We do what we do because we want to be faithful. And we would stand out in front of the Department of Energy (DOE) on the first sweltering day of the summer to protest the Nuclear Train even if nobody else came and nobody noticed. But, let's face it, it helps when the crowd is substantial and the TV cameras show up. It helps to spread the message, to communicate the urgency of the nuclear situation.
Last June 11 was a great morning for a Peace Pentecost action. We had come to the DOE—the place that sends out the signal for the Nuclear Train to move with its cargo of nuclear warheads from Amarillo, Texas, to its various destinations—to register our protest. Spirits were high and the singing was exuberant.
The children had put together a colorful Peace Train made of wagons and strollers. A pair of railroad ties (acquired with no little trouble) lay in our midst as a sign of our connection with others around the country who vigiled that day alongside the railroad tracks that carry the Nuclear Train. At about 9 o'clock we sent forth to the front of the building the 35 people who had decided to pray at the entrance and risk arrest.
By late morning they were still standing in front of the entrance. The police made no move to start arrests. The day grew hotter. With undaunted spirits, those of us in the support vigil took turns walking to the street vendors down by the Smithsonian Institution as the day wore on to pick up drinks for many parched throats.
By midday our 2,000 leaflets had all been handed out, and a carload of people took off for the Sojourners outreach offices to photocopy a bunch more. All that was left of the Peace Train was a string of wilted streamers and popped balloons, and parents were busily trying to keep the children entertained as we all waited to see what would happen next. One of the children was asked on camera by a reporter why he was there, and he was overheard saying, "Well, you see, there's this train that goes from Armadillo, Texas ..."
By midafternoon "leaflet lethargy" had set in, and the people who had greeted DOE employees with a vigorous smile earlier in the day retired. The TV cameras took off. The crowd at the entrance was still praying, having sat down and stood up and sat down again several times in the previous hour. Every peace song ever composed had been sung several times over. Peace was flowing endlessly like a river, and we had long before nixed "We Shall Not Be Moved" from the list of songs appropriate for the occasion.
After seven hours, we felt that our witness had been sufficient and called it a day. We closed with prayer and singing and a promise to return to the DOE for a vigil each time the Nuclear Train moves with its nuclear cargo.
In the midafternoon heat we picked up the last shreds of streamers and leaflets. Then we had to move the railroad ties, a task appropriate for the defensive line of the Washington Redskins.
WHEN IT WAS all over, a few of us decided that the long and tiring day deserved a closing swim. Jim Rice, Liane Rozzell, Dolly Arroyo, Jim Wallis, and I headed for the Hains Point swimming pool, down by the Potomac River. We discovered that the pool doesn't open for the season until the city's children are out of school, a date still two weeks away.
We made the 25-minute drive in slow rush hour traffic back up to an indoor pool not far from our neighborhood, only to find that it isn't open on Mondays. We let Jim Rice out of the car at a pay phone, and he made numerous calls around the city while the rest of us sweltered in the heat. He reported back that no city pools were open.
We felt discouraged, but not defeated. Only one option was left for a carload of hot and tired and desperate peace vigilers. We headed toward Rock Creek Park. A Salvadoran refugee family already had the same idea and was there enjoying the refreshment of a swim.
We plunged into the large creek, realizing that we were committing a blatant act of civil disobedience and hoping not to be discovered by the Park Police. We felt we had to do it, following a lower law of self-indulgent gratification, fully believing that at the Judgment Day we would be vindicated if asked to offer justification for our actions.
A few kids just off from school joined the swimming party. Jim Rice was just about to jump off a ledge into the water while the rest of us were enjoying the refreshing pounding of the waterfall when a local TV camera crew arrived on the scene. They were obviously in search of the annual "first hot day of the year" human interest story. Washingtonians take a certain pride in surviving the hot and sticky and seemingly endless summers in the capital city.
After having sufficiently cooled off in the creek, we headed back home in time to see if our Peace Pentecost witness had made the 6 o'clock news. The local TV station that we turned to aired about 30 seconds of Peace Pentecost coverage, including a good closeup of the children's Peace Train. But even more exciting was a minute-and-a-half-long segment on the weather. Plastered across the screen were the words "Washingtonians beat the heat." And if you looked real closely, you could have sworn that the person about to take a plunge off a rock ledge was Jim Rice—with four unindicted co-conspirators enjoying a waterfall massage just below.
Who says we can't bring out the press?
Joyce Hollyday was an associate editor of Sojourners magazine when this article appeared.
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