by Ted Bernard
“But what if the protest is focused on Blackwood Forest?” Redlaw asked.
“It definitely is,” said the provost.
“Shit, again,” cursed Beth.
11
Astrid and José rushed out of McWhorter into the autumn sunshine to join the stream of students rippling from class to class. They broke free of the migration by cutting through Weary Hall’s basement. Weary Hall housed the Department of English and the School of Classical Studies. To Astrid, Weary Hall was as ho-hum as the subjects taught there. On the stairway, they came up behind a tweedy English prof, her graying hair twirled in a bun. She labored up the stairs carrying a stack of essays in one arm and an MLA-logoed bag in the other. José, in the lead, slowed down enough to say, “Excuse us”. She turned and smiled vacantly as they whooshed past. As soon as they emerged from Weary, they could hear the chants and drums.
NO MORE COAL. NO MORE GAS.
WE WANT ENERGY THA’S GONNA LAST.
NO MORE COAL. NO MORE GAS.
WE WANT ENERGY THA’S GONNA LAST.
GREEN ENERGY! GREEN ENERGY! NOW, NOW, NOW!
They ran to join the demonstration. Frank, at the front of the chanting mob, was lost in rapture as José sidled up and offered his fist. Frank, tilting his head back and forth, twisting his hips, stomping his Birkenstocks, his beard waggling to the drumbeat, bumped José’s fist and, as if channeling Jerry Garcia, shouted, “Get it on, man!” The pulsating mob, once about twenty, had doubled and more than doubled again as students poured out of classes onto the quad. José grabbed Astrid’s hand and they began swinging and shouting to the seductive percussion of plastic whistles, Brazilian rattles, tambourines, African drums, and Cuban congas. Protestors, including me, waved signs with messages for the media and the Redlaw administration. The two I made said:
BLACKWOOD FOREST: IRREPLACEABLE
I SPEAK FOR BLACKWOOD
My friends wielded homemade signs conveying similar, and somewhat overworked, advices and gripes:
GET THE FRACK OUT OF OUR FOREST
SAVE BLACKWOOD
PRESIDENT REDLAW: DON’T FRACK BLACKWOOD
NO FRACKING WAY
GO GUO: GEOTHERMAL UNIVERSITY OF OHIO
BLACKWOOD GROUNDWATER: SACRED LIQUID
SHALE GAS IS FRACTURED LOGIC
MORSE: SHOVE YOUR INJECTION WELLS UP YOUR ARSE
SWITCH TO GREEN ENERGY NOW
LEAVE GAS IN THE GROUND
~
Sergeant Gilmore Putman, a twenty-year veteran of the Gilligan Campus Police, pulled his cruiser to the curb. To his partner, Lisa Van Sickle, he said, “We ain’t had a demo up here in a good long time, prob’ly not since '03 when they set down in the middle of Federal and Clayborne. Got pretty interestin' pickin' up them coeds and stuffin’ ‘em into the sheriff’s van.”
Ignoring the old man’s memories, Lisa, a twenty-something Southeast Tech grad and recent recruit, asked, “Are we liable to be called in to break this thing up?”
“Nah, Chief Barnhill told us to sit tight unless things get violent. This ain’t the seventies, not even 2003, when people were pretty pissed at Bush. These kids, apart from the fact they cain’t hold their liquor, cain’t keep their pants on, and are way too rich — are harmless. Hey, you’re almost one of them. You oughta know.”
“Not quite. I was raised in a dirt-poor household ruled by a tyrant who abused his wife. We kids learned to respect authority or we’d be beaten, just like our mom was.”
To comment on Lisa’s upbringing, Gilmore decided, would lead to no good place. Instead he said, “Well, if we are summoned, we’ve got almost the whole force here: two other cruisers over by Lindbloom and one across from the main portal. Also, several officers on foot and bicycles behind the library are ready if they’re needed. That truck across the street has our riot gear. Don’t you worry, dear, we’ll be fine.”
~
Beth Samuels had carefully prepared the ground for a dignified and informative press conference. She not only warmly introduced the university executive officers and Dr. Tulkinghorn on the dais but she also asked each media representative to stand and be recognized, one-by-one. To each she offered what seemed like a graciously tailored personal welcome. Sean, the PCSA/ClimateThrong plant, shrank into his chair. But Director Samuels, anxious to keep to her agenda, had not noticed him and proceeded quickly to set the scene for President Redlaw. As the president ambled to the podium, student helpers passed out shiny copies of the energy plan. Faithfully following Beth’s script, Mitchell Redlaw walked through the salient features, highlighted GUO’s intent to establish a model for making the transition to green energy, and carefully outlined the steps the university will follow from boiler replacement and conversion to the switch to renewable sources and a zero-carbon campus. He carefully explained each step and presented the Board’s detailed financial arguments for the twenty-year progression.
Realizing that Redlaw had reclaimed his mojo, Beth relaxed. But not for long. The strengthening background cadence of drumbeat and incessant chanting began to jangle her nerves. The racket reverberated discordantly from two sides of the briefing room, as if stereo tracks had been ineptly synchronized. Despite her growing agitation, which, if unleashed, could seriously derail the event, she dug deeply and pulled out a fresh PR face, brimming with enthrallment. She had to grant the president this: despite the noise and distraction, the humiliation, Mitchell Redlaw marched gallantly on without mentioning what everyone else in the room knew to be true. This press conference had been cleverly upstaged by a small band of irate and well-organized students.
He concluded his remarks and invited questions. Beth folded her quivering hands and hoped for the best. He called on the undergraduate student council chairperson by name. She rose with a plethora of things on her mind. She began, “President Redlaw, thank you for calling on me first! Hi Everybody!” She turned this way and that, waving from her wrist. “Well,” she continued, “Gilligan Student Council last night passed a resolution that contained five interrelated, student-centered items. The first one of those is that GUO move immediately toward divestment in fossil fuel energy companies in the university’s portfolio. We ask our university to be at the forefront on this social cause which has been a missing piece of the climate debate on this and many other campuses.” She then reached back to conjure the longest, most unanswerable rhetorical question in recent Gilligan press conference history. “What better publicity could there be for GUO than to have it take a moral stand, a courageous stand, a most commendable stand, at the very head of the pack of responsible universities by divesting itself of fossil fuel industry investments, investments that lead to pollution of our seas, our fresh waters, and the very air we breathe and that, most importantly now threaten the stability of the global climate.” Less than halfway through, she lost even the president, but then she rallied with a succinct follow-up that pinned the man to the wall. “So … will you, President Redlaw, and your administration commit to this noble goal of divestment? That’s my question.”
Despite his aching knees and back, Redlaw sustained his erect bearing, poker-faced and stock-still while maintaining eye contact with the woman. He was experienced in handling student demands. He understood that student participation in university governance was partly life preparation and partly smoke and mirrors. He job was to humor them into thinking their proposals were reasonable and would factor into campus policy and decision-making. Beyond this, Mitchell Redlaw was a good-hearted man of probity, a reasonably competent president, and a man who could see the end of the tunnel. With all this in mind, he replied, “Thank you Megan. As for divestment in fossil fuel-based companies, though it is a noble suggestion, I agree, I am not sure it would do much to advance the cause of slowing climate change. Perhaps universities should instead use our considerable influence not to reject the fossil fuel-based sector but to encourage them to lead us through the transition to green energy. I agree with Harvard’s president, who said that boycotting a clas
s of industries on which we rely extensively for our everyday existence is disingenuous. The plain fact is that we simply cannot do without oil and natural gas in the near term. In light of that, I believe that it would be two-faced to divest at this moment. And that’s why very few campuses have done so.”
If the chair of the undergraduate Student Council was crestfallen by Redlaw’s response, she made no show of it and had no further questions.
There was a brief pause allowing the elephant in the living room to hover more prominently, swinging its trunk to the beat of drums and tambourines. Not a circus elephant, not this one. Beth realized then that it was not a question of if, but rather of when the demonstration would come up and she prepared to intervene. As nobody had yet raised it, Sean stood up. He identified himself as a PhD candidate in microbiology and a member of PCSA. Point blank, he asked about Blackwood Forest and how it figured into the energy plan. He followed by observing, “I mean, how can anyone in this room not be aware of what’s happening outside? In all due respect, what can you say about this Mr. President?”
“Well,” the president began, “as I mentioned in my introduction, I have scheduled a meeting with your group next week. At that time, I hope I will have information that is not yet available to answer your question. I believe I would be ill-advised to make a public statement on Blackwood Forest now. As for the students outside, thanks to the First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, they and all other members of the university family have the right to peaceful and non-intrusive speech. Those students today are exercising that right.” In deep, solemn tones, a manner of speaking he had learned to call upon in situations like this, as if proclaiming God’s final judgment, he said, “I congratulate your friends and classmates on their spirited engagement on this issue because it is one of great significance in our times.”
“But sir …”
Beth stood and joined the president at the podium. She whispered in his good ear and said, “Thank you Sean for your question, and thanks to all our media friends for attending this press conference on the Energy Plan for Gilligan University of Ohio. I am available any time at [email protected] for follow-ups or clarifications. Regrettably, the president must now depart for a legislative hearing in Columbus this afternoon. So, again, with gratitude from President Redlaw and his executive council, I declare this press conference adjourned.”
Sean ran down the corridor and out the back door. He found Nick, grabbed his arm and explained what had just happened. Nick replied, “Go tell Frank!” and he directed his group to follow him to the front of Stiggins. When Nick and the others arrived, he saw Frank and Sean gamely trying to quiet the crowd. At the top of his lungs, cupping his hands around his mouth, Frank shrieked that in the press conference the president had just stonewalled questions about Blackwood. In a heartbeat, we protestors responded with vehemence. Was a peaceful demonstration about to become unruly? F-bombs became part of a new call-and-response chant, which if you thought much about it, made little sense. But it rhymed and who cared?
BLACKWOOD! BLACKWOOD! SACRED SPACE
REDLAW, REDLAW! FUCK YOUR FACE.
As more and more onlookers became participants, Nick directed his group to return to the rear of Stiggins. When they arrived, they discovered press conference attendees sneaking out the back door. The group rushed en masse to reclaim their turf and resume their chants. Two executive-looking women, the Vice-President for Research and the Dean of the Graduate School halfway down the back steps, were bumped by the surge of student demonstrators. The students backed away and apologized. Paralyzed by fear, the VP Research managed to find her phone. As she grabbed the arm of her colleague and was led away from the demonstration, she called the President’s Office. “The mob is out of control,” she screamed into her phone.
Less than ten minutes later, a phalanx of police, dressed for riot control, marched across the quad toward Stiggins. Over a bull horn a lieutenant ordered us to disperse. We momentarily ceased our chants. Frank stepped aside to consult with Katherine, who, in the absence of Lara, seemed to be our leader now. Checking out the police in full riot gear, we protestors surged forward to chant and drum again. Katherine later explained to me that her worst fear at that moment was that the group had become too large and too rowdy to bring under control. With this in mind, Katherine urged Sean to bring Nick around. Nick and his followers reappeared and, laughing wildly, joined in the new chant. Katherine yelled, “Quick, grab our people. Form two columns. Take them out of here before the police start bashing heads.”
The police had now advanced within a few feet of the steps to the Stiggins lawn. Behind their shields, they formed a wall. Their helmeted and gas-masked faces were grotesque: riot guns loaded with rubber bullets, pepper spray and tear gas at their belts, batons drawn and ready. Pandemonium or peaceful retreat? Scared shitless, I could not predict. The answer hung in this standoff moment. The police did not budge. The lieutenant reissued his order, this time with an ultimatum. “If you have not obeyed this order in the next three minutes, you will be arrested for disorderly conduct and disturbing the peace.”
Reluctantly, those of us with signs and noisemakers and drums began to follow Nick and Frank down the steps. At the police line, Nick called out, “We’re dispersing peacefully. Please let us pass!” After a moment of indecision, the police were ordered to lower their shields and back away. Silently, we marched through the phalanx and across the Quad, holding our signs high. Shots of our retreat would appear on front pages of newspapers the next morning and on websites and social media platforms almost immediately. In the absence of drums and chants, the other students took the opportunity to avoid confrontation and went their ways. Frank and Nick led us down Harrison Hill onto Eastman Quad. We huddled in the open space in front of Addison Hall. We relinquished our signs and instruments and most of us returned to the business of being students. I drifted towards Katherine.
“Whew! We dodged a bullet, perhaps literally,” said Katherine.
Jason, having rushed over from his lab, said. “Sorry I missed everything. It looks like it turned out to be a bit of a ball-tearer.”
“Is that saying it was bad?” asked Katherine.
“No, just the opposite. But was it crackers overall?” Jason asked.
“Not sure about that,” she responded. “What I can say is that it definitely felt like Late-K.”
“Huh?” replied Jason.
I knew exactly what she meant.
12
We squeezed around a table in the back room of The Jenny. Samantha and I were stoking up for a long night with double Americanos. Nick drank an unknown beverage from a battered Montreal Canadiens mug, his attention given to the sweetness of it. Something alcoholic. Lara, a GUO mug at hand, asked him to facilitate. He nodded. Using his meaty hand, he slapped the table, jarring the gathered few.
“Where to start?” he asked wearily. “Most urgently, let’s quickly assess the protest: what went well, what needs to be improved. Then, we’ll try to figure out what’s liable to bubble up in the meeting tonight. Finally, next steps. Anything else?”
Katherine raised her hand. “Yes. CNRD is planning a field trip to Blackwood next week. We need to promote it. Also, I briefly talked with a staff contact this afternoon. I have some insights and advice.”
“Good,” Nick reassured her. “Anybody else? No? Okay, Sean tell us about the press conference.”
Sean stood up, smoothed his trousers, adjusted his sweater, cleared his throat. In mannerly Carolina English, he briefly reiterated what had happened in the press conference, how the media relations director had protected the president and brought the meeting to a close when he asked about Blackwood. He distributed a one-page summary of the press conference and announced that the president would meet with us next week.
“Are there other matters before we talk about the protest?”
“Yeah, Nick,” offered Jason. “I want to acknowledge Hannah’s alacrity in alerting us.”
I blushed.
“Alacrity?” Nick asked.
“Yeah. It’s a word we Aussies use every day. Canucks need the thesaurus?”
“What’s a thesaurus?”
“Right, mate. Anyway, without Hannah we would have known about that press conference only after the fact. Kudos to our faithful mole.” The clapping and hooting heartened me, to say the least.
Nick acknowledged Astrid. “I don’t know whether any of you had a chance to look on line for our protest. I found a video clip, probably by one of our students — smart phone quality. It was just 45 seconds but by five o’clock this afternoon it had been seen by almost thirty thousand viewers. I also watched Channel 18 in Columbus and they opened with the video of us and our signs and the confrontation with the campus police. They got Frank seriously boogying out there. So, I’d say if our mission was to bring Blackwood to the attention of the wider world, we succeeded.”
“Outta sight!” exclaimed Frank.
Nick asked for opinions on the protest. Although the rapid mobilization had been impressive and the overall outcome of surrounding the press conference and capturing media attention was successful, the downside, everybody agreed, was how it almost ended with head bashing. We realized that what seemed like an innocent occurrence on the back steps nearly set off a police riot. The outrage and the f-bomb chants would need to be curtailed in future. “That chant was hilarious but it was also borderline stupidity,” Katherine admonished.
