The Widening Gulf

by Gary Beck

In the summer of 1962, my best friend Steve started to work part time at the community centre where he had been a volunteer. He also concentrated on writing poetry again. I immersed myself in the radical movement and travelled across the country meeting with small groups of sympathizers in big cities. The two main issues of our times were civil rights and the growing involvement in the war in Vietnam. Throughout 1963 both issues escalated into domestic conflict. Steve was vitally concerned with the civil rights cause and urged me to join him in the struggle to help right a terrible wrong. I tried to make him understand that stopping the expanding war in Vietnam was much more important, since it could lead to World War III and the destruction of civilization. Our disagreements became tenser.

That year, one dreadful incident after the other shamed America at home and abroad. In Birmingham, Alabama, ‘Bull’ Connor turned fire hoses and dogs on Negro protestors, many of them children. The sight of innocent kids being savaged by dogs was horrifying. Medgar Evers, a civil rights leader in Jackson, Mississippi, was callously shot to death. Then at the end of August, 200,000 people, Negro and white, marched in Washington, D.C. to dramatize the need for civil rights legislation. Martin Luther King thrilled the nation when he made his ‘I have a Dream’ speech on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Part of me ached to join the civil rights struggle and work with Steve. Ted, my mentor in the movement, was adamant that we not lose sight of the big picture. He told our group: “While it is true that our oppressed brethren are worthy of our support, there are hundreds of thousands of people who are joining them, and only dozens of us. We are freedom fighters who will be reviled by many if we succeed. If we fail, the down-trodden everywhere will suffer.”

My comrade Joanie and I talked late into the night about Ted’s statement. It was difficult to dispute his logic. We were a radical elite, the special forces of resistance to an oppressive government. And there were only a handful of us against a huge system. But there were moments when I longed to confront the simple wrong of racial injustice, rather than the complex ideology of anti-imperialism. Joanie was just as tough as Ted in her way, but she had allowed a little bit of affection for me to creep into her rigid beliefs. After hours of rambling conversation, she finally confronted my doubts.

“Randy. You can’t fight every battle. Either you rededicate yourself to the Cause, or you should consider leaving us.”

A flash of dread ran through me. “I couldn’t leave the Cause. It’s too much a part of me. I was just questioning things to be sure I’m making the right decisions. I worry about the violence we’re planning.”

Joanie was quick to reassure me. “We’re targeting property, not people. Ted has told us that a dozen times.”

“I just want to be sure.”

“So do I. Now come to bed.”

Locked in the safety of her arms, my fears diminished and no thought of sex confused the rapport between us. My sexual needs were fulfilled by willing comrades who I met in my travels. There were always girls who were eager to share the revolutionary spirit. I managed to put my misgivings aside and thought about how to interest Steve in the radical cause. But any hope of attracting him blew away on September 15th, when a bomb exploded in a Baptist Church in Birmingham, killing four schoolchildren. My appeal to join the revolutionary movement was meaningless to him, while innocent children were being slaughtered. He told me passionately:

“The men who murdered those kids are the other side of the coin of your movement.”

I was outraged at the comparison. “That’s not true. They’re racist lunatics. We’re freedom fighters.”

Steve laughed contemptuously. “Freedom Fighters? You’ve got to be kidding. Your people are just as crazy as those hate-mongers. All you’re planning is death and destruction. You don’t have one constructive idea.”

“Someone’s got to resist government oppression. Even you should see that. And we’re not crazy,” I yelled furiously.

He finally realized how upset I was and said placatingly: “I know you’re not crazy. But I wonder about some of your friends.”

It took me a while to calm down but I finally answered him in a quieter voice. “We represent an unpopular cause. We have to go to extremes because everyone’s against us.”

“That’s what the Nazis said,” he said softly.

I was horrified. “Is that how you think of us?”

He saw how hurt I was and quickly retracted his statement. “I know you’re not a Nazi, but some of your friends are dangerous and I want you to recognize that.”

“Don’t worry, Steve. I know what I’m doing.”

He tried to lighten the tension with a silly joke. “Now I’m really worried.”

We parted once again without resolving the differences between us, but the underlying bond of our friendship was intact. I brooded about how to convert Steve to the Cause. I know he thought about how to rescue me from the group that he called the ‘mad plotters’. It wasn’t so much that we were on opposite sides. There was no civil war between us. We just had different priorities and we were both too committed or too obstinate to give in.

The brutal disorders of November drove Steve and I further apart. First, President Diem of Vietnam was overthrown in a coup and he and his brother Ngu were murdered. The Kennedy administration glibly recognized the new military junta and pledged continued aid. Steve argued that however distasteful the means, it was necessary to continue the struggle against a communist takeover. I accused him of the same thinking that he attributed to me. I told him bluntly: “You’re saying that the end justifies the means.” He strenuously disagreed and we were at loggerheads again, with no compromise possible. I began to wonder how long our friendship could endure these emotional disagreements. The thought of not having Steve for a friend was very disturbing.

Then, on November 22nd, the nation was traumatized by the assassination of President Kennedy. I was in a group meeting in Cincinnati, immersed in a theoretical discussion of terrorism. Someone in another room heard the announcement on the radio and rushed in to tell us. We watched the replay on television, over and over and saw the fatal shots that cancelled the democratic process. Some of my comrades cheered the death of an imperialist war monger. I yelled: “Shut up!” which didn’t endear me to them. I hated their gloating. I may have opposed government abuses, but I didn’t want a democratically elected president shot down like a dog. America wasn’t supposed to have third world values. The meeting broke up shortly after that and I took the train back to New York City.

When I arrived at Penn Station, on an impulse, I went to Steve’s apartment. I was suddenly urgent to find out his reaction to the murder of a president. He had been writing all day and he had no idea what had happened. When I told him that Kennedy was dead, at first he thought I was joking. He didn’t have a TV and I dragged him out to a local bar, where he saw the same scene that all America and much of the world had been watching all day. The president being gunned down in Dallas. It was just as horrible watching the shots hit Kennedy for the fifth time, as it was seeing it the first time.

By midafternoon, the assassin was captured in a Dallas movie theater and identified as Lee Harvey Oswald. It turned out that he murdered a policeman before fleeing to the theater. It never became clear how the diligent forces of law and order located Oswald in the theater. Vice president Johnson was sworn in as president and refused to return to Washington, D.C. without Jacqueline Kennedy. She refused to leave Dallas without the body of her husband. The secret service seized the corpse before an autopsy could be performed. The supposed rough handling of the corpse prevented a proper analysis of the wounds. Did they play kick-the-corpse on Air Force One? Anyone with a suspicious mind would be alerted to something amiss.

While the stunned nation struggled to accept the horrible tragedy, I stayed at Steve’s apartment. We watched events unfold on a cheap black and white TV that we bought at a pawn shop. We were watching the Dallas police move Oswald to court for questioning, when a man stepped up to Oswald right in the middle of tight security and shot him in the stomach. None of the police had noticed that he had a gun, until after he fired. This could certainly trigger questions in anyone intelligent enough to consider a conspiracy theory.

Later that day, a solemn procession took the president’s casket from the White House to the Capitol building. Hundreds of thousands of people lined the streets and somberly watched the carriage pulled by six gray horses, followed by a saddled but riderless black horse. All night long mourners filed past the closed coffin as they paid their last respects. The next day, a million mourners lined the funeral route to Arlington National Cemetery, where the 35th president was buried with full military honors.

The 30-day period of national mourning for the slain president distracted most people from serious consideration of a conspiracy theory. When the FBI reported that Oswald was the lone assassin and there was no link between him and Jack Ruby, most Americans accepted the conclusions at face value. Steve and I were not only convinced there was a conspiracy, but we assumed the cover-up was intended to protect people in high places. I tried to convince Steve that this was one more reason to resist the abuses of government.

“How can you trust a government that whitewashes an assassination?”

“I never trusted the government, Randy, but I don’t know how to make improvements in it yet.”

Weeks of pent-up outrage burst out of me. “The only way is to force them to change.”

“How? Through violence?”

“If necessary.”

“Did you ever consider peaceful methods?” Steve asked.

“Of course. We’re not psychos.”

“Then why don’t you look for constructive alternatives?”

Once again Steve and I disagreed about how to change our society. When I tried to discuss the deteriorating political situation in Vietnam since the military coup with him, Steve said: “I prefer to focus my energies on civil rights.”

I pointed out. “Defense Secretary McNamara, the architect of the escalation in Vietnam, recently reported that unless we increase our assistance the communists will take over South Vietnam.”

Steve was unmoved. “So what? the rice paddies aren’t worth American boys getting killed.”

I was really getting exasperated. “You don’t understand. The Johnson administration just announced that the plan to withdraw U.S. troops by the end of 1965 has been canceled.”

“I repeat. So what?” Steve said obstinately.

“That means more and more involvement in what could become a much bigger war. If we don’t stop the war now, it could grow and grow and go on for years.”

“How will you prevent it?”

I couldn’t reveal our plans, even to Steve. “I can’t tell you now, but you’ll find out.”

Steve didn’t press me for an explanation and we left things vague. But we both felt a growing distance between us. Before I went back to my friends in the movement, Steve said:

“Let’s make sure we don’t let our political differences disrupt our friendship.”

A surge of warmth went through me. “No way, pappy.”

He smiled. “Right on, junior. How about we spend New Year’s Eve together? I know of a great party.”

That sounded good, but my time was not my own. “I’ll let you know.”

We never did get to spend New Year’s Eve together. I was sent to Buffalo to train a local group in the tactics of organized resistance. It was so cold that winter that I sometimes didn’t get out of the house for days. This left me a lot of time to watch the news on TV. It was mostly sports and local trivia fit for a buffalo. But the U.S. escalation in Vietnam went on. Even the C.I.A. was getting into the act, finally coming out of the shadows and attacking North Vietnam. Just before the spring thaw, two events occured that really bothered me. On March 13th, a woman named Kitty Genovese was brutally attacked and murdered, while her neighbors watched from their windows, without helping or calling the police. Some neighbors. The next day, a Dallas jury convicted Jack Ruby of murdering Oswald, but they didn’t explore a conspiracy. According to the media, Americans seemed to accept that. Sometimes I wondered about the intelligence of my fellow citizens.

The year went by faster and faster. Senator Goldwater campaigned for the Republican Party’s nomination for president, advocating the use of low yield atomic weapons in South Vietnam. When I considered that this irresponsible nut was a serious presidential candidate, many of my personal doubts about the radical cause disappeared. When Goldwater won the nomination, I was convinced that I was following the right course. Incident after incident continued to expand the war in Vietnam. In August, when North Vietnamese torpedo boats attacked U.S. destroyers in the Gulf of Tonkin, Congress passed the Tonkin Gulf Resolution, which gave President Johnson war powers. Ted summoned me back to new York City and it felt like I was returning from exile. There are worse places than Buffalo, but not for a young, political radical.

Steve and I did have a drink together on New Year’s Eve, 1965, but it was at a party at his east Village apartment. The place was crawling with stoned hippies who made private conversation impossible. But it was good to see him. We got together occasionally after that, but we faced the same old dilemma. He was still concerned with civil rights. The police attack on marchers in Selma, Alabama outraged his sensibilities. I understood his reaction. But I was focused on the war in Vietnam and the arrival of the first U.S. combat troops further spurred my opposition. Our biggest problem was that we couldn’t seem to respect each other’s beliefs. We went through longer and longer periods without seeing each other and when we met the visit was often strained.

Ted announced to the group that we were going to ‘go underground’ and prepare for a long term struggle against the government. The plan was so vague that enthusiasm was limited. Ted won me over by appointing me to work in the bomb factory and he promised to teach me what he knew about explosives. I was always a sucker for explosions. Ted ordered me not to tell Steve anything about our activities and I agreed, but I knew that I couldn’t shut Steve out of my life.

I didn’t see Steve for months, then, on an impulse while Ted was away, I snuck out of the house and went to his apartment. He had a girl staying with him and he couldn’t kick her out, so we went for a walk. It felt very strange to be awkward with each other and I thought it was my fault, until Steve told me about a recent change in his attitude towards Vietnam.

“I know how you feel about the war, Randy, but I want you to try and understand something.”

“Sure. What?”

He was unusually hesitant. “I’ve been thinking about the poor kids sent to fight in Vietnam and how unfair it is for them.”

I felt a flash of hope that he was finally beginning to see the evil of the war. “I can understand your feeling.”

Steve looked at me intently. “If I get my draft notice, I’m going to join the Marines and become an officer.”

I couldn’t believe what he was saying. “Are you out of your mind?”

“No. I’ve thought about it very carefully. I know the war is wrong, but American boys are getting killed and I won’t run away to Canada, and I don’t want to go to jail.”

“Did you get your draft notice?” I asked apprehensively.

“No. But I think I’ll get it soon.”

I was really furious with him. “So you’ll just go like a sheep to the slaughter?”

Steve decided to avoid an argument for the moment. “Listen, Randy. I’ve got a girl waiting for me and I have to get back. We can talk about this another time.”

I was much too angry to discuss anything reasonably with him. “I’m really disappointed in you, Steve.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, junior.”

“Don’t junior me. This is serious. You’re making a big mistake.”

“We’ll talk about it. I’ve got to go.”

It was months until we talked again. By that time both our attitudes were rigid. We argued fruitlessly about his intention to enlist and parted in anger. We were as divided as the rest of the country.

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