The Intersection

ARDIZZONE 17 TONY ARDIZZONE THE INTERSECTION We stood in small circles on the grass by the intersection. I wanted to touch Stacey's hand. It was barely morning. The sun was just coming up. I wanted to tell Stacey that I hoped she was all right and not afraid. I was not afraid. The boy in front of me was bleeding from his forehead where the policeman had clubbed him. I had heard the crack of wood against bone. A girl held a blue kerchief to his wound. The boy said, "God, Christ, damn." He was bleeding badly. The center of the kerchief was stained bright red. I didn't touch Stacey, and then again I wanted to, and then she folded her arms and turned. Ted was at her left. I realized that if I touched her she would disapprove of me. This was not the time for emotion. Earlier, when the police had first arrived, I had placed my hand on her waist as we hurried across the intersection, and she pushed my hand away. She looked at me quickly, her dark eyes glaring, and said, "Don't try to protect me. I can take care of myself." I had meant to be tender. But it was no time to discuss that. The boy rolled his head, still swearing. The girl helped him to stand up. There was a line of blood across his forehead, and another down his eye to his cheek. Some blood had dripped to his jacket. It seemed like everyone was talking, there were almost a hundred of us, and we milled in small circles , our backs to the police. They stood two deep around us, cracking their clubs in their hands. This was the Revolution. It was a turning. A change. If the Government wasn't going to stop the war, then it was up to us to stop the Government. It was that simple. It was a matter of duty, of conscience. Still, I realized we would not be able to take and hold the intersection. I realized that yesterday when we had driven out. There was nothing around us that we could use to block traffic: no wooden horses or metal wastebaskets , no scrap from gangways, alleys, or construction sites. The intersection we had been assigned was six lanes wide, with Government buildings to the north and west and this grassy area here to the east. This small park. There were no benches we could drag. We checked on that. And we were warned that patrolling the area were policemen mounted on horseback. Some type of special force. The white dome of the Capitol was just a mile off. So we had nothing but our own bodies. For six wide lanes. The tactic was to keep moving, hurry back and forth across the street. Stay in groups. 18 THE MINNESOTA REVIEW Force the cars to weave around you. Slow the traffic down. Stop it. Keep the secretaries and filing clerks away from work that day, and what in the Government could be accomplished? It was very logical. Some brought carpet tacks. "For the tires," they said. "Give them flats." They spread them on the intersection like farmers feeding chickens. The tacks scattered to the curbs and sidewalks, and stuck to everyone's boots. There were factions. Most of us understood that we would be arrested, but collectively we could not agree on how. One group suggested we passively resist. Go limp. Make the police carry us from the intersection like so many sacks of potatoes, that will slow things down. "Like hell," others said, "that attitude is defeatist. If you move on the streets, you must move to win." They demanded we bring bricks and sections of lead pipe. It was a menagerie that had assembled. The meeting room was hot. Discussion lapsed into rhetoric, and I nodded across the room to Stacey and then went outside to look at the cars and the street and to smoke. We had been housed in a church. There was a small library and ample floor space in the basement. There was not much traffic on the street. Somebody told us that the library...