The March
by Marlene Olin
“Fighters by Suzana Stojanović”
We called the school Suntan University. Picture an Olympic-sized swimming pool. Halter tops and hot pants. A whiff of pot snaking its way from the dorms.
For my parents, it was perfect. A mere forty-five minutes away from our North Miami home. Hovering distance. My older brother and sister had graduated there without a whimper of protest. They’d diligently trudge home every weekend toting a bundle of wash. Then the five of us would eat TV dinners and watch The Defenders with folding trays on our laps.
My father. My mother. My sister. My brother. A swarm of sunburned students. For reasons both known and unknown, we all decided to march.
…
It’s a balmy winter night. A breeze is blowing the palm trees. I gulp the ocean air. Step by step my family walks the pavement holding candles with hundreds of others. Somewhere Led Zeppelin is playing. Signs dot the crowd. Make Love Not War! Bring The Troops Home Now!
For me, the war is a blip on the news, a headline in the paper. Something that happens very far away. And as I hold up my candle, as I watch the wax drip from the wick while the wind whips the flame, I think about my future. In six months’ time, I’ll be graduating high school and hearing from colleges. Penn. Northwestern. Michigan. Tufts. And the last place on my list is Suntan U.
Left. Right. Left.
..
My father limps on his bad leg and pats the Purple Heart on his chest. There was a reason to fight in the big war. Honor was as clean and bright as a shiny penny. But the war in Vietnam is different. No one knows what we’re fighting for now. Once we had the New Deal. The CCC. The Marshall Plan. Now all we have is Tricky Dick.
He winces with each step, takes a drag from his flask, and looks around. Goddamned hippies! If only time could be reversed like the miles on an odometer. Click-clacked. Upended. Rewound.
..
Looking down, my mother watches her feet. As always, she’s slowing her pace to match my father’s. Everything she does she does for others, slowing her pace, cooking the meals, doing the wash, scrubbing the floors. Once she was a straight A student. Dreamt of going to college. Being a professional. Sitting at a desk in a tailor-made dress. But instead of running toward her dreams, she learned to slow her pace. Looking back, she has no idea how it happened. Life sneaks up on you like that. One step at a time.
Left. Right. Left.
…
The crowd is walking elbow-to-elbow and hip-to-hip. And while the throng shoves and people push, my sister ruminates. All the pieces were falling into place. The scholarship at grad school. Two girls from her master’s program willing to share an apartment. With a part-time job, she was able to pay for a car.
Then everything she dreamed of and everything she feared happened. The pot. The pulsing music. The boyfriends in their bulging underwear. Our parents surprised her by visiting on a Sunday morning with a bag of bagels and a frisson of fake cheer. Then they took one look and ordered her home.
Instead of moving forward, she feels like a loon heading for the sea. A straggler loiters in front of her, laughing like it’s a party, gesturing with his free hand, flirting with the girl marching beside him. My sister steps on his heels. Oops! Excuse me! Then she does it again.
…
My brother is sweating sheets. After two more years of law school, his student deferment will run out. In his head, he writes and rewrites a doctor’s note for the draft board. His bad back. His weak knee. He’s a little hard of hearing, don’t you think? He’s allergic to grass, pollen, weeds, trees, every type of flora and fauna known to mankind, the letter will say. A stint in Nam would send him into anaphylactic shock.
Left. Right. Left.
…
I cover my ears to drown out the sounds. My father. My mother. My sister. My brother. The strangers rambling through the crowd. I try not to listen, but their voices push through. Each has a list of grievances and a heap of heartache to spare.
My son drew a low lottery number. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! He’s heading to Canada soon… Anybody have a joint?... After the protest, the gang’s heading for pizza. And after the pizza…... Fuck you, man. I mean fuck you... In ten years’ time, that country will be back where it started. An exercise in futility. A place destined for despair.
…
With each step, the group shrinks. Gaps widen and people scurry to fill holes. Though it’s warm out, I shiver. Clouds converge and the night thickens. I can taste the coming rain.
Meanwhile random thoughts prick like pins. Is life just a treadmill running on repeat? Only one thing is certain. Passion dies when boredom blooms. Any minute now, the signs will grow heavy, the music will quiet, and people will leave their refuse behind. From the sky, a gull looks down and chortles. Another protest, another meal.
I’m still holding the candle. We’ve circled the campus once and dutifully circle it again. Then, just when I least expect it, a gust of wind snuffs the flame like the fingertip of God. I feel rain spatter and darkness drop.
It’s biblical, the darkness. There is no moon, no stars, no guiding lights. Only a few lampposts show the way. My parents head for the car, jingling the keys while my brother and sister follow behind. It’s going to be okay, I tell myself. Because sometimes the doing is more important than what actually can be done.
Marlene Olin was born in Brooklyn, raised in Miami, and educated at the University of Michigan. Her short stories and essays have been published in journals such as The Massachusetts Review, Catapult, PANK, and World Literature Today. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of The Net, Best Small Fictions, and for inclusion in Best American Short Stories.
Suzana Stojanović, an artist and writer, studied literature at the Faculty of Philosophy of the University of Niš in Serbia. She is the author of the book “The structure and meaning of the border stories of Ilija Vukićević” and many literary, artistic and philosophical texts, short stories, satires, essays and poems. She is also the recipient of the 7th September award of the city of Vranje, public recognition for exceptional achievements in the category of education, and for the numerous prizes won in the field of art, musical and literary creativity. Her writing has appeared in “Cardinal Sins”, “Your Impossible Voice”, “Fiction International”, “Mount Hope”, and elsewhere. Also, her work has been nominated for the “Best Small Fictions 2023” anthology. Website: https://www.suzanastojanovic.com