Tag: protest

November 15, 1969 — Vietnam Moratorium

On this day in 1969, the Vietnam Moratorium Committee staged one of the most potent anti-war protests in American history. Students, activists, religious leaders, veterans—millions of us—took to the streets, calling for an end to the war and the withdrawal of American troops.

And I was there. I remember the sound of voices rising together, the signs carried high, Peace Now, Bring the Boys Home, Stop the Killing. It wasn’t fringe, it wasn’t small. It was a broad coalition of Americans from every walk of life, standing shoulder to shoulder in a peaceful, nonviolent demand for change.

The Moratorium wasn’t just one day. It was a series of protests, teach-ins, vigils, and marches that grew month after month. On November 15, 1969, it culminated in Washington, D.C., where more than half a million people gathered—the largest anti-war demonstration in U.S. history. From Arlington National Cemetery to the Capitol Building, we marched and listened to voices that carried moral weight: Senator George McGovern, Coretta Scott King, Pete Seeger, Muhammad Ali, John Kerry, Daniel Ellsberg, and Abbie Hoffman.

President Nixon wasn’t swayed. Just weeks earlier, he had given his “silent majority” speech, asking Americans to back his plan for “Vietnamization”—gradually withdrawing U.S. troops while shifting responsibility to South Vietnamese forces. He claimed to have a secret plan to end the war, but offered no details. His approval ratings soared, and many rallied behind him.

But for those of us in the streets, the war was not an abstract policy. It was blood and loss, friends drafted, lives shattered. We weren’t silent, and we weren’t a minority. We were the conscience of a nation, refusing to let the killing continue unnoticed.

Looking back, the Vietnam Moratorium was more than a protest. It was a turning point in public opinion, proof that ordinary people could gather in extraordinary numbers to demand peace. It showed the world that America’s heart was divided, and that many of us believed the war was morally, politically, and economically wrong.

I was there, and I carry that memory with me still—the chants, the music, the hope, and the stubborn belief that voices raised together can bend history.

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Matches and Money: A Sanctuary Strategy for Resistance

Tomorrow, Saturday, October 18th, is the nationwide “No Kings March”. And I’ve been beating myself silly because this time I’ve decided that I can’t go—not that I don’t want to, but that I can’t. The primary reason is that my back has been so bad this week, I’ve spent most of my time in what’s called the non-violent prone position. In this case, that means flat on my bed.

And while I was lying there, writing the great American resistance novel on my ceiling, I kept thinking about an article I’d just read by Brian Huba published in”The Hill” today, October 17th. He was talking about another form of resistance—one I’ve always believed in. The kind that hits them where it hurts: the pocketbook.

Now, I’m not pretending that my low participation in the general ebb and flow of the almighty buying power of the dollar will make much difference. And I’m not saying it can replace the power of demonstration—of people gathering to make our voices heard and to send a signal, both to each other and to the Gestapo in DC: ‘We are not alone.’

But I’ve been thinking about pressure. Not the kind that crushes, but the kind that carves. The type that reshapes stone into sanctuary. And lately, I’ve come to believe that the most potent pressure we can apply—politically, spiritually, economically—is a two-part ritual: matches and money.

Let me explain.

We’ve been taught to march. To chant. To gather in the streets with cardboard signs and aching knees. And yes, there’s power in that, and there’s power in the crowd. But maybe the real revolution isn’t in the march, but in the match? Not the kind that burns buildings. The kind that lights candles. That ignites awareness. That says: ‘I see what you’re doing, and I will not fund it.’

Because the truth is: the system doesn’t fear our voices. It loves our wallets, our money, and it fears losing them. It fears our cancellations, our divestments, our refusal to play along. When we cancel a subscription, we’re not just saving $14.99—we’re pulling a thread from the tapestry of complicity. When we stop feeding the beast, the beast gets hungry.

Brian Huba said it plainly: maybe the most radical thing we can do right now isn’t to protest in the streets, but to unsubscribe, to stop paying for platforms that profit from our pain. To match our outrage with economic consequences.

So, I’m lighting matches. Quiet ones. Symbolic ones. I’m canceling, redirecting, reimagining. I’m spending like a poet—every dollar a stanza, every boycott a verse. I’m building a sanctuary where resistance isn’t just loud, it’s strategic.

Because when matches meet money, we don’t just protest. We pressure. We don’t just speak. We shift.

And yes—I will march again.

But first, I get the MRI.

First, I listen to the good doctors—the ones I trust to tell me how to walk without pain, how to stand without flinching.

Because resistance isn’t just about showing up. It’s about showing up whole.

And when I do march again, and I will return, I’ll be carrying my flag and my banners, not just as protest, but as testimony.

Proof that healing is part of the revolution, too.

—Dan

Rambling Harbor, where even the receipts are revolutionary

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