunsets I had ever seen. The atmosphere among the protesters was very congenial. Perhaps it was the beauty of the surroundings, perhaps the cool ocean breezes offering a respite on what was an atypical calefacient day. Within moments I had made myself some new friends, and found myself absorbed in conversation on a myriad of topics, from hometowns and music to demonstrations and concerts that some of us by coincidence had jointly attended in other parts of the country.

 

Most of the discourse that I engaged in with others was frequently interrupted with a polite ‟Have a another hit...,” a phrase I was to hear repeatedly for the rest of the early evening and well into the starry night.

 

The sunset passed with campfires and stories, plus a flashlight-guided hike (thankfully short) along a dirt path to another section of the campgrounds; along the way, some terrible jokes about being led by an enemy to unfriendly camps, kinda morbid, but spooky considering the darkness and limited flashlights on our trail. We eventually made our way toward an area set with torch lighting along with a lit stage of low risers. This was for an avant performance piece regarding the culture of the Vietnamese people, both introduced and followed by a speech or two on the horrors of war and a summary of tomorrow’s planned protest activity.    

 

I found this play somewhat boring, yet I did find some cultural elements reasonably interesting. After this session of nighttime activity, the conversations began to quiet down and our group, numbering perhaps 150-200, made our way back to camp, where blankets and sleeping bags were passed out. Sleepy from the abundance of weed, and a cosmically clear night sky where I imagined myself near the edge of the earth, I was soon within the confines of a much welcomed silent slumber.

 

I awoke the next morning to the clamoring of pots and pans, together with the most tantalizing aroma of fresh coffee. I was still a bit groggy yet excited that we were soon to begin the organized march to Nixon’s San Clemente home, where he would be entertaining the South Vietnamese U.S. appointed puppet dictator, Thieu. My spirits were high and with the caffeine as a trigger, I was ready!

 

Jane Fonda and other celebs announced, with mega bull horns, the beginning of the march, much to the delight of the gathering crowd. They led us in chants as we walked the short distance to Nixon’s beachfront estate, stopping at the roadside forefront entrance. Once there, our large group peacefully strolled back and forth, back and forth, maintaining a presence.

 

As time passed our ranks swelled, until there were over three hundred of us showing our opposition to the U.S. involvement in Vietnam, and the tragedies on both sides this entailed.

 

Eventually, our march was blocked by state troopers, which seemed to stymy our enthusiasm, and soon after that we were just relegated to walking in an oblong circle in between a fence and the street. Yeah, sure, there was chanting (‟Ho Ho Ho Chi Minh...the Viet-Cong are Gonna Win”), along with shouts of ‟End The War!”, and when Thieu’s helicopter was seen landing on Nixon’s estate, a voraciously lewd jeer echoed from our ranks.

 

I, like most of the the anti-war marchers, was enamored by Jane Fonda. Perhaps it was mostly her celeb status, but it did serve the movement, for her presence ensured greater media coverage. But to what purpose? I am serious here.... So what if this was a peaceful, non-violent protest—what was that going to achieve? Look... over 50,000 lives from our own country were dead! The Thieu regime was being propped up by the U.S. and just a mere puppet government at that, selling out their own people for U.S corporate interests. How many more of our country’s young were to perish in this foreign land? I could contain myself no longer... and so, in the direction of the swine that were defending such a system, I threw a stone!

 

I aimed well, my brothers and sisters, and ‟thunk”—a direct hit on the helmet of a pig who was protecting these evil conspirators, the very leaders who were plotting the division of the spoils of this bloodbath. Although I myself was delighted by my action, the demonstration’s leaders, not so much. They even criticized me for this action. Well, not me exactly, as it was a near undetectable smooth and quick underhand softball-style throw, a true credit to my athletic school years.

 

I was bored with this sort of peaceful protest, dear reader. It was my belief then, and it is my belief today that the life, the angst, the energy of a demonstration must counter the force that it is up against. In my mind I entertained thoughts of us protesters breaching the walls of Nixon’s estate and launching an attack upon this meeting with the South Vietnamese puppet president. Now, my friends, that would have been very newsworthy, and of such astonishing force that it would have resulted in our arrest and much more. It would have been by action a total assault upon the system of the corrupt war machinery of the state. However, it was only my passing fantasy, and as the protest wound down, I began my hitch-hiking trip back up the coast to Long Beach.

 

However, not to let this action of mine remain an isolated instance...a few months later, in the Los Angeles Hills area, I was present at a hotel hosting another South Vietnamese crony of the United States. Being very vocal and leading the crowd in chants was Ron Kovaks, a Vietnam Veteran and a very influential spokesperson against the war. Amongst the crowd was a small contingent of my Yippie comrades, who shielded me perfectly from sight with their banners. This time, I threw something different. It certainly made a greater splash—or shall I say, ‟shatter”—as what I hurled at a limousine carrying a few of the war’s perpetrators was a glass bottle. I nearly made a perfect throw, as it smashed near the passenger side of the Limo, sending broken shards upon the street. Inside the bottle was my message: a single stone, with the words written upon it in red polish...‟End The War!”

 

In time, Vietnam, a tiny fourth rate power* that was divided by civil war, was able to befell the Goliath in a most humiliating defeat, for all the world to see.

 

The parable was a metaphor.... The solo individual, the small nation, the tiny tribe, fighting against the monolithic giant of evil oppression. It was all so very clear.... I began to see history not as an observer, but as an active participant....

 

I am a merchant in Boston prior to the revolutionary war, and I threw a stone.

 

I am a pauper in Paris during the storming of the Bastille, and I threw a stone.

 

I am a Lakota at Wounded Knee surrounded by the United States Calvary, and I threw a stone.

 

I am a Jew in a Warsaw Ghetto surrounded by armed Nazis, and I threw a stone.

 

I am a parent at a protest to bring my child home and end the war in Vietnam, and I threw a stone.

 

I am a student in Budapest when the Soviet tanks rolled in, and I threw a stone.

 

I am a Chilean protesting against the United States-backed assassination of Allende, and I threw a stone.

 

I am an elder robbed of my pension by capitalist bankers, and at a bank I threw a stone.

 

I am a Palestinian as the Zionists motor their tanks into my country, and I threw a stone.

 

I can take no more of the increased tyranny of a police state, so I threw a stone.

 

I am among the tortured, victimized by crimes against humanity, and all I could do was throw a stone.

 

* Vietnam War (1960–1975) The Oxford Companion to American Military History, Published 2000, John Whiteclay Chambers  -(Melvin Small)

Initially, the humiliating defeat imposed by a nation Secretary of State Henry Kissinger had described as “a fourth‐rate power” caused a loss of pride and self‐confidence in a people that liked to think of the United States as invincible

 

THE STONE is an excerpt from In the Time of Job When Mischa was a Zippie