Fifty years ago this month, I was embedded in Chicago’s Lincoln Park. The 1968 Democratic Convention was convening 10 or so miles away, but I — a 23-year-old underground newspaper editor and futile permit negotiator — was more interested in birthing a peace, love, and chemistry counterculture than watching delegates dither over a war I thought unconscionable.
Each night, my fellow communards and I were swept away by a tidal wave of cursing cops. Over the week, I chronicled the exodus, checking out casualties at local hospitals. The exclamation point came when the police shot out my paper’s windows while we worked on the next issue.
Recently, I thought my demonstration days were declining. But “business” is suddenly good. The Women’s March. Separated families. Black Lives Matter. Parents and Friends of Gays and Lesbians. The Trump Years are a giant game of Chutes & Ladders, with decades of gains threatening to slip away.