Seneca Army Depot in New York. Bertha had been there, too, only that time she was fastened to the gate with yarn, not chains.
An elderly hippie with a headband streaking across his forehead is next. I recognize his face but never did know his name. “My dear friend Bertha Pickering served five years in prison, two in federal maximum security. My friend Bertha was beaten and jailed during the antiwar protest at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago in August 1968. She was under FBI surveillance for decades.”
One after another, they speak, and each one stirs a new memory for me. The last in line is Marianne. She’s my age, but unlike me, she’s still out there protesting. She’s shorter than I remember; maybe she’s shrunk like I have. All I can see over the pulpit is a shock of pure white hair and steely blue eyes encased in wrinkles.
“Bertha only got irritated with me once. It was on her ninety-sixth birthday.” Marianne’s deep voice reverberates through the sanctuary. “I told her she should slow down.” We all laugh. We know what’s coming. “Bertha looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘Marianne, I will give up my activism on the day I die and not a day sooner.’”
I’m on my feet, cheering along with everyone else and, at the same time, wondering what Bertha would think if she knew what my life was like today. If she saw me loading and unloading boxes of food from my car during my weekly Meals on Wheels deliveries and doodling away the interminable minutes at the monthly Monrow City Retirement Association board meetings instead of going to all the protests and rallies. Would she think I’ve given up on the world? I wish she were here so I could assure her that I care as much as ever about what I see and hear—children being locked in cages on our borders, people murdered every day just for daring to be who they are, thousands of people sleeping on our streets and in our parks—and that, like her, I will never quit until the day I die. I would also tell her what I’ve learned over the years, and that now I’m doing what I choose to do, not what I think I should do or what I think I have to do in order to be an okay person. I wonder if, like me, she ever got tired, asked if she’d been arrested enough times, spent enough days in jail waiting to be arraigned, been on trial enough times, written enough letters, gone to enough protests and marches. I wonder if she had to learn, like I did, that she was just one person and the only thing required of her was to do her part.
Martin Lind, someone else who will never quit until the day he dies, steps up to the pulpit. The crowd applauds and whistles, then stops when he raises his hands. “On behalf of the Monrow City Peace and Justice Coalition, it’s my distinct honor now to introduce tonight’s speaker.” More cheers. “Dr. Darla Kelsey is a senior fellow with the Arms Control Association. With a master’s degree in peace studies and a BA in international studies and political science, she is an expert on nuclear nonproliferation, missile defense, Iran’s nuclear capabilities, and North Korea’s missile program.” He stretches his arms out and opens his hands. “But the most exciting thing about Dr. Kelsey, as you know, is that she is the granddaughter of our own beloved Bertha Pickering.”
The chanting outside—Keep America safe!—increases in volume but can’t compete with the raucous standing ovation inside. Dr. Kelsey, a frequent commentator on CNN, NPR, and MSNBC, would be the equivalent of a movie star to this audience under any circumstances, but for her to be the granddaughter of our heroine sends us over the moon.
She appears older in person than she does on the screen, her long blond hair stringier, with strands of brown that match her brown suit and add a commanding maturity to her bright smile and youthful brown eyes. Bertha’s eyes.
“We have nuclear weapons, so why don’t we use them? That’s the unbelievably dangerous question some politicians are actually asking today.” She pauses for effect. “Some of them are even asking why they should have to go to Congress to get approval to use them.”
The audience boos. Competing shouts from outside. Someone rushes to close the door. My gut lurches like it does when the news on TV is rife with conflict. But I know what to do now when my serenity is threatened like this: take in a deep breath, start counting, and let the air out through my mouth. After several attempts, my jaw starts to relax.
“North Korea has nuclear weapons capable of annihilating major cities in our country,” Dr. Kelsey says. I count to ten. “And now, they are threatening to test a hydrogen bomb over the ocean.” A hush falls over the sanctuary as her gaze moves from the upturned faces in the front row all the way to the people in the back. When it reaches the last pew, Bertha joins in and whispers in my ear. You’re going to have to do something about this, you know, Sylvia. I push back. That old familiar guilt that tells me I’m not doing enough may no longer rule my life, but that doesn’t mean it’s not crouching around the corner, ready to spring with claws bared given the chance.
The man who looks just like Norton breaks into the silence. “Not gonna happen,” he shouts.
Dr. Kelsey nods and smiles at him. “Not if we can stop it.”
He jumps to his feet and raises his fist in the air. “And we are gonna stop it! Don’t worry, we’re gonna.”
I lean so far forward I almost slip off the pew. The agitated pitch in his voice is as familiar as his appearance, his pattern of speech one I remember only too well.
“With that kind of enthusiasm, I believe we will.” Dr. Kelsey smiles at him again and he sits back down. “But not everyone is like you, sir. Some people say there’s no need for concern. Why worry, they say, when we have the capability to shoot down any incoming missile before it can reach us.”
“Bullshit,” the man who is the reincarnation of Norton shouts.
After that, only snippets of Dr. Kelsey’s speech—a smattering of acronyms like GMD, THAADS, and ICBMs; a missile defense system that won’t protect us; a petition supporting a United Nations treaty to ban nuclear weapons—slip through the images and memories now playing like a movie in my head. About the night Norton and I met. His irrefutable commitment to peace and his knowledge about the issues. His long ponytail and bushy beard. The twinkle in his green eyes. His biceps bulging under a long-sleeved black T-shirt with PEACE in huge white letters on the front. The two of us talking in the bar late into the night, too many glasses of white zinfandel for me, too many cans of Pabst beer for him. Then my mind jumps to the months after, the arguments, misunderstandings, secrets.
The man who looks just like him jumps to his feet again, and I’m jolted back to the present. “No! We will not allow it!”
Dr. Kelsey nods. “I know you folks won’t. You folks know that to allow nuclear waste to be stored here would be to risk radioactive contamination worse than any plague you can imagine, poisonous pollutants in the air you breathe, the water you drink, and the food you eat.”
She steps aside and hands the microphone to Martin Lind. He thumps his hand on the pulpit. “Dr. Kelsey is right, folks. The danger is real. The Nectaral Corporation is planning to store plutonium right here in our back yard.” People boo. “They don’t want us to know what that means. They don’t want us to know the risks.” People nod and call out in anger. “They don’t want us to know what happened at the Hanford nuclear reservation. Or at Three Mile Island.”
People chant: No they don’t. No they don’t. Martin raises his hands. He’s on a roll. “They don’t want us to know what happened at the Nevada test site.” They don’t care. “Or what happened at Fernald, Ohio.” They don’t care.
Martin lets the chanting continue for a while and then steps in. “So, do you think they care if mutated children are born here?” No they don’t. No they don’t.
Finally, he raises his hands, waits for
