Benevolence [H.S.]

Chapter One

August 1963

Nothing ever goes according to plan, does it? I watch US 101 roar by on my right, a solemn and steady cacophony that signaled my return home. It was evening, I didn't bother checking my wristwatch. This time of year the sun doesn't set until half past 8 at least, meaning I was just over halfway through my journey. No, scratch that, this wasn't a journey. It was a begrudged obligation. I leaned back in my seat, shifting to unstick my thighs from the vinyl a bit in the process. I thought back to the goodbyes I'd said to Margaret the morning before.

"It's only for a little while, Benny-don't worry, everything is going to be fine. I promise not to write any blockbuster stories without you."

"You and I both know that's a damn dirty lie, but I appreciate the sentiment." Packing up the last of my notebooks before squeezing in my rolled up yellow cardigan, it felt bittersweet. I was looking forward to seeing my mother and youngest brother, but there was a nagging bitterness that I'd have to leave my college career behind to do so.

"Hey, look at me." I felt Margaret's light touch from behind, gently turning me to face her. Her presence had been a calming constant through our two years together at the University. Though I may have envied her journalism skill, the only feelings I had toward her were warmth. Through sleepless nights over textbooks, wrists seizing up over lecture notes, raw lungs at the demonstrations and raucous celebrations in the campus café, I would miss her steadfast presence while I was gone.

"It's only temporary. The good thing about history is you can't miss it, it only grows with time. When you come back you'll have loads of material to write about."

I smiled halfheartedly, somewhere between appreciation and doubt. She pulled me into a scratchy embrace one last time. "Well I won't miss this ugly old thing" I laughed, pinching the shoulder of her favorite (albeit atrocious) mauve wool sweater.

"Hey! Don't part on a rude note. Now tell your mother I said hello, and for the love of God Benny, let yourself enjoy things, alright?"

I gave her a genuine smile this time, waving a last goodbye to my friend before shlepping my suitcase to the metro station at the other side of the square.

Two buses, one train and fourteen hours later, here I was. Indulging in a bit of self-pity as the sun sank over the Pacific Coastline. The bus ride from Seattle to Eureka was long, but the cheapest fare this time of year. Students weren't yet returning from their Summer misadventures, families were still on vacation.

I sigh, thoughts traveling to my little brother as the motion of the bus began to sway more like a cradle than the steel bullet it was. Duncan would still be in training now, at least for the next ten weeks. I'd read in the paper they'd cut training times to shore up their forces as quickly as possible. According to President Kennedy, this would only be a defensive operation, Duncan had explained over the telephone last week. Apparently their purpose was just to protect the South Vietnam soldiers rather than seek out the North. I had a hard time believing that, and I think Duncan did too. But no one wants to worry their family before heading off. From the tone in his voice, I could tell he wanted to believe what he said. Siblings learn those small cues, I guess. He'd used big words that sounded awkward on his tongue, too official and scripted. After the last two years studying journalism I was trained to catch such wordy tricks. I didn't enjoy hearing them from someone I cared about, regardless of his intentions.

I saw the way that papers in the Southern states were using such tricks to vilify demonstrators that didn't subscribe to the same archaic beliefs they were clawing to keep together. I listened to the tinny reverberations of radio newscasters as they spewed words like "intolerable," "unprovoked," and "savage" to benefit their own agendas. Justifying the brutality in marches, rationalizing away the use of fire hoses on human beings, defending the imprisonment of a man leading a movement to unite and uplift those who've been kicked down again and again.

When Dr. King was arrested, however, he used their own tricks against them, turned them into an absolute acrobatic display on paper and it was magnificent. Some say the pen is mightier than the sword, and I admire Dr. King's suggestions against violence. But I think I'd quite enjoy ramming a sword into that governor down into Alabama.

When the news of Medger Evers' murder hit Seattle two months ago, I watched the marches on campus like a hawk, both as a participant and a spectator. I saw the unbridled passion of people using their voices and bodies to slam against the walls of continued, rampant injustice. It was beautiful and revolutionary in a space where revolution shouldn't have been needed. But it was needed. It still is.

Yet here I am, on a train to Eureka, California. Days from Seattle, miles from San Francisco and what feels like worlds away from any kind of firsthand accounts of the movements shaking around us. I feel like a fraud.

Tracing my finger along the already faded edge of my book, I sulk. Margaret had given it to me. Feminine Mystique had come out months ago, I'd been marking it with notes, agreements and critiques, working on a piece for the school newsletter when Duncan called me.

I couldn't fathom why he'd voluntarily sign up for service. He told me he'd rather know it was coming than get called up in the draft and leave mom without a plan or any help, especially if I'd already taken a job and was somewhere halfway across the country. I saw the sense in it, but I was angry. I was angry at dad for dying, angry at the doctors who were supposed to help mom, and angry at my little brother for leaving. But who was I to be angry? I, who chose a career path that would take me far from home one day. I, who'd only come home for a week when dad died. Duncan had only just graduated high school then. He'd thought maybe he would go to college for business like many of his young friends at the time, it wasn't something he enthused about but it was at least an option. But for mom, he stayed. He got a job, he helped with Joey. I'd convinced myself it was fine because he seemed happy-and I genuinely think he was. But there's a darkness in my heart that creeps up in moments like these, I start to see a selfishness I don't like.

In the book, Betty Friedan says that a woman "mustn't feel selfish or neurotic for having goals of her own." I settle back in my seat, removing my hand from the book to nestle up against the window. The state of Oregon rolls by in textured blurs of grey and green, it would be maybe nine more hours until I'd be knocking on my childhood door. When I arrived, mother's swollen joints would try their best to pull me into a hug in the foyer of our little home, empty of papa and Duncan. As people were being arrested, beaten and targeted for demanding basic human rights, I would be settling down to dinner in a warm kitchen. And as I pulled the quilt up to my shoulders in my own bedroom, in a familiar place, my little brother would be in a cold bunk amongst dozens of strangers, trying to numb himself to the monstrosities he knew would be waiting in the jungles. Monstrosities he would more than likely

be a part of.

Guilt sank like a stone in my stomach. Sure, Betty Friedan makes a strong point about not feeling selfish. But that's easy to preach from the safety of an expensive New York apartment, surrounded by your loved ones as your career skyrockets.

I inhale deeply the scent of the Pacific Northwest Summer that swirls lazily down the aisle of the greyhound. As my eyes drift closed, I decide in this moment there will be no more self-pity. No more guilt. I will try to find the little joys while I'm here, and try to make a difference wherever my feet land. For my mom, for papa, for my brothers, and for my damn self.

A harmonica tone seems to match the sway of the car as a nasally voice swells through the overhead speaker, singing promises to anyone that will listen:

"There's a battle outside and it is ragin'

It'll soon shake your windows and rattle your walls

For the times they are a-changin."

Chapter one done...Yeesh I was so nervous to actually start this! Sorry for the short intro, Chapter Two will be longer. We will also be meeting the one and only Harry Glorious Human Edward Styles in the next part. Thanks for reading!

xx