Remembering the Same Old, Same Old Protests—Now and 50 Years Ago. Part Four

Victor Davis Hanson

My next occasion with the anti-war, Che Guevara, Santa Cruz Left followed the next spring, 1973.

These were the final gasps of anti-war protests sputtering out over the very end of the Cambodia misadventure, with the U.S. Air Force bombing of Cambodia to save the pro-American Lon Nol government (the tail end of Operation Fair Deal) and stop the genocidal Khmer Rouge (the good guys, of course, for the Santa Cruz demonstrators).

I then remembered another “moratorium,” announced for all classes.

We were told it was to be “enforced.” But by whom?

Well, at that point, I shrugged. After mingling with the UCSC student body for 18 months I was not particularly impressed with their martial valor and did not wish to lose a $12 class.

So, I went to my morning Greek history class as scheduled. About half of us as I remember showed up, maybe 15 or so. It was a talk on Herodotus that day. And I thought it queer that our professor compared him (wrongly) favorably to my then and now hero Thucydides.

I sat next to an older student, a rare Southerner whom I had gotten to know well.

I’ll call him “Billy Baker” since he had a “y” on the end of his name.

Baker reportedly, or so he said, had served prison time for theft in the south. And he was on an EOP sort of Santa Cruz scholarship program for former inmates. He was quite talented and well-read. When his station wagon blew an exhaust gasket, he got a welding torch and shaved off the back top-half of the car—to save weight, he said, and to keep the loud monstrosity going.

He still lived in our dorm at 27 and entertained us in the lounge with bizarre (and often frightening) stories about car theft and prison life—and worse.

He was enrolled in creative writing, so we never knew his true from false. But at least I liked the classics professor, so I came to class.

Ten minutes in, three male students and one female burst in, shouting “Class closed! Get the f**k out” and began overturning desks and chairs.

I usually sat way in the back, and so did Billy Baker.

As the front of the class left under coercion, we were left alone at the rear, staring at now overturned chairs and not moving.

I was shocked that the quite startled professor left too (Billy laughed, “Well, lookie here, our Mr. Professor is about the first to run”).

To his credit, the professor had only left after his calm but failed plea with the disrupters to stay peaceful and “dialogue.”

Then the Maoist quartet reached us and ordered us out. In a nanosecond, Billy just got up and hit the nearest one.

No word, no warning, nothing.

And not a big punch, just a moderate slug to his stomach.

The targets swore at us. His girlfriend swore. Every one of them swore but swore in a nasal accent I’d never quite heard.

Then the assailed just gave up and sat down—and?

Yes, he started whimpering and said, “Call security!” (Where are the police when you hate the police?)

I felt bad, and walked over and offered, “He didn’t hit you that hard.” (The guy reminded me of Bert Lahr’s cowardly lion.)

“And you started it and were overturning chairs and desks.”

(How strange to be conversing with radical would-be terrorists over the unfairness of not sitting still to be attacked by them.)

And then just like that, the four all ran out. Billy and I put all the chairs and desks back. He said, “I barely whomped him.”

To be continued.