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| On a crisp, glorious day in September 1968, I arrived at Colorado Women's College wearing a lovely straw hat, gloves, patent leather shoes, and a frilly, feminine dress, all in pale yellow and in the latest middle-American, upwardly mobile, young girl fashion. I was in love with everything I saw. Life was astoundingly wonderful. I was naive, strong, brilliant, enthusiastic, and fresh. I could make a difference in this world; I had the power and the will to do so and I would. We had just lost Robert Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., those great humans with peaceful souls. And there was Nixon, with those scared, hateful eyes, convincing the world that we Americans were just and right in our cause of murdering vengeance. Within weeks the freshman class had orchestrated a letter-writing campaign that sent more than 10,000 letters; we wrote everyone we could imagine, protesting our involvement and our killing campaign in Vietnam. We walked hundreds of miles with our lighted candles. We sang gospels for hours; read Emerson, Thoreau, and Paine aloud to thousands; wept oceans of tears. The music and poetry of that time were so strong, so true, they carried us when we wearied. We laughed, too. Joyously, we believed we would make the wisdom of peace known and understood everywhere. Each night a young, earnest Dan Rather brought us horrific photographs and news of that "military action" that was never a war. No one had ever seen such film before; we witnessed unrelenting carnage that included our brothers, our lovers, our neighbors, and many many small brown people we didn't know. We heard ace-ace, explosions, hissing napalm, screams, sobs, dying gasps, sitting in a huddle in front of a small television, tears streaming down our faces. The body count rose, theirs and ours; we hadn't yet become inured to that ghastly, gut-wrenching phrase, but we were learning quickly. We walked more miles, mailed more letters. We exhausted ourselves and our emotions; then we did it all again. For years. Suddenly, everything was over. Our soldiers came home, wounded beyond repair, to be vilified and spit on. That cruel president was humbled. Americans everywhere cheered and the business of making money and forgetting took over. But a rift had been torn in our souls. That wound could not be mended; the scar continued to ache. Them and us was strengthened, accepted as real, and we all tried to live in some decency with that knowledge. Hoping, trusting that all our work had made a difference in the value system of us humans. Then came Nicaragua, Guatemala, Panama, Haiti, the Gulf War, Bosnia. We could watch that, numbly mailing our letters, voting our hearts, speaking our truth. What was happening in Africa, Nepal, Tibet, India, Russia, was so beyond our comprehension that we prayed with fervor, sent food and money, and again trusted that walking our talk would serve as a beacon for change in the wretched methodology of murdering those with whom we disagreed. How long could we carry this belief in front of all that proved us wrong? On a crisp glorious day in September it all once more came home to us. The screams of 5000 souls filled our hearts with more anguish than can be borne. And that new man in charge, with the scared, hateful eyes and smug smirk of derision, once again tells us all that we Americans are right and just in our cause of murdering vengeance. And once again, the flag decals come to us in our copies of Time and Reader's Digest. United We Stand. If you are not with us, you are against us. Criminally against us. Once again we face an unbearable horror that must be borne and one that threatens to rip our souls into fragments. How do we go forward? What can we do? What must we do? First, remember that all of this can be endured; it has been before; we are capable of surviving this and of changing it. We must change the modus operandi soon, though, as we are wearing ourselves and our planet out. So, from those days of Vietnam, I offer these simple ideas to you, to help you if I can.
Finally, a few words from John Prine:
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