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The first time I realized there was something terribly wrong with this country was when they started taking away books.
I was a Creative Writing and Literature professor at the University of London. I was new, only in my fourth year of teaching. My name was William Murphy Dietrich. Everyone called me Murphy. I enjoyed my profession immensely. I enjoyed my students and essentially, being paid to read and impart my knowledge on nubile minds. My classes were the type where our craft was taken seriously as though it were a dying craft and we were the only ones to preserve it, to only speak in puns throughout an entire class period and laugh uncontrollably. That was what I wanted. I wanted my material and those of my students to be taken seriously, while still having an inviting comradery and dialogue with them. I had solid relationships, my students. I was a bit worried about that at first, I was only a few years older than my senior students and hoped it would not be an issue. I also taught the general education portion of Literature to first- and second-year students. I wanted them to leave me with a solid framework of knowledge about literature that would continue throughout life. Shakespeare, Faust, Borges, and Dumas, going into depth about the pieces that may have only been glossed over in secondary school or introducing entirely new works.
The day in question started like any other. It was a Tuesday and I had my Creative Writing classes that day. It was the day the world began to end and Norsefire began. It was just after the beginning of the fall semester. The air was cool, and the leaves were starting to turn and litter the ground. I walked from the parking lot to the building that held my classrooms and office. The tube stations had been permanently shut down for a time, necessitating my need for a car despite living in London proper. I didn’t mind the make and model as long as it served its purpose and had a decent sound system. Even then, I had a ravenous appetite for music. That day, I had my earbuds firmly planted in my ears.
Many hellos and other greetings where exchanged between myself and my other students as I made my way to the classroom. When I entered the room, my students had already assembled the room as I liked it. I would turn out the lights in my classrooms and open the blinds, allowing for natural sunlight to come in. They would move their desks in a circle. They were ready to go, with their laptops and notebooks out, chatting and laughing with their fellow classmates. I had had each student previously at least once, if not during their entire time at the university. I knew each of them well. I took an empty seat in the circle and began roll call as my own laptop started. Due to the nature of my Creative Writing class, a class that centered on peer to peer critiques, I was able to keep those classes small and intimate, ten students or less. This allowed each student to get an in-depth critique from the other students and me.
“Morning everyone!” I called, taking a large drink of coffee. “How is everyone?”
I was answered by a few affirmatives. I noticed one of my students, Micha, who taught his entire university career Senior, English Ed. Major, had his head down on his desk, lightly snoring.
“Might I remind you all of my falling asleep in class policy. You subject yourself to any kind of prank I think of to wake you up and send you to the front of the class and dance to any of the songs from the Rocky Horror Picture Show to get the blood flowing.” I stated, mischievously.
I started clapping and the rest of the class joined in, giggling and grinning. Micha soon awoke, joining in on the superfluous clapping. He yawned and looked around, noticing we were watching him. Realization dawned on him. My tactic was infamous.
“Oh, God! You jerk, Murphy!” Micha exclaimed, holding his reddened face in hands as he chuckled good-naturedly.
I smirked, pulling up music on my laptop. “Get up and show us your best Time Warp!”
The class and I laughed heartily as he danced, enjoying the spectacle he was putting on. Micha went full on with the dance, enjoying it just as much as we were, making eye contact with each of us. If he had a feather boa, he would have used it. A few other students joined him in the middle of the circle, dancing as well.
It was times like these I wondered if I would have had as much fun as I did teaching the artistic students than I would I had taught more science minded.
“Don’t beat yourself up about it. You were a good sport. It happens, just try not to let it happen again.” I said once he finished, patting him on his back. “One day I want the band to get involved, at least the percussionists,” I said ominously.
“Anyway, on to our topic!” I said, drumming my hands on my desk. “I want you all to write a short piece of description. Description is the meat and potatoes of writing. You must walk a line between too much and too little. Too little description and your readers are lost and disinterested. Too much and they are bored down with details and your work collapses on itself. Just the right amount centers them and gives them a visual idea of the places and characters. Think of description as decoration. Would you rather spend your time in a nicely decorated room or one that is unpleasantly sparse and utilitarian, or perhaps gaudy and overdone? Pick anyone or anything in this room or something we would all know and write about it. I’ll give you,” I paused looking at my watch. “ten minutes to write and afterward, we’ll go around the room, you’ll read your piece and we’ll try to guess what your subject matter is. Aaaand go!”
The class nodded and starting scribbling and typing away. Ten minutes later, we started our critiques. “Who volunteers as tribute?” I asked, scanning the room for a volunteer.
One of my newer students, Samantha, whom I had only had once the previous year, raised her hand. I smiled, nodding for her to start.
She was nervous but excited to read her work. She smiled as her hands shook and her voice wavered and stuttered. “He stands tall and thin, short wavy black hair which he either spends hours to perfect or simply rolls out of bed. He’s partial to button up shirts, khakis, boat shoes and carries a leather satchel with earbuds almost permanently glued to his ears though it served a vital function in keeping him alive.”
“Murphy!” The class answered.
I grinned, giving a small, dramatic bow of my head.
After the class, I went to my office and checked my email. I had several students emailing about a textbook snafu at the campus bookstore, university spam about events going on around campus. I was let down and disappointed when I saw an email from an intended speaker for my Literature 2 class, London based author John Hammond had to cancel due to his daughter falling ill but would be happy to reschedule. I was eager to meet him and to hear him speak and found his works insightful and thought-provoking. After sorting through emails and contacting the bookstore, I kicked my feet up on my desk and began reading my students work for a critique.
After finishing several, there was a knock at my office door, looking up, I saw my brother, Gordon. Even though I am younger than my brother Gordon, I was his protector in school. Though tall and lanky, I was scrappy. If I saw something I didn’t like, I did what I could to fix it. Children can be little monsters, smelling fear and difference on their intended victim. I threw more than few punches for my brother until he became known as the class clown, winning people over with his wit and humor. I didn’t like my brother being harassed for things as inane as his weight. He had better things to be harassed about and only I could do so.
Our parents had also been professors at the university. They retired before I graduated. Our mother was a professor of botany and our father taught piano as well as several other music classes such as ‘The History of Rock and Roll’ and ‘Jazz Studies.’ Dad continued to teach piano on his own time and Mum began work on her doctorate. Both Mum and Dad taught us their trades.
“Look who the cat drug in. The same man who won’t return my calls or texts has granted me the honor of his presence.” I teased.
“Do you have a moment? Or 60?” He asked, nervousness lacing his voice.
I dropped my feet from my desk, sensing the significance of the upcoming situation. “Yes, of course,” I answered, gesturing to the seat in front of my desk. He closed the office door and sat down.
“I’m gay, brother.” He said unceremoniously.
“Yes, I know. We all know.” I nodded casually, intending for him to go on and get to the point.
“What?” He had an expression of relief and confusion.
“We’ve all had the inkling for some time now. No one cares.” I replied.
“How do you know all of this?” Gordon asked.
“That you’re gay or their feelings?
“Both.”
“We talk about you when you’re not around,” I said nonchalantly, shrugging. “It seems with Mum that what made her think was your lack of female company.”
“What? You don’t have a girl either!” Gordon blustered.
“I am but a humble university professor, married to his craft,” I said dramatically. “It’s a horrible stereotype, but if the shoe fits. I prefer my solitude… Also, Mum found your secret stash of Japanese yaoi tentacle and tamakeri porn back in college, that may have told her something was up.”
“If the shoe fits?” Gordon sputtered, “You don’t even wear socks half the time!”
“That’s what you take offense to?” I laughed, “I hate constricting clothing. I’m claustrophobic.”
Gordon huffed a sigh of relief, rubbing his face and eyes with his hands. “Well, this went better than I expected.” He sat back in the seat and thought for a moment.
“Really? No one cares?”
I shook my head, “Not a soul.”
“I had a speech and everything!” Gordon complained. “Can I still do my speech?” He looked at me hopefully.
“No.”
“Fine. Anyway, I wanted to run this idea by you for a sketch. Sutler…in drag.”
I winced. “Oh, that is a truly unpleasant sight. However, allow me to critique…” I paused, forming my thoughts. “You’re new. This is only your fourth season. Are you sure you can get away with that? Or that anyone could, for that matter? Sutler has an awfully thin skin.”
Sutler rose to power in the parliament amid multiple unsavory allegations; sexual assault, rape, racism, etc. etc. He ran on the ultra-conservative ticket, promising to bring back morals and strong values, despite the vocal objections. He even had his own party; Norsefire which many believed to be a Nordic supremacy hate group. Somehow, he won his seat. In my opinion, his mouth was bigger than his mind.
“Yeah, he’s the kind of guy who forces his prudeness on others, isn’t he? He doesn’t want to drink, so you shouldn’t either type of bloke. Still, he’s an easy target,” Gordon shrugged, grinning.
“Just be careful. I don’t want to have to pay for postage to whatever gulag he throws you in,” I teased.
Gordon stood, “No worries, brother. It probably won’t even air until next year. Who knows what could change between then and now?”
Time passed. The news became more vitriolic, hijacked by Sutler and his party. One-sided news pieces and corrupted studies on how this race is less than. Pollution was skyrocketing, Ebola was creeping out of Africa like a monster in your closet.
“Avoid contact with black people,” The news warned.
Thousands died in a protest against ableism in Leeds when it went awry. The news admonished the protestors for being spoiled kids.
Around the same time, the entire royal family had died in a mysterious accident while returning from the former United States. We all knew it was coming; the ravens had left.
Sutler called for the end of the monarchy, urging that it was time to move on from such antiquated ideals. After no other rites to the thrown came forward, the regime of Norsefire began, led by Sutler himself as Chancellor. Somehow, the people found him to secure and believed he could lead the country to peace and prosperity.
Things escalated quickly from there. It started with dogs. Breeds were being regulated to ‘no fearsome sorts’. What kind of guideline was that? My grandmother had a poodle named Terrance that Gordon and I were terrified of as boys while our cousin Charlie had a Boxer that was as sweet as could be. It seemed as though Norsefire was slowly trying to remove any sort of protection we had as citizens. Of course, they took away any weapons just short of letter openers and cap guns around the same time. It didn’t really stop the mass shooter problem either.
I sat back and watched, stunned. I couldn’t help but remember all those times I was too lazy, too inconvenienced or refused to vote for a subpar, a lesser evil candidate. Should I have voted all those times? Did my vote, my single tick on a touchscreen, matter that much? Would the lesser evil candidate that I was just as unsure about have been a better choice than the one who won? Would my vote even count? Voter suppression was rampant. If it wasn’t that, votes had somehow ‘gotten lost’ or ‘corrupted’.
The snow crunched under my feet as I walked to my office. I had been annoyed that day due to having to use margarine instead of butter in my eggy in the basket at breakfast. It threw off my entire morning. Mum used to make it for Gordon and me. In my inbox, an email from the university’s president caught my eye. An important and mandatory meeting was scheduled for the end of the week.
Still, my classes continued on as normal, our own self contained and insulated bubble of freedom. We were the true kings and queens. We said what we wanted and thought as we wanted. I did not censor my students. However, I did start to lose some students who were Pro – Norsefire. Shame and fear drove the people out. It upset me. As much as I wanted to, I never tried to dissuade someone from their beliefs.
I barely thought of the meeting during the week, my mind was bogged down with more important things such as midterm grades and the latest horror show on the news. I tried to make myself as small and inconspicuous as possible when out in public. The Fingermen, Norsefire’s pseudo, Gestapo-esque police force was itching for a fight and was above the law. Anyone who dared challenge Norsefire was met with a black bag around your head, sent to a reeducation camp. You never came back no matter what Norsefire promised.
Before the meeting, I grabbed a coffee and a granola bar. The meeting was likely a boring housekeeping one about the upcoming instructor evaluations. I considered listening to an audiobook instead but decided to be a good employee and listen, even if it rarely deviated from the last three years’ worth of meetings.
I took a seat in the back. The moment the President stood, the air thickened, it was something about his stance. He looked rigid and concerned. This wasn’t a regular meeting.
“Good morning, colleagues. I am here to announce a few changes coming to the University starting immediately.”
As I sat in the meeting, it grew worse and worse. Norsefire was going to heavily censor many of our courses, especially the gen eds. In the science department, evolution and any sexual education were being heavily censored. Our Women and Gender Studies, Religious Studies and any other classes or major pertaining to another culture, living or otherwise, was being eliminated. Basic safety in the orientation seminar was introducing abstinence-only, shame and biases which would likely decrease and reports of sexual misconduct on campus. These changes would come into effect at midnight the following day. This left upwards of a thousand students without majors and/or classes, many already in progress or nearly complete, not only disrupting their education but their living arrangements and financial aid as they were no longer enrolled.
After the meeting, the staff and I all filed into a single line and was given a packet depending on our department of material we were no longer allowed to teach. I went back to my office and closed the door. For several moments, I sat at my desk and stared at the ugly yellow packet in front of me. Finally, I opened it. Inside, there was a list of books, poems and short stories I was not allowed to teach. Failure to comply would result in revocation of my credentials and degrees, expulsion from the university, a hefty fine and a sentence to a reeducation camp.
“So, this is how education dies…”
To Kill a Mockingbird: Maybe not all people of color are criminals.
The Outsiders: Don’t let the nasty world beat the good out of you.
The Scarlet Letter: Hester Prynne was without womanly shame.
The Life of Pi: Not Christian enough.
The Perks of Being a Wallflower: Weirdness is not bad and does not villainize a gay character.
The Hunger Games: That’s obvious. A young woman who overthrows a dystopian government? It was one of the first to go.
I am Malala, Harry Potter, Fahrenheit 451, Ellen Hopkins, Kurt Vonnegut, Darwin, Huxley, Angelou. The cultural mind was closing. Anybody who wasn’t white and Christian was a bad person.
The day the changes went into effect was a sorrowful but angered one. In my classes, the mood was akin to death in the family. Instead of starting our lesson on Hemmingway and the Iceberg Theory, the changes were of discussion, even before I came into the room, my students were already in a heated debate about it. I just watched out the window at the campus below, my back to my class, as they ranted.
“How can they do this? We have rights!” Josie exclaimed, her fist pounding her desk.
“Not anymore.” Zach scoffed.
“I can’t wrap my mind around this. Haven’t these people picked up a history book before? This shit has happened before, and it did not turn out well!”
“Villains believe they are the heroes of their stories.” Kenny mused.
“They’re humans like us and everyone else. They’re stupid like all other humans. We always think that we can do it better than the generations before us.”
I had a few students who were utterly silent. I could tell they were wondering what was next.
“This is fucking ridiculous!” Colton exclaimed, knocking over his desk.
It was time to intervene. I turned to my class and was quite stunned to see that barely any of my classes had deserters, as Piper called them. Out of the five classes I taught, I had only lost five students. I would like to think that I had loyal students who were freethinkers and trusted me that caused this, while other arts classes suffered.
“I think it’s best that we all take time to process this.” The first syllable out of my mouth calmed the ruckus.
“Continue reading Hemmingway and working on your final. Remember, you have a choice to write a five-hundred-word essay analyzing Hemmingway’s techniques in his published works or a ten-page short story emulating his techniques in an original work. I still need the decisions from a few of you. Please have them to me by Thursday so you have ample time to work. You are all dismissed.”
Music, movies and television shows did not fare any better. Anything more than mindless dribble and noise was either heavily censored or blacklisted. Celebrities were just as fair game when it came to the black bags as any other average bloke. Tabloids and gossipmongers didn’t seem affected though. I guess it pays to know which debutante had gone rogue.
Words like collateral and rendition became curses, no longer appropriate for polite conversation. Rendition, another word for interpretation. In Norsefire’s world, nothing is left to interpretation and Norsefire tells you the ‘right’ interpretation and anyone who believes otherwise is a traitor. Collateral another word of security. Norsefire does not want you to feel safe and secure. If you do, why would you need such extremes that Norsefire uses?
I should have known what would happen next.
“Where’s Daniella?” I asked my Creative Writing 2 class. I hadn’t seen her in days and it was unlike her to miss a class, “Has anyone seen her?”
The class looked back and forth at each other like they were in on a secret I wasn’t. “She was black bagged last week,” Skylar said quietly, her words heavy.
Of course. She was black and a transwoman; a complete undesirable in Norsefire’s eyes.
“Oh.” Was all I could say. Part of me was planning a daring adventure to break her out. The other was already beaten into submission.
“Holy shit…” Preston said, his eyes wide and mouth agape as he slowly stood up looking out the window.
We all clambered to the window overlooking the university center. The group Young Norsefire had signs and tables sat up. On the tables were books and Norsefire regalia and lighters. A distance away, several male students were starting a bonfire.
It was a book burning.
‘Something is terribly wrong with this country,’ I thought, my face inches from the glass.
My class and I stared in stunned silence. I had never seen a book burning before. It felt so primitive, so subhuman. Once the fire caught on, books were thrown with glee.
“I think Wyatt Sanders just threw a copy of the Koran.”
“Yeah, his buddy Josh just threw in The Great Gatsby.”
“There goes John Steinbeck.”
“And Stephen King.”
I began to close the blinds and turned on the classroom lights.
“Forget what’s happening out there. We still have class.” I said as I sat down in the circle. I continued class as the cheers of the Norsefire indoctrinated and smell of burnt paper permeated the room.
The latest social media trend became one of proudly burning books, submerging and otherwise defiling e-readers and wiping audio and e-books from their device’s memories. ALS Bucket Challenge – eat your heart out. Almost every video ended with the person or people yelling “England Prevails!” like a war cry. I had already seen too much of this for one lifetime.
The news of the changes hit my department hard, but not as much as I expected. Still, enrollment in arts courses was dropping and we had lost several faculty members. It wasn’t just so that they were to pursue other career opportunities or earn a more ‘practical’ degree, Norsefire was truly frightening them. Anything that made them truly think was wrong and hurtful. Books and words carried ideas that Norsefire perverted into something scary.
As though it couldn’t get any worse, during Christmas Mass with Sutler in attendance, a bomb was denotated. He was the lone survivor of just short of five hundred people, men, women, children, families. The news praised him for trying to save as many as he could and what a tragedy it was that he couldn’t save a soul. His photo, one of him in a tattered sweater, soot-covered and holding the mangled corpse of a little girl, her dress bloodied beyond recognition and his anguished face was splashed everywhere possible.
I wasn’t sure if it was staged by his people or what, but it seemed to spook him nonetheless. Curfews were being instilled and roving surveillance vans were dispatched, patrolling the country. Sutler said that if they could hear the plans as they were being made, another bombing could be stopped. Voices sprang up in objection but were silenced, chided, that the surveillance was for our, your protection.
Soon, official portraits of the Chancellor were shipped to every home in the British Isles “to be displayed prominently in your home” as a show of pride in our country and faith in our leader. I grimaced when mine arrived. I didn’t want a portrait of a creepy old man hanging above my mantle. It was soon forgotten under a pile of old coats in my closet. I half expected his eyes to be bugged with cameras.
There was one bright spot on the horizon; Gordon’s new season would soon air with the first episode being the Sutler in drag one. I usually watched Gordon’s show but never made actual commitments to, but I really wanted to see this one.
As the ten o’ clock news was ending, droning on about the war and chaos, I sat down with a late-night snack of junk that may kill me one day.
Gordon started with his opening monologue about current events, making fun of celebrity baby names and such. He continued one of his most popular skits, The Boring Dystopia. His character was Norm Hall who tries to navigate an unjust society. On this night, in particular, he was pressured into buying designer oxygen due to air pollution.
After several others and a few commercial breaks, Gordon sat at his desk and addressed his audience.
“Esteemed viewers. It’s good to be back for a new season. I’d like to thank you from the bottom of my cold black heart for allowing me this honor.”
The clicking of high heels on tile was heard on the stage, but Gordon continued to speak.
“Ahem,” A masculine voice said off-screen.
Gordon feigned shock as the camera panned just to Gordon’s right.
Sutler stood there haughtily, in a black corset and panties, his hand on his hip in all his wrinkled glory. His rouge was too bright and unblended, his blue eyeshadow went past his bushy eyebrows. His fishnets hung loosely like his skin on his hairy legs as he twirled a ratty boa.
I had just taken a drink of my soda. I inhaled to laugh, sending the carbonation throughout my sinuses. I laughed heartily even though I could hear the bubbles from my soda popping. It took several moments to compose myself. Every time I thought I was okay, I looked at the screen and the fit started again. I barely grasped what was going on. Something about Sutler being upset that he wasn’t invited as a guest. I had to leave the room when Sutler propped himself on Gordon’s lap, I could barely breathe.
I blew my nose and wiped my eyes. I sent a text to Gordon giving him my approval of the skit. Then I noticed I had an email. I received an email from the president of the university saying government funding was being severely cut, my department receiving the brunt of it. I was ordered to update my yearly budget to meet the new criteria. A few minutes after the email was sent, my department chair sent an email to all teaching staff about a peaceful rally starting in front of the Language Arts building on campus and walking to the Norsefire headquarters. I immediately signed up. This was the last straw. I was done standing by and idly watching.
The email included several do’s and don’ts of rally safety. There were several things I needed for the rally. A comfortable pair of shoes, for one.
My phone buzzed constantly with emails going back and forth of people confirming their attendance. Then, the email was sent to students who rapidly confirmed that they would attend as well.
I started to feel giddy like I was planning a surprise. Sleep would not be happening any time soon, so I got dressed and hit the shops for rally necessities.
I grabbed one of each charger cords available just in case one of my students or colleagues needed them. I bought a new power bank just to be safe. I couldn’t deny the practicality of a first aid kit or small clear bags in the accessory’s aisle. Columbine may have been years ago and in another country, but no one could argue the importance of a clear bag. I thought of even buying a special outfit and mask for the occasion but reeled myself in.
I’m sure I looked quite odd to the lady at the till with my basket full of cords, clear backpacks, a first aid kit and a new pair of shoes.
On the day of the rally, at 3:15 on the dot, everyone participating would abruptly stop what they were doing, especially if in the middle of a class and leave. We would all meet at the university center and walk the short distance to Norsefire headquarters.
3:15 fell during my Creative Writing 2 class. Several students had signs with them. “A couple of things before we leave. Your finals are due this time next week at 5PM. Please make sure you have them to me before then.”
I looked around the room for any questions or signs of confusion on their faces.
I nodded, “Now about the rally. Remember, it is a peaceful one. No touching, not hitting, no fighting any counter protesters we may see. That includes yelling. If you feel you may be enticed to act out, Professor Martin has earplugs to drown out their voices.
I began to pull out the clear backpacks from under my desk. “I bought these for all of you. I don’t want the police to think you’re hiding a single thing. Please, use these instead.”
Several students hurried forward and claimed a bag.
“Please be aware of your surroundings! I cannot stress the importance of the buddy system enough. You stay with your buddy, you look out for buddy. This includes the mundane things like making sure you’re both hydrated. It will keep your energy up and voices strong. Even if it’s only five degrees out, you can still pass out from dehydration. I wouldn’t put it past Norsefire to see your unconscious body as an easy target.
“Make sure your phones are all charged fully. Even better, have external batteries or power banks. I have an iPhone XR and plenty of charger cords for several other models in my bag if you need a boost.
“I hope you told someone who will not be in attendance today that you will be going to this rally, as the original email instructed. If not, please do so now.
Several heads bowed to send texts.
“There is a very real possibility some it, not all us of could be hurt and/or arrested. Tell your contact they will hear from you at a certain time after the rally and if they do not, they must call a civil rights lawyer. In a similar vein,” I said as I dug in my leather satchel for permanent markers and began tossing them throughout the class.
“Write an emergency contact number on your person in case you are arrested, and your phone is taken away.
“As we march and when we get to Norsefire’s headquarters, keep your eyes moving. Anyone who looks suspicious is suspicious. Tell someone. Also, plan you exit if things go south. As we planned, all our rides back home will be parked a few blocks away and out of sight. It’ll be our home base of sort. Professors Tobias and Moore will be there with drinks and snacks if anyone needs them.
“Water makes pepper spray worse. I see some of you already have masks. If you do not, Colton Pruitt as plenty extra, please wear a mask. If you are sprayed, milk will neutralize it.
“If you plan to stream, go live or film during the rally, please be careful not to show any other protester’s face. Someone may get doxed. However, you see any of Norsefire or the police doing anything wrong, film it.
“Lastly, if you do get arrested, remain calm and do not fight or argue. It’ll only make the situation worse. The best way you can fight back is in court. Do not run your mouth at the police or while you’re in jail. It can be used against you. Ask for a lawyer and sit tight. After you get out, document as much evidence as you can – any injuries you may have sustained when you were being detained and held, names, badge numbers and so on and forth. Any questions?”
None. I was met with resolute faces.
“Then let’s go.”
My students and I filed out the classroom as several others did as well. We all formed a large mass as others joined from the rest of the university.
In a sense, we were anonymous. No one outside of campus knew who we were. To Norsefire we were simply an idea personified. We were unfiltered and uncensored education.
There was chanting, “EDUCATION is a RIGHT! That is why we HAVE TO FIGHT!” I stayed silent. We walked the several blocks, everyone on the street making way for us and some even joining.
We grew stronger with each person. As we drew near to the headquarters, we locked arms. I was locked with Piper and Micha.
We turned the corner and the ominous black and red building came into view. Fingermen and men with guns were stationed out front.
We gathered around the front of the building, waving our pithy signs and chanting our chants. Trying to draw the Chancellor out.
“Pay cuts for teachers? We say NO! Tax the people with lots of dough!”
I noticed two Fingermen were watching me, whispering to each other, not taking their eyes off me. I swallowed hard and tried to remain calm. I really did not want to spend the night in a jail cell. One spoke into the radio on his shoulder.
My face went warm and my hearing turned to static. I disentangled myself from Micha and Piper and burrowed deeper into the crowd, not even releasing I broke a cardinal rule of rally safety: always stay with your buddy.
Someone grabbed my shoulder.
“Gordon Dietrich?”
I turned, about to correct whoever was behind me.
“That’s him,” Another voice said. “Bag him.”
“I’m not Gordon! I’m not Gordon!” I hollered.
Black linen soon covered my face.