Moratorium

And if you decide to walk out there will be a consequence; nothing is free or easy in this life.

October 15, 1969

The war was raging furiously, and the movement against it was growing steadily. We were 15 years old, struggling through Mr. Korngold’s Drama I class, and from there we were free to try out for any of the drama productions. I was there because I liked to talk. That particular year though was different from any that came before it. Every student in every high school and every college was supposed to walk out of class to protest the war. Now I had other issues to deal with of course, such as Halloween falling on a Friday, which meant that I would be playing football that night instead of trick or treating, and by next year I felt I would be too old to trick or treat, I mean, a junior in high school, well, that was just too close to being an adult to trick or treat. This meant that last year was my last time trick or treating and I didn’t even know it.
I was so lost in thought that I hadn’t noticed that Mr. K had finished taking roll and was talking about something. At first I only heard the tone of his voice, which was deadly serious, at if someone was dying.
“…And if any of you think you know what’s going on in this war or understand its complexities, go ahead and walk out. That door is not locked. But please don’t make a mockery of this day by going out and then just going to McDonald’s. And if you decide to walk out there will be a consequence; nothing is free or easy in this life. If you walk out, you will receive an F for the day.”
I had heard that phrase before, but I had never really thought about it. What the heck is an F for the day? Does it mean the next day you don’t have it anymore? Does anyone ever get an A for the day? Was Mr. K bluffing? Would there be any hidden consequences? Teachers had a habit of doing that. They tell you the punishment and you decide to risk it but since the punishment didn’t seem to bother you, they would pile more on. Teachers didn’t play fair.
I looked around to see if anyone was going to go out. Did any of us understand the war? Every night on TV the local newscaster, George Putnam would ridicule protesters, calling them unpatriotic, long hair hippies. It didn’t seem like the anti-war people were so bad. How could being against people getting killed be bad? Barbara Beck didn’t move. I figured she’d have some perfectly logical explanation for not walking out. None of us moved. We all looked at Mr. K and he looked at us. I wanted to walk out, and I knew if I did some other people would follow. But we were waiting for someone to go first. I turned to look out the window and saw maybe 50 or 60 people already on the P.E. field, sitting in a circle. I was disappointed that so few were there. The whole idea was to show the older people that we didn’t want to be the next to die, and the more people that went out, the more powerful the statement. My leg muscles didn’t seem to work. In a way, Mr. K was wrong; the door was locked. I wasn’t ready to defy authority.
After waiting quite a while Mr. K sighed heavily. I was confused by the look of disappointment on his face.
“Very well,” he said with a certain resignation, “we will begin today’s lesson.”