When my husband Michael went off to Concord New Hampshire to a sit in at Senator Warren Rudman's office, we knew there was a chance he'd be arrested. But neither of us had envisioned the hitchhike home from the Merrimack county jail.
Both of us had been working to end US involvement in several brutal governments in Central America. We'd attended peace marches and organized vigils together. We had actually met at the local Peace Center, and our courtship was carried out at concerts, coffee houses, and over late night work on bulk mailings.
We'd also both taken training on non violent resistance, learning how to become a dead weight in a police officer's grip and how to protect vulnerable body parts from police dogs and billy clubs. We had stood in "hassle lines" role playing either the peaceful, unflappable demonstrator, or the rabid opposition, and had learned about the crucial role of the members of your group who did not get arrested, and provided those who did with support.
When Senator Rudman of New Hampshire took an active role in supporting the government of El Salvador, or perhaps it was Guatemala, or maybe it was funding the Contras to overthrow the new government in Nicaragua, Michael decided he needed to join demonstrators in a civil disobedience action in the Senator's office.
We were part of an affinity group, a close-knit group of political activists who trained together, and organized political rallies, street theater, and participated in Civil Disobedience as a group. But none of the members of our group, Equinox, would be travelling to New Hampshire. Michael would have to hook up with a group down there for his civil disobedience.
I decided not to go with him. I wasn't ready to be so dependent on people I didn't know. I wanted people from my own community handling the support needed in civil disobedience, someone on the outside to make phone calls to legal support and press, and to simply make sure the police knew I wasn't alone. I had a more regular job than Michael did as well, a 9 to 5 with a human service organization in town. Michael, a concert pianist, could take time off for the trip, and truth to tell, he was generally more bold about his political action than I was, more passionate, and more likely to put himself on the line.
So, off he went with a few other Vermonters, people we didn't know, but folks who would at least get him to Concord in their cars, and would, we hoped, make sure he was not abandoned.
Late in the afternoon I got a call from one of the other Vermonters. Michael had been arrested, and the New Hampshire judge had set his bail at $200. For some reason, probably because they were New Hampshire residents, and Michael was not, the other people in the group who had been arrested had simply been let go on their own recognisance. The other Vermonters, it seems, had stayed away from arrest. Michael's fellow demonstrators down in New Hampshire had not been able to pull together bail, and the Vermonters needed to get back to jobs. In short, Michael was on his own, in the Merrimack County Jail, two hours from home.
If I wanted to get him out, I'd have to find a ride to the New Hampshire jail with $200, and collect him.
I called the members of our affinity group, Equinox, and began to figure out how to spring my husband.
For a wonder, I had the $200 in my bank account. After several hours of phone calls, including a brief conversation with Michael who did NOT want to stay in the Merrimack County Jail overnight, alone, if he could help it, I put together the pieces to set him free.
Our friend Alex's brother, who lived near Concord, was visiting, and agreed to give me a ride down to the jail. With my money in hand like some character in a ballad, I walked into the jail and paid Michael's fee. By this time, it was after midnight.
Somewhat shaken at his brief experience in jail, where guards talked about beating their wives, the lights were left on, and my slight, well-educated, Asian American husband felt more than a little threatened by the other inmates, Michael was really grateful to be rescued. Even when he realized that I had not been able to find us a ride home.
We were able to stay at Alex's brother's house over night, and the next day, in the rain, we began the long hitchhike back home.
We almost immediately got a ride with a trucker. I'm not sure if he did it as a joke, or really thought he was being helpful, but he took us maybe two exits up Interstate 89 and left us off at a totally godforsaken exit.
We waited, and waited, and waited, probably for two hours, in drizzle. In that time, only two or three cars hit the entrance ramp, and none of them even slowed to look at us. Finally, a fellow in a huge, ancient boat of a car stopped to pick us up. Oh Joy! He was travelling all the way to White River, smoking all the way, but we were warm and dry, and he was kind, dropping us at the bus station.
I think there was a mercifully brief discussion of whether to try to hitch the rest of the way, or to take the bus. Hitching from White River might have been easier than from that barren exit, and we were poor as church mice at the time, but We were both ready to go home.
Later there was a trial. I got my bail back, and Michael had to do community service which he was blessedly able to do in Vermont. It wasn't the last time he got arrested. Later, he would demonstrate in the rotunda of the Capitol in Washington DC, and would spend more than a month on trial there. He has always stuck to what he thinks is right, a trait which is admirable, but can certainly complicate life.
I will never forget that late night ride, that brightly lit jail, or the long, slow hitchhike home.
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