This is a follow-up to my post about the 68 DNC riots. Administrators: this isnt explicitly about Chicago or Old Town, but please indulge me this once. Fast-forward forty years. I get a call from my teenage daughter, whos at the Augusta, Maine, Civic Center, demonstrating in favor of gay marriage legislation. Can I come get her? On the drive up the radio announces the governor is sending police to the scene. This is going to be ugly, I say to myself, and prepare to battle through clouds of gas and a phalanx of riot shields to rescue my little girl. I arrive to...a Norman Rockwell town meeting. Outside the hall, decidedly unagitated agitators for-and-against chat amiably with each other and with the handful of cops quite unnecessarily dispatched to maintain order. Inside the pros are peaceably seated on one side of the auditorium; the cons on the other. Advocates for each side are given respectful hearings and sent off to polite applause, even from their adversaries. I was livid. You call this a protest!? Have you not heard a word Ive said, young lady? Ill bet you left your gas mask in your gym locker, didnt you? (Though in her defense, that would be the logical place for it.) And not a Molotov Cocktail in sight! You think these police cruisers are going to burn themselves? Oh, and I suppose you think that bat I gave you was for softball. Whats gotten into you? Honestly, this younger generation...
Posted on: Mon, 01 Sep 2014 05:05:01 +0000
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