By Bill Ayers
Invoice Ayers used to be born in privilege and is this day a hugely revered educator and neighborhood activist. For ten years, he lived as a fugitive. Ayers's tale of the way a tender pacifist got here to aid discovered the most radical political corporations in U.S. historical past is instructed right here with extraordinary candor and immediacy.
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Extra resources for Fugitive Days: Memoirs of an Antiwar Activist
We raised our fists and pumped the air up and down, and Uncle Bob laughed and honked his horn; he sounded just like Clarabell. Sometimes we jumped on our bikes and followed in the wake of the fogger truck, holding our breath as we dashed in and out of DDT clouds. When we returned to our blankets we didn’t have to slather on the insect repellant, because nothing crawled or flew on Forest Avenue on Wednesday nights. The fogger truck held the promise of a mosquito-free world. It’ll be fine. The going world of my parents was full of people, friends, neighbors, clubs and cliques and all the trappings of suburban social life.
See this, he said in one alarming moment, pulling a big pistol from under his seat. This here’s a Nigger Neutralizer. I steered completely clear, and, hours later, when Bud got around to asking me why I was heading to New Orleans, the obvious answer Fugitive Days 47 flowed forth like nature from my lips: Mardi Gras, I said gaily. And plentiful pussy. Father Streeter was a complete bust. The storefront office had closed down, so I called and he invited me to his room at the archdiocese. Things were slow, he said, but if I stuck around, perhaps.
It’ll be fine. The going world of my parents was full of people, friends, neighbors, clubs and cliques and all the trappings of suburban social life. They hosted dinner parties, card parties, and cocktail parties, organized noisy weekend picnics, and orchestrated intimate late-night dances. I fell asleep to the sounds of Louis Armstrong and Benny Goodman, laughter and grown-up talk, and then woke up to my mother’s voice on the telephone. My parents lived through the crushing experiences of the Depression and World War II, events that burned permanent marks deep inside each of them.