The People: The Dilemma of Dissent

THE PEOPLE

At opposite ends of the American continent last week, dissenters were on the march. In New York, they turned up 125,000 strong, from points as disparate as Detroit, Mich., and Dedham, Mass.—most of them young, many of them carrying posters, all of them out for a spring housecleaning of their passions. In San Francisco, 55,000 gathered from points as distant as Coronado, Calif., and Coos Bay, Ore. The avowed aim of the "Spring Mobilization to End the War in Viet Nam" was to demonstrate to President Johnson and the world the depth of feeling in the U.S. against the conflict. The end result —aside from probably delighting Hanoi's Ho Chi Minh—was to demonstrate that Americans in the springtime like to have fun. They did.

The gargantuan "demo" was as peaceful as its pacificist philosphy, as colorful as the kooky costumes and painted faces of its psychedelic "pot left" participants, and about as damaging to the U.S. image throughout the world as a blow from the daffodils and roses that the marchers carried in gaudy abundance. In an emotional speech before the League of Jewish Women in Atlanta last week, Vice President Humphrey—just back from two weeks in Europe—quoted Pope Paul VI as telling him: "America's moral power is being eroded by the manner in which your country is being interpreted in the eyes of the world." With tears welling in his own eyes, the Vice President said: "America needs to tell the world of the lives it is saving. We need to be known as a nation of peacemakers, not just peace marchers."

After last weekend's peace marches, neither the Pope nor the Vice President need worry about American moral power. The demonstration proved once again the viability of dissent within a free society and, though it was attempting to do nothing of the kind, spoke eloquently for what the U.S. is trying to defend in South Viet Nam—namely, the right to speak out.

"Draft Beer, Not Boys." As the demonstration began, a confluence of contrasting groups flowed into the muddy Sheep Meadow of Manhattan's Central Park: anarchists under black flags; Vassar girls proving that they are, too, socially conscious; boys wearing beads and old Army jackets; girls in ponchos and scrapes, some with babies on their shoulders; Columbia University scholars in caps and gowns. On Central Park West, a parked bus bore the proud sign: "Even Smith"—meaning that college, too, was represented. There were Vietniks and Peaceniks, Trotskyites and potskyites, a contingent of 24 Sioux Indians from South Dakota and a band of Iroquois led by one Mad Bear Anderson. When a loudspeaker demanded that the Indians assemble at Truck No. 3 for the 30-block march to the United Nations, hundreds of New Yorkers looked for the truck to get a glimpse of a real live Indian.

Members of some 125 antiwar groups —from the moderate Women Strike for Peace to the "New Left" Students for a Democratic Society and the "Maoist" Progressive Labor Party—distributed literature and sold buttons. "Draft beer, not boys," exclaimed one button in wavy script; "Peace with Beatlespower is Funlove for life," proclaimed a poster that owed more to Lennon than Lenin.