We had been vigilantly peaceful throughout that stressful but buoyant weekend in April 1972 as we occupied the office of Boston University’s dean of student affairs to protest the university’s ties to the military and the war in Vietnam.
I hope this comment makes it to you, as I'm so glad you wrote to me. I have never since graduation spoken with any member of the B.U. 62 -- except for the great Howard Zinn. He came to New Haven to give a talk about 15 years ago and I introduced myself to him; "I went to jail with you. I was in your cell!" He smiled and said, "Oh, so you were a member of the B.U. 62?" He was so calm and reassuring throughout that weekend, including while we were in that cell. At one point a guard came up to him and started shouting: "You messed up my kid!" Howard asked, "What did I do? How did I mess up your kid?" The guard just shouted again, "You messed up my kid!" and stalked off. Howard looked at me with a puzzled expression. I agree that weekend was just about the most educational thing I experienced at B.U. I tried to get a book published about my anti-war experiences but no publisher would touch it. I'm sorry you lost your suspenders! I still have my "Free the B.U. 62" T-shirt.-- Randy Beach, rbeach8@yahoo.com. Send me an email!
I agree completely, and tried to get across that it's different now. I still don't think these mass arrests of peaceful, non-hateful students can be justified.
I was one of the BU 62, so I was pleasantly surprised to see your reminiscence.
Here’s my faulty recollection: that date, April 21, 1972, I’d gone shopping for suspenders, eager to mimic certain rockers (Roger Daltry? Leo Sayer?). Emerging from the store, I ran into a large protest marching up Commonwealth Avenue. Until I read your account, I thought the trigger was Nixon’s mining of Haiphong Harbor, “Operation Pocket Money”— which actually occurred on May 9, 1972.
The march ended at the BU Library, where the university’s administrative offices were. I’m pretty sure we didn’t break anything to enter. My memories of the “occupation” are sketchy. I remember sitting in an office, and the kid across from me—obviously too young to be a college student—was acting silly, throwing stuff around, making faces. I told him to cut it the fuck out and stop being an asshole. I immediately regretted it. His face fell. It was as if I’d slapped him.
The only thing I remember after that were discussions about other protests around the nation.
As happened with one of the recent protests (Columbian or NYU, I can’t remember), a number of people—maybe half the occupiers—left the following morning to eat and shower; that’s when police circled the building. You are correct; someone threw a brick at a cop, although I remember it hitting his face.
Negotiations for our surrender were tense. The 62 of us sat on the main floor, including Howard Zinn, and a faculty advisor entered pleading with us to surrender peacefully. “Howard,” the advisor said, “You’re leading these kids to slaughter. The cops are looking for blood.” Zinn, I recall, looked unperturbed. I was freaking out. Soon, we peacefully filed out of the building, into waiting paddy wagons, then to jail—my first and only time in a prison cell.
In my cell, about eight of us sat on hard benches. I was famished. The guy next to me produced two hard-boiled eggs and gave me one. I have a vivid recollection of him meticulously cracking the egg—tap tap, roll roll—then peeling it. We were released on our “own recognizance”—first time I’d heard that term, then returned to court a few weeks later, when charges were dismissed. Waiting to file into the courtroom, some of discussed the recent death of J. Edgar Hoover.
Although I have my opinions about recent campus protests, which to me seem to be elaborate versions of Che Guevara t-shirts, I believe my participation in the BU-62 was by far the most educational thing that happened to me during my year (1971-1972) at Boston University.
Oh, and I lost the suspenders.
P.S. While traveling through Central America in 1973, I ran into a “throuple” from Boston University, including a young man who gave compelling, articulate speeches, and who’d been arrested with us. He was the guy who gave me the egg.
Hi William,
I hope this comment makes it to you, as I'm so glad you wrote to me. I have never since graduation spoken with any member of the B.U. 62 -- except for the great Howard Zinn. He came to New Haven to give a talk about 15 years ago and I introduced myself to him; "I went to jail with you. I was in your cell!" He smiled and said, "Oh, so you were a member of the B.U. 62?" He was so calm and reassuring throughout that weekend, including while we were in that cell. At one point a guard came up to him and started shouting: "You messed up my kid!" Howard asked, "What did I do? How did I mess up your kid?" The guard just shouted again, "You messed up my kid!" and stalked off. Howard looked at me with a puzzled expression. I agree that weekend was just about the most educational thing I experienced at B.U. I tried to get a book published about my anti-war experiences but no publisher would touch it. I'm sorry you lost your suspenders! I still have my "Free the B.U. 62" T-shirt.-- Randy Beach, rbeach8@yahoo.com. Send me an email!
I agree completely, and tried to get across that it's different now. I still don't think these mass arrests of peaceful, non-hateful students can be justified.
Hi Randall
I was one of the BU 62, so I was pleasantly surprised to see your reminiscence.
Here’s my faulty recollection: that date, April 21, 1972, I’d gone shopping for suspenders, eager to mimic certain rockers (Roger Daltry? Leo Sayer?). Emerging from the store, I ran into a large protest marching up Commonwealth Avenue. Until I read your account, I thought the trigger was Nixon’s mining of Haiphong Harbor, “Operation Pocket Money”— which actually occurred on May 9, 1972.
The march ended at the BU Library, where the university’s administrative offices were. I’m pretty sure we didn’t break anything to enter. My memories of the “occupation” are sketchy. I remember sitting in an office, and the kid across from me—obviously too young to be a college student—was acting silly, throwing stuff around, making faces. I told him to cut it the fuck out and stop being an asshole. I immediately regretted it. His face fell. It was as if I’d slapped him.
The only thing I remember after that were discussions about other protests around the nation.
As happened with one of the recent protests (Columbian or NYU, I can’t remember), a number of people—maybe half the occupiers—left the following morning to eat and shower; that’s when police circled the building. You are correct; someone threw a brick at a cop, although I remember it hitting his face.
Negotiations for our surrender were tense. The 62 of us sat on the main floor, including Howard Zinn, and a faculty advisor entered pleading with us to surrender peacefully. “Howard,” the advisor said, “You’re leading these kids to slaughter. The cops are looking for blood.” Zinn, I recall, looked unperturbed. I was freaking out. Soon, we peacefully filed out of the building, into waiting paddy wagons, then to jail—my first and only time in a prison cell.
In my cell, about eight of us sat on hard benches. I was famished. The guy next to me produced two hard-boiled eggs and gave me one. I have a vivid recollection of him meticulously cracking the egg—tap tap, roll roll—then peeling it. We were released on our “own recognizance”—first time I’d heard that term, then returned to court a few weeks later, when charges were dismissed. Waiting to file into the courtroom, some of discussed the recent death of J. Edgar Hoover.
Although I have my opinions about recent campus protests, which to me seem to be elaborate versions of Che Guevara t-shirts, I believe my participation in the BU-62 was by far the most educational thing that happened to me during my year (1971-1972) at Boston University.
Oh, and I lost the suspenders.
P.S. While traveling through Central America in 1973, I ran into a “throuple” from Boston University, including a young man who gave compelling, articulate speeches, and who’d been arrested with us. He was the guy who gave me the egg.
Best,
William Tashman
Brooklyn, NY