By Phyllis Berentsen
As our paddy wagon pulled away, I looked out the window and saw my sixteen-year-old daughter just as she saw me. She gasped and put her hand over her mouth. What had I done? I was the mother of four, and I was on my way to jail.
It was June, 1968. I was in Washington, DC with a group that came from a Quaker conference in New Jersey to demonstrate in support of the Poor People’s Campaign. The campaign lobbied against economic inequality and poverty, seeking provisions for full employment, a guaranteed annual income, and increased low-income housing. We were especially protesting the arrests of demonstrators “congregating” on the Capitol steps. This, we believed, denied them access to their representatives.
Most of our group, including my daughter, demonstrated across the street from the Capitol. Those willing to risk arrest held a silent meeting for worship on the Capitol steps. We sat facing each other in something approximating a circle and centered ourselves, seeking to feel God’s presence.
The police left us alone, and arrested demonstrators above us who were walking and singing. Our preferential treatment became unbearable. We went up and merged with the other demonstrators. The police arrested us, too, and delivered us into the paddy wagon.
The paddy wagon moved along streets full of protestors of all races, gathered in response to Martin Luther King, Jr.’s call.
Reaching the courthouse, we were booked and directed up a set of concrete steps. I climbed, feeling ashamed and fearful. At the top of the stairs, a large group of cheering fellow prisoners greeted us. Suddenly, elation erased my shame and fear. This was a celebration. We were all in it together — speaking up against inequity.
That night in jail, some of us decided to add to our protest by fasting. I had no trouble passing up the baloney and white bread.
The next day, the judge tried to let us off easy. He’d release us if we promised not to do it again. That was totally unacceptable. I couldn’t say I wouldn’t do it again. I got a three-day sentence.
With the good company in jail, those three days passed quickly. I felt totally supported, and glad that I stayed the course. The support I valued most came later, back home, when my daughter said she was proud of me.
Editor’s Note: This article was originally published in the Spring 2014 issue of Persimmon Tree, An Online Magazine of the Arts by Women Over 60, and is printed here with permission. The topic of the prose Short Takes section for that issue was Activism. (Phyllis, a longtime member of the Milwaukee Friends Meeting, died the year following publication.) Article submitted by Becky Evans, who also garnered permission for its publication here.