Tag: RESISTANCE

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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Clamshell Echoes: A Rambling Harbor Reflection on Seabrook and Sanctuary

There was a time when the salt air of New Hampshire carried more than the scent of low tide; it had the pulse of resistance. I remember it not as a headline or a footnote, but because I was there as part of the Clamshell Alliance, and we stood stubborn and unarmed against the Seabrook Nuclear Power Plant.

We weren’t just protesting a facility; we were trying to protect a way of life. The marshes, the estuaries, the fragile coastline — they weren’t just geography. And when the government said “progress,” we said “not here.”

My friend Ron Rieck, a pacifist apple picker with the soul of a poet, climbed the weather observation tower in January 1976 and stayed there for 36 cold hours. Alone but not isolated, he turned that tower into a lighthouse of resistance. I was supposed to go up there with him. That was the plan. But duty called me back to Baltimore, to Jonah House, where the work of peace and resistance and support was unfolding in its own sacred rhythm. I wasn’t there in body on the tower with Ron, but I was there in spirit, tethered by purpose and friendship.

In May of 1977, over 2,000 of us occupied the construction site. This time I was there. I felt the ground beneath me, the tension in the air, and the quiet resolve of people who knew they might be arrested but refused to be silenced. More than 1,400 of us were taken into custody. We slept on armory floors, shared stories, and turned confinement into communion.


The Clamshell Alliance wasn’t just a protest group—it was a blueprint for change. We organized in affinity groups, practiced nonviolence, and made sure our resistance was as disciplined as it was passionate. We weren’t radicals. We were caretakers. And we believed that energy should be clean, democratic, and rooted in respect for the land.

Seabrook eventually went online in 1990, but not without delay, bankruptcy, and a legacy of resistance that still echoes. The plant may have risen, but so did we. And in that growing, we shaped a movement that inspired anti-nuclear activism across the country. Jonah House, as the war in Vietnam ended, became involved in Nuclear disarmament, as Phil Berigan said. “Nuclear weapons are the scourge of the earth; to mine for them, manufacture them, deploy them, use them, is a curse against God, the human family, and the earth itself.”

Now, decades later, I sit in Rambling Harbor and remember. Not with bitterness, but with pride. Because sometimes, the most powerful thing you can do is stand still. To plant your feet in the sand and say, “This matters.”

We were clamshells—fragile, beautiful, and unbreakable in our unity. And though the tide has shifted, the memory remains. A protest becomes a poem. A moment becomes a movement. And a harbor becomes a sanctuary.

Here is a line from Allen Ginsberg’s Plutonian Ode: “I declare the end of War!” “I chant your absolute Vanity. Yes, you are pure Void.” “I enter your secret places with my mind…” “I call upon the soul of Man to arise and walk.”

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