It’s homecoming. The old grads assemble: class of ’69, ’70, ’71. Jane brings them out. Reminiscence and deep embraces on the Washington Square Church stoop. “Terry? She cut her hair. Tom’s teaching in Colorado. Sexual Politics.” The girls jerk stringy hair back from their eyes; men suck beard pieces, a sort of pacifier. Bashful, oblique glances. They’re so sincere, they stutter. The movement recruits minority groups and wallflowers. You can understand radicalism socially. It’s cheaper than a Grossinger’s singles weekend.
The handout says “200,000 Political Prisoners Held in Thieu Jails.” You’d think governments would learn: Never persecute a round number. Curbside there’s an old Ford van, cabinetry for Jane’s closed circuit TV film. The newest technological crime: libel by editingroom crosscut. Goes like this—Auschwitz, Wounded Knee, Nixon’s face, bombs, unspecified corpse, Kissinger’s face, Mylai, marines raising a Bank Americard on Mount Suribachi. Mental body counts. One Oriental slugs another Oriental. Was that filmed in Saigon? Or in an East Village loft? Can’t tell your gooks without a program. The flick is inconclusive, stupid. Inevitable still photos of Vietnamese children, popeyed, afraid. I see the same faces around me. Children—two, three, four year olds: one year olds papoosed— children nursed and kindergartened at demonstrations, in all weathers, to all hours. Since we’re talking about atrocities.
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