Tiananmen Square: Reflections on My Long March

The Short March © June 6, 1989
Pre-dawn,
Beijing waiting,
Ancient streets mist-shrouded.
Four old men, more shadow than flesh,
Hobbled rigid, but bent, into death-quiet Square;
They looked long and pointed,
Shook heads and muttered,
But did not cry.
One tripped,
Slipping on slick stone.
The others helped him stand,
His once clean khaki, now stained, deepest red,
Wind-sounds through fog, but the air refused to move;
The oldest shivered,
Heard wordless curses
On this too-still wind.

One million voices,
Whispering in shocked fury
Raised the wind.

"Quiet!
Move quickly!"
His voice ripped the dawn,
And the old men retreated, clattering.
One soldier fired, but the People's Army killed him;
The Four scuttled safe
Through cracks in the Hall,
Like roaches.
"Imagine,"
Clucked a comrade
As he toed the dead offender,
"Mistaking heroes of the Long March
For Enemies of the People," but he stopped.
The People's Army shivered,
Stood frozen silent,
In un-named terror.

Roaring now,
The too-still wind
Struck down the day.

***

I was at a cookout at my friend's--more sister than friend, really. I was married then, as was she, and as was the third couple who had driven from NYC. My husband and I had been listening to NPR, as had the other couple. When we arrived at Gail's the t.v. was already on. We six watched in stunned and revolted silence. In inspired silence as well. All six cried, even my husband and Gail's. These were not men moved to tears, as a rule. We spoke of this throughout the evening, not feeling resentment that the big cookout was ruined, not caring about any of that. For once, the subject was far greater than the event.

We spoke of the Civil Rights Movement here. I remembered my mother making me watch the dogs and the hoses; she made me watch the children cry and the mothers hitting the ground and bruised and bloodied people hauled away. She forced my brother and me to sit on our seven-foot couch, eyes open wide, hunkered into opposite ends. I sobbed. Jack threw up. Lesson learned, but my mother was relentless.

"And that's how you feel just seeing it from across the room on t.v., safe. Imagine what it is for them? THIS is what we are doing. THIS must change. But we live in a country where it is shown to us on the national news, so we cannot be blind any more. And we must change it."

She could not march on Washington. There were children at home. She, however, like thousands across our country, could organize the sympathy marches and demonstrations, keep us by her to listen to the speeches. I do not remember where I heard what, but I remember that we were on the steps of the library. I remember I heard the speech with her and watched her cry. I learned.

She made us watch the coverage of the shooting of a President. She made us watch the news when the images of Viet Nam were vivid. She was proud of my brother Jack, when he went to D.C. She was proud again when he was prepared to file as a conscientious objector, at the depth of his commitment and his willingness to go to jail. Ultimately it was moot; his health kept him ironically safe. She did not fight my other brother when he joined the Marines, though he was likely to go to Nam. She understood that Jim was flailing in life, and that he felt it was his last chance to right himself. Ironically, it was pneumonia that nearly killed him; he never went to Nam. She respected his convictions as much as Jack's, though her sensibilities were with the pacifist. She taught us that you do not protest the soldiers, especially as a woman. We did not know the burden of the draft hanging over our heads, she pointed out. This lesson was one I took with me to college myself, and my friend Gail and I were always in the fight against the war, but not against the returning vets.

I was taught the danger of numbness, so when the Tiananmen Square events unfolded before us, I was blessedly alive. We all were. My husband began to speak more of the war and what it had done to him. We had been to the Viet Nam War Memorial two years before, and I had seen my husband ask to make one round alone, after I helped him find two of the four names he was driven to find. I stood and watched him grow smaller in the middle and larger as the Wall shrank. He took me by the hand and we made the second swing together; it was the closest we ever were, before or since, in our marriage.

The six of us spoke in hushed tones. We were bonded intensely for that one night; it did not last. I don't know how the others feel at this point. I have no idea. I wrote this poem two days later because I needed to have hope for these people, these courageous, peaceful soldiers of their own convictions. The man who stood before that tank SHOULD be emblazened worldwide on posters to the Heavens, for all of us to see.

I do not know who wrote about the Power of One to Change the world. That we must never doubt the power of one committed person to change the world, because that's all that ever does. It remains true; today reminds me of the power of hope as well. I can see the sadness in my husband's eyes. I feel my own pain today, as I did then, as I did as a child watching children fall from the force of water.

Many of those people in China were imprisoned or killed; others were not. Perhaps today their hope, partly through our remembrance, will burn brighter within--where no State can dim it. And my hope is that their hope and passion will bring them to the place where they, once again, rise up as a mighty wind and strike down their day of oppression.

And that we all, as ONE people, support them. I don't care if this is a dream of Utopia. I don't care if it is a trite or naive thought. Unless we dare to envision Utopia, nothing much will happen.