Hands Off

I started college in August 1971. That was almost after the main protest years of the 1960s had ended…. almost but not quite. The turbulent protest years that characterized the prior decade had peaked in 1969. I always think of the Kent State massacre as that moment. But during the fall of 1971 and the spring of 1972, ostensibly throughout my freshman year, there were still plenty of anti-war protests. As a guy who had spent his last three years of high school in Europe, my head was all about reacquainting myself with the United States and my love for this country that only an expat can completely understand. I was certainly against the war in Vietnam, but I was so engrossed in starting college, beginning my independent life as an adult, and just being an American in America, that all the protests we’re just background noise.

I like to say that I spent my youth trying to avoid getting drafted and being shipped off to Vietnam, but the truth of the matter is that being one year younger than most of my peers (by virtue of having skipped second grade way back when I had last repatriated to the United States in 1961 from Costa Rica), I still had a year before I was even draft-eligible. I was actually never even in the running for getting drafted, so the whole Vietnam war issue was indeed background noise to my existence. The manifestation of that was that I never really felt the need to do much protesting.

There was one evening during freshman year when a bunch of us guys went into Collegetown for pizza only to get caught up in a fairly violent protest which focused on the takeover of the engineering library at Cornell by something called the Giap-Cabral Movement. We were rousted from our pizza party at Johnny’s Big Red Grill on Dryden Road when we saw people running in the street. There was a cat and mouse game going on between the students, who kept wandering into the road while the Ithaca police, fully decked out in their riot gear complete with plexiglass shields, kept pushing back the students to stay on the sidewalk. Just as we stepped outside the give and take took a turn for the worse and the police started tossing tear gas canisters into the crowd. There I was with pepperoni still on my breath, running with the mob away from the smell of tear gas, hightailing it back to our West Hill dormitory. That’s the closest I came to being part of the anti-war protest movement when I was in college.

Flash forward to 2018 during the first Trump administration. It was July first and we were in Cambria together to celebrate Kim‘s 60th birthday the next day. There had been a lot of upsetting news lately about the Trump administration separating immigrant families and causing children to get lost (sometimes for good) from their parents, while being detained and deported. That was upsetting news all across the nation, and on July first, people were gathering around the country in protest. For one reason or another, I determined that I wanted to join into the protest so I went with several of our guests into San Luis Obispo to join a demonstration against immigrant family separation. I remember wearing a T-shirt that just had the word RESIST emblazoned across it. So strangely enough, it was draft-dodging Donald Trump who first brought me onto the protest scene for real.

That was seven years ago and I think it’s safe to say that it has been one upsetting reality after another thanks to Donald Trump. What Richard Nixon couldn’t do to me at age 17, Donald Trump was doing very effectively as I approach my twilight years. Ever since the election in November last year, and even more so in the 65 days since his inauguration, the acceleration in the upsetment about what is happening in this country has been weighing more and more heavily upon me. I know I’m not alone and nothing makes me realize that more than seeing how upsetting this has all been to my sweet wife, Kim. Kim is a very sensitive soul, much more sensitive than me and perhaps much more sensitive than most people. When things disturb or upset me, Kim is literally reduced the tears due to the suffering of others. Back in 2017, she made the effort with several friends to go to Washington DC to participate in the now-famous Women’s March. She even went to the trouble of knitting pussy hats for a number of her friends to wear during that demonstration. I remember being very proud of her for that effort, but also thinking how much work it was to engage in that degree of protest. But to Kim, it was important.

In the past few months, my reaction to all that is going on around us has been to withdraw in a manner of speaking. It’s a feeling I know many people share which is almost a desperation. In some ways, my apathy towards protesting in 1971 is similar to the apathy I feel in 2025. Thank God for Kim. Listening to her react to the news of the day keeps me connected to how I should be feeling at each twist and turn of our country’s path during these turbulent days. Maybe my story writing provides me an outlet that Kim doesn’t have, but she is more connected than I am to the indignation of the moment.

This morning, Kim told me she was inclined to go and participate in the Hands Off protests that she had read about. This was a grass roots protest movement that was springing up all over the world to give voice to all the concerns those of us with a more liberal persuasion feel about what is happening to our country and to our world. She asked me if I wanted to join her. Now some people may think of me as a sedentary and self-absorbed person, which I probably am for the most part, but whenever Kim asks me to do something with her, I am very quickly reminded of how lucky I am that she has chosen to live her life with me. Almost without hesitation, when she asks me to join her in almost anything, I am inclined to agree. I know from experience that my life is richer and more meaningful because I am connected to Kim and I know how good it makes me feel to participate with her in whatever she does, whether it’s going to a show or going to a protest.

Before leaving the house, Kim pulled out too pieces of posterboard and said we should make signs. I thought about what upsets me most with the current goings on in Washington DC. On one side of my posterboard I wrote “Leave America Great“ and on the other side I wrote “America has been great for 80 years. Hands Off America”. We got into my truck and drove into Rancho Bernardo, the closest place to us where a protest gathering had been announced. There we saw perhaps 500 people, mostly people of our age, standing along the road, holding signs and causing passersby to honk their horns in support. We parked and walked to the curb, joined the crowd, which swelled to several thousand, holding our signs proudly as people drove by sharing their support. I can’t describe it in anyway other than to say that emotion weld up inside of me every time I saw like-minded people standing up against the tyranny of the moment and against the uncaring policies of the Trump administration.

We spent about an hour joining in the protest and then went about our business for the day, dropping off some things at my sister Kathy’s house. It had only been one hour out of our day, but that one hour of protest made my day. It gave me hope and it reminded me more than anything else about how proud I am of my own personal hero, my wife, Kim. I may not be anyone Donald Trump is worried about, but he sure as hell better worry about pissing off Kim.