by Claire Matturro and Penny Koepsel
Jude whispered to herself: remember this date. August 22, 1972.
Beside her, Camille fingered the peace symbol on a cord around her neck and eyed the crowds. Jude’s jeans rubbed hot against her thighs. Both had painted “Stop the War” in red on the front of their T-shirts. Along with twelve thousand others, they’d gathered for a silent march in Miami Beach. The Republicans were holding their National Convention in Miami, Nixon was in town and so were the police, the protesters, and the media. The marchers’ goal was the Hotel Fontainebleau, convention headquarters.
Without speaking, Jude and Camille merged with the throng. Veterans in wheelchairs moved toward the front, rolling their chairs along with their hands and muscled arms, their faces grim and sweaty, their eyes squinting in the sun.
After the veterans rolled past, the marchers surged forward. The only sounds were their feet on the pavement, walking, step after step. People in the hotels looked down from balconies and no one shouted at the protestors. A man leaning on a walker raised a shaky hand and saluted. A woman in a bathrobe blew a kiss.
Sweat trickled down Jude’s face and her body, pooling under her arms. Somebody opened a canteen and the sound of swallowing made her ache with thirst. She wouldn’t complain. If the veterans limping along on crutches could stand this heat, she could too. This was real, and real wasn’t always comfortable.
They passed through tunnels of police on both sides, so close that Jude smelled their sweat. Overhead a helicopter buzzed the crowd of protestors. Media people with cameras pushed inward.
Police formed a line blocking the marchers and pulled their tear gas masks over their faces. A man with a bullhorn shouted that they just wanted to walk up the street to the convention center.
Honoring the pledge of silence, Camille nudged Jude and pointed at her backpack. Within seconds, Jude had her pack off and was pouring water from a canteen over a collection of bandanas. She handed the first one to Camille, who tied it, dripping wet over the lower half of her face.
Jude wondered if these damp pieces of cotton would really help if the tear gas came. Then she handed wet bandanas to other marchers. When she tried to tie her own cloth around her face, her fingers fumbled making the knot under her hair. Camille reached up and tied the bandana at the back of Jude’s neck while she held her hair out of the way. With the bandana—a green one—covering Jude’s nose, she had trouble inhaling, but its wetness felt cool against her face.
Camille stepped back as Jude turned around. Above her red bandana, Camille ’s eyes locked on Jude’s own.
A cop in full riot gear told the crowd to disperse. The police advanced, their riot guns held in ready, tear gas canisters out in full view.
Camille flashed Jude a peace sign.
Jude lifted her right hand and flashed one right back at her.
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