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Our intrepid diarist is sacrificed to the "God of Big-Haired Women," but triumphs in the end by exorcising some evil spirits from 1968. by Peter Coyote From: coyote@motherjones.com I left the hotel this morning with Jack and Kay Theimer and Martha Whetstone. Jack is a wealthy Oklahoma real estate man who built the Colorado ski resort called Beaver Creek Colorado and a good friend of the Clintons -- a favorite on the golf course I'm told. He's a bluff ebullient fellow, who leapt up from the breakfast table and changed his clothes to mimic mine, calling me his "style conscience." Kay is a psychologist. Our first stop was the Arkansas breakfast at a café in the center of the Chicago Zoo. We entered a large open, sunny room. A string quartet was playing, crustless cucumber and tuna-fish sandwiches were arrayed around the bar, and the room was full of big-haired women. The ambience was warm, but within a minute, it had become clear that I was being sacrificed to the God of Big-haired Women by Martha, who stepped back, aghast, as one after another person corraled me to have their picture taken. The fate of Arkansas politics is obviously in the hand of people who watch too much late night TV or make too many trips to the video store. Martha cackled and brayed, claiming her stock was going up by knowing me. I must have met everyone who was anyone in Arkansas politics. All were incredibly warm and gregarious, teased one another, drank lots of wine and chatted as if there was no tomorrow. Suddenly, on a signal, every single person in the room began to chant "SSSSSSOOOOOOOOO PIG SOOOOOEY; SOOOOOOOO PIG SOOOOOEY; SSOOOOOO PIG SOOOOOEY. GO RAZORBACKS!" and everyone laughed and cheered and then went back to being normal people. It was unsettling, like catching someone making bizarre faces at themselves in the mirror. Martha claims that any time two or more Arkansans find themselves in the same room, this ritual takes place. I met State and Federal politicos; campaign contributors, various committee members, and each and every one of them seemed eager to have their picture taken. I met a woman whom Martha describes as "the wildest woman I know" and THE powerhouse in Arkansas politics. She tells a poignant story of Clinton's inauguration night, of watching her closest friends, Clinton and the people who served him, and realizing that they were about to "step through the looking glass" and not only be gone from her life, but have their own lives changed irreparably. "And it was true," she adds as a postscript. "Now, four years later I can see them again, but everything is different. They were ripped out of my life." Tom Hayden gave a moving speech about reconciliation, and watching him on stage, sage, older, tireless fighter for what he believed in, I had to let go of old grudges dating back to the Chicago riot days; days when the Diggers and Abbie Hoffman fought vociferously about the event itself. The Diggers felt that it was manipulative to invite kids to get their heads beat, knowing full well there were no park permits or bands to entertain them as advertised. We felt it was as manipulative as anything Johnson was doing. Abbie argued that it was a media event that would "change the conciousness of the nation." I had always harbored a small residue of disagreement over that event, but today, twenty-five years later, it evaporated next to the overwhelming fact that we had all been out there TOGETHER -- fighting for what we believed in. Though we disagreed about strategy and fine points of ideology, the larger, more important fact, was that we were together. After Tom, Luis Rodrigues, an ex-gang member read a chilling section from his book, and then the greatest choir I ever heard called Soul Children, about thirty-five children ranging in age from eight to early twenties, all black, performed with breathtaking virtuousity. Backstage was a collection of every old lefty veteran I had met over the years. John Trudell, perenially sad and weathered -- appearing constantly to mourn the wife and family that died when someone torched his house in retribution for his burning an American flag on the steps of the Capitol in Washington during the long march. Vern Bellencourt, another long-time Indian activist drove in from Minnesota. Studs Terkel was there, charming and sweet as ever. There was time only for celebratory hugs, quick hellos, and then Haskell Wexler, noted cinematographer, grabbed me for an on-camera interview, and I said to his camera what I just wrote in print about Tom and my old disagreements with him and felt purged. It is now 11 p.m. and I have just returned to my room with a tape full of quotes, names and titles to transcribe and order. I am limper than a used Kleenex and have realized finally that the ruling class rules because they can talk and party longer than anyone else.
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