DIY History | Transcribe | Campus Culture | University of Iowa anti-war protests, January-April 1971 | 1971-03-25 Daily Iowan Article: ""'One false move and somebody is dead???'"" Page 4

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University of Iowa anti-war protests, January-April 1971

1971-03-25 Daily Iowan Article: ""'One false move and somebody is dead???'"" Page 4

gripe. for those black, glower
had a fearful, uncompromising 
about them. So the crowd
and its movement seemed to 
portent, ominously so, like wa
anger, swirling into a drain
ve march down Clinton and 

ster, was taken in front of
ceman and Norman Fischer
empted to protest the arrest.

One can only call to mind the hordes of police cowering beneath the shelling of rocks during the previous nights if he is to contemplate the reaction inside the Civic Center on that Friday afternoon. The aura surrounding the events was similar if not identical, bruise for bruise, regardless of how unarmed the group was as it advanced down Washington Street. The stage was again set. The police had little idea of what it was all about this time, but they were certain of the fact that they, the kids, were coming again. 
Yet there was not a large number of police on hand. None of them was dressed in riot gear as in previous nights. They instead wore their cotton-thin parking-ticket giving blue uniforms. Two stood at the front of the civic center with shotguns, a few more guarded parked cruisers by the side entrance, an unknown number of other, some in plainclothes, waited inside. 

. . .  when we get to the Civic Center we see police to the left of us at the side entrance, police to the right of u at the main entrance. There is a small moment of panic, a second of frozen air. Clark turns to me and days, "Which entrance do you think we ought to use?" I hesitate not an instant. "Front one, hell, we ought to walk right up there."
So we go up the stairs, we, me and Bruce, single-minded and hating racism worse than almost anything there is to hate in this world. We know that these same guns we see before us took shots at our brothers under the skin. We are mad and want to express ourselves dramatically and not take bullshit from anyone or quiet arguments, teeth-pulling nothingness, and crap. Up the steps we go, the police do not move a muscle. There is hardly time in all this quickness to notice anywhere but deep inside the brain that these two men we face are not in this moment human but just a doorway tending toward the impenetrable.

Up the stairs we go, Clark first. Up the stairs walking quickly, the two of us, wanting to get past them and get inside and not be held back out of our own police station. Then the inhuman door springs to action like the breech of the quickest rifle you can name and grabs Clark, begins butting him hard in the head with the gun. The two of them jump him, mercilessly beating, not restraining but having a field day battering his poor soft brains, their eyes darting and flashing. I am behind, watching a brother being beat, seeing the blood of it. I figure I can wrest from them, maybe hold them off and call it a stalemate for now, the point being made. 

But it is not to be so. For as I grab Clark by the back of the shirt there is the vacuum-like sensation of doors being opened and hordes of blue rushing out. Instantly I am blinded, my spectacles crash to the ground, I feel the  

whose mad as hell and screaming at the top of his lungs. He's taking terrific pleasure in yanking at my hair and hitting me on the head with some kind of club when we are past the doorway and such brutality is now possible. There are two on either side of me, pummeling me as I shout, "Okay, all right, damn it, I'm not going to fight you. I'm non-violent, dammit, cut it out, get your hands off me!" And I am answered, " Sure you're non-violent. We'll show you some non-violence, we'll show you . . . " and I am pummeled and hair pulled. 

When I am thrown in jail Clark is already there. I'd forgotten about him as all this has been totally out of context. I've not been arrested, nothing, there is no reality to all of this. Then I see Clark's bloody face and remember. We ask for bandages and a doctor but we get none. We spend the night in jail and are fed only because Carmen gets us hamburgers . . . 

Because of the relatively quick dispersal of the crowd from the civic center and back to the harmless verbiage of the Pentacrest, most felt the incident to be closed. Everyone, that is, except those who were to have anything to do with Clark and Fischer's release. The prevailing temperament of the Iowa City Police department made it extremely difficult for the procedures of arrest and bail to be carried out in a calm and orderly manner. 
After the four blacks had been arrested the previous night those who went to the police department to post bail for them were immediately arrested. The same thing happened to those who went to post bail the following morning for Clark and Fischer. 
The nerve ends within the civic center were frayed so badly after the incident, that almost no one could calmly recognize friend and foe, safety or harm. When Mary Carter, a member of the faculty of the Writers' Workshop and Alan Lew, a teaching assistant went to the police department that night to see about gaining the release of Fischer they quickly became a part of the chaos. 
Carter was told that Fischer could not be released until he was formally 

about the incident. "If someone had attempted a confrontation at any point during that time, they would have been badly injured or killed," she said. 
"If someone like me could get it - and I'm establishment-looking - what would have happened to someone looking like a hippie?"
The same thought flashed through Norman Fischer's mind at the height of his confrontation with Iowa City Police. He was struck by the overwhelming sensation of being caught in a machine which had no real knowledge or control over itself. All in the flash of a moment, in the lazy sun of a single week in May when no one was really sure of black or white, truth or illusion. He realized it at the point of a gun, just before it was too late. 

. . . . they are pointing trembling shotguns at the people who stand not a foot from them. This is when I calm down. Because I know that one false move and somebody is dead, blown apart, a hole the size of all the Bronx. The big muscles still push against the softest parts of my back, they still hurt. The policemen's faces are still no more human than total fear and total force . . . 

The next day Clark and Fischer were set free after posting the $100 bail. The blacks had been freed in similar fashion all for the required $100. They still have not yet been tried for their crimes and of course they have not recovered their bail money. But they are all alive, alive enough to try to make some sense of it all. 

The Daily Iowan 
OPINIONS

PAGE 2 THURSDAY, MARCH 25, 1971 IOWA CITY, IOW

Editor Leona Durham, Managing Editor, Amy Chapman, News Editor Lowell May, City-University Editor Willard Rawn, Editorial Page Editor Cheryl Miller, Photography Editor Diane Hypes, Fine Arts Editor Valerie Kent, Sports Editor, Jay Ewo, Associate News Editor Mike McGre, Assoc. City-University Editor Debbie Romin, Assoc. City University Editor Richard Tor, Assoc. Sports Editor John Richard, Assoc. Photo Editor Jan William

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gripe. for those black, glower had a fearful, uncompromising about them. So the crowd and its movement seemed to portent, ominously so, like wa anger, swirling into a drain ve march down Clinton and ster, was taken in front of ceman and Norman Fischer empted to protest the arrest. One can only call to mind the hordes of police cowering beneath the shelling of rocks during the previous nights if he is to contemplate the reaction inside the Civic Center on that Friday afternoon. The aura surrounding the events was similar if not identical, bruise for bruise, regardless of how unarmed the group was as it advanced down Washington Street. The stage was again set. The police had little idea of what it was all about this time, but they were certain of the fact that they, the kids, were coming again. Yet there was not a large number of police on hand. None of them was dressed in riot gear as in previous nights. They instead wore their cotton-thin parking-ticket giving blue uniforms. Two stood at the front of the civic center with shotguns, a few more guarded parked cruisers by the side entrance, an unknown number of other, some in plainclothes, waited inside. . . . when we get to the Civic Center we see police to the left of us at the side entrance, police to the right of u at the main entrance. There is a small moment of panic, a second of frozen air. Clark turns to me and days, "Which entrance do you think we ought to use?" I hesitate not an instant. "Front one, hell, we ought to walk right up there." So we go up the stairs, we, me and Bruce, single-minded and hating racism worse than almost anything there is to hate in this world. We know that these same guns we see before us took shots at our brothers under the skin. We are mad and want to express ourselves dramatically and not take bullshit from anyone or quiet arguments, teeth-pulling nothingness, and crap. Up the steps we go, the police do not move a muscle. There is hardly time in all this quickness to notice anywhere but deep inside the brain that these two men we face are not in this moment human but just a doorway tending toward the impenetrable. Up the stairs we go, Clark first. Up the stairs walking quickly, the two of us, wanting to get past them and get inside and not be held back out of our own police station. Then the inhuman door springs to action like the breech of the quickest rifle you can name and grabs Clark, begins butting him hard in the head with the gun. The two of them jump him, mercilessly beating, not restraining but having a field day battering his poor soft brains, their eyes darting and flashing. I am behind, watching a brother being beat, seeing the blood of it. I figure I can wrest from them, maybe hold them off and call it a stalemate for now, the point being made. But it is not to be so. For as I grab Clark by the back of the shirt there is the vacuum-like sensation of doors being opened and hordes of blue rushing out. Instantly I am blinded, my spectacles crash to the ground, I feel the whose mad as hell and screaming at the top of his lungs. He's taking terrific pleasure in yanking at my hair and hitting me on the head with some kind of club when we are past the doorway and such brutality is now possible. There are two on either side of me, pummeling me as I shout, "Okay, all right, damn it, I'm not going to fight you. I'm non-violent, dammit, cut it out, get your hands off me!" And I am answered, " Sure you're non-violent. We'll show you some non-violence, we'll show you . . . " and I am pummeled and hair pulled. When I am thrown in jail Clark is already there. I'd forgotten about him as all this has been totally out of context. I've not been arrested, nothing, there is no reality to all of this. Then I see Clark's bloody face and remember. We ask for bandages and a doctor but we get none. We spend the night in jail and are fed only because Carmen gets us hamburgers . . . Because of the relatively quick dispersal of the crowd from the civic center and back to the harmless verbiage of the Pentacrest, most felt the incident to be closed. Everyone, that is, except those who were to have anything to do with Clark and Fischer's release. The prevailing temperament of the Iowa City Police department made it extremely difficult for the procedures of arrest and bail to be carried out in a calm and orderly manner. After the four blacks had been arrested the previous night those who went to the police department to post bail for them were immediately arrested. The same thing happened to those who went to post bail the following morning for Clark and Fischer. The nerve ends within the civic center were frayed so badly after the incident, that almost no one could calmly recognize friend and foe, safety or harm. When Mary Carter, a member of the faculty of the Writers' Workshop and Alan Lew, a teaching assistant went to the police department that night to see about gaining the release of Fischer they quickly became a part of the chaos. Carter was told that Fischer could not be released until he was formally about the incident. "If someone had attempted a confrontation at any point during that time, they would have been badly injured or killed," she said. "If someone like me could get it - and I'm establishment-looking - what would have happened to someone looking like a hippie?" The same thought flashed through Norman Fischer's mind at the height of his confrontation with Iowa City Police. He was struck by the overwhelming sensation of being caught in a machine which had no real knowledge or control over itself. All in the flash of a moment, in the lazy sun of a single week in May when no one was really sure of black or white, truth or illusion. He realized it at the point of a gun, just before it was too late. . . . . they are pointing trembling shotguns at the people who stand not a foot from them. This is when I calm down. Because I know that one false move and somebody is dead, blown apart, a hole the size of all the Bronx. The big muscles still push against the softest parts of my back, they still hurt. The policemen's faces are still no more human than total fear and total force . . . The next day Clark and Fischer were set free after posting the $100 bail. The blacks had been freed in similar fashion all for the required $100. They still have not yet been tried for their crimes and of course they have not recovered their bail money. But they are all alive, alive enough to try to make some sense of it all. The Daily Iowan OPINIONS PAGE 2 THURSDAY, MARCH 25, 1971 IOWA CITY, IOW Editor Leona Durham, Managing Editor, Amy Chapman, News Editor Lowell May, City-University Editor Willard Rawn, Editorial Page Editor Cheryl Miller, Photography Editor Diane Hypes, Fine Arts Editor Valerie Kent, Sports Editor, Jay Ewo, Associate News Editor Mike McGre, Assoc. City-University Editor Debbie Romin, Assoc. City University Editor Richard Tor, Assoc. Sports Editor John Richard, Assoc. Photo Editor Jan William p.4 (of 4)