Get A Long Guide for Protestors

Sarah Gould
Guest Commentator

     Last weekend, I marched through Washington, D.C. with 200,000 like-minded individuals to protest the war against Iraq. It was nice to not feel like the only liberal for a change, but after last weekend, I think I understand why the original hippies met extinction.

     I used to think it was because they all sold out and got full-time jobs that offered retirement plans and dental insurance, or they simply ran out of things to protest. Now I realize the demise of flower children was just a result of poor planning, and after everyone got tired of driving their VW buses in circles all over the country, they all went home, showered and got real jobs.

     The protest itself was crazy, exciting and memorable. I got to meet Black Panthers and a woman running for governor of New York, as well as chant with Yale students, "Bush's war is going to fail, kind of like he did at Yale." I just hope when I reflect on the weekend in old age, I can look beyond the van ride to Washington D.C. and all the chaos and hostility associated with it.

     Maybe it had something to do with the fact that we had 16 people and all their camping gear crammed into a van designed to transport 14. Maybe it is just because people get cranky when they cannot change their underwear. Whatever the reason, for a group of people going to a peaceful protest against the war, there sure was a lot of dissent inside the van. Eventually, four of us could not stand it anymore and went our separate way.

     I think when the van showed up two hours late I should have known better than to get in; my parents always told me not to accept rides from strangers. I should have just stayed at the BP in New Concord, Ohio and talked to the attendant about the new brisket they sell. Instead I got in, and things went downhill from there.

     Fortunately, I learned a lot from the whole experience and I can pass the wisdom along. From my forthcoming book, "A Beginning Activist's Guide to Getting Along with Other Protesters," here is what I have learned.

     If you are a smoker and you need a smoke break, smoke. Then get back in the van. People are waiting for you to finish so the journey can continue. If you roll your own cigarettes, do so before the van stops for the break.

     Before you leave, make sure the driver has a map, at least a vague notion of how to reach your final destination and knows where your group will sleep. I know it sounds simple, but I never thought to ask, and obviously neither did anyone else. That is how four of us ended up waiting for a ride from somebody's parents and their irritable, one-eyed dog with boots on at a random Denny's for nine hours.

     If you are driving and you get tired, let someone else drive. Never, under any circumstances, suggest camping out an extra night if you have journalists with you.

     Never tell a group of journalists to relax or "go with the flow." They have deadlines; they do not have time to go with the flow and they have to try to dam it so they can get home on time.

     Unless it is very hot outside and you are worried about dehydration, do not drink anything the day of the protest. I had to wait to pee for eleven hours before I actually got to a restroom.

     If your protest involves an overnight stay anywhere, don't wear underwear. Take it from me, you never know how long you will be stranded in one state waiting for the smokers to get back in the van or when you will get to a restroom that does not involve trees.

     As good as car-pooling is for the environment, transport yourself if possible. That way you will not have to sleep against a window with somebody's elbow stuck between your ribs, you get to listen to all your own music and you do not have to worry about the smell of other people's leftover Chinese food or armpits.

     I hope these tips will be helpful, rather than discourage any would-be protesters. Overall, my first protest experience was not as bad as it probably sounds. I still plan on going to Georgia later this month to protest the School of Americas. If nothing else, it made me thankful to return to Muskingum. And I never thought I would be so happy to see a one-eyed, glaucoma-ridden dog with boots.

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