Repression
By Gene Aronowitz
In 1966, I had a successful career as a mental health group therapist for children. My practice was based on significant research at Case Western Reserve University. A graduate of its doctoral program, Paul Gitlin, was teaching at the University of Chicago, School of Social Service Administration, which I was interested in attending. Paul brought his students to observe my practice at Hull House, and other faculty became interested in my work as well. A paper I wrote about my practice was published in the school’s highly regarded journal, The Social Service Review. I was on a first-name basis with many faculty members, and the relationships were cordial.
I applied for admission to the doctoral program at the University of Chicago, and despite the school's initial reluctance due to my abysmally low undergraduate grades, I was admitted. However, when I entered the program in the fall of 1967, the first-name basis had disappeared, and, except for Paul Gitlin, with whom I became friends, I was referred to as Mr. Aronowitz, which I perceived as a distancing gesture. The widespread presumption of my competence also disappeared, again, except for Paul. Whereas they previously saw me as competent unless I demonstrated otherwise, they then considered me incompetent unless I passed their examinations or wrote excellent papers. I was offended by how I thought I was being treated and considered that treatment repressive.
With that lingering attitude, I began to see much in my life as repressive. In August 1968, toward the end of my first year at the school, the infamous reaction in Chicago to those who were protesting the Vietnam War occurred before and throughout the Democratic National Convention. I was not participating in the protests; instead, I was observing the activities in Grant Park while standing in front of the Conrad Hilton Hotel, where the convention was being held. I was against the war, had participated in previous demonstrations, and perceived the mayor and police force as being excessively repressive. I identified with the demonstrators, many of whom I later saw on television being severely beaten. I was hooked on the song “For What It’s Worth.” Stephen Stills wrote that song in 1966, and Buffalo Springfield recorded it during the same year. Its lyrics said that battle lines were being drawn as young people spoke their minds and faced significant resistance. It seemed to me that the images that formed while listening to the song resembled what was happening in Grant Park.
Eight of the leaders and prominent participants in the protests were put on trial, charged with conspiracy and crossing state lines to incite riots.
The trial became political theater. Abby Hoffman and Jerry Rubin, both self-described Yippies, also performed mischievous and disruptive behavior, including deliberately provoking the judge. One of the defendants, Bobby Seale, co-founder of the Black Panther Party, was ordered by Judge Julius Hoffman to be bound and gagged for his repeated outbursts and disruptions. Seale’s case was severed from the others, and the Chicago Eight became the Chicago Seven.
At the end of the trial, all the defendants were acquitted of the conspiracy charge. Still, five were convicted of crossing state lines with the intent of inciting a riot, convictions that were subsequently overturned. However, Judge Hoffman cited all seven, and their two attorneys, for criminal contempt of court. I considered the contempt citations excessively and inappropriately repressive. That radicalized me and, that night, I marched around the Federal Courthouse, initially by myself, holding a sign. Eventually, others joined me, and the following day, I began leading demonstrations that grew quite large. I was on a big ego trip. While leading a demonstration, a police officer came within 10 feet of me and took my picture. I imagined he was trying to intimidate me, presuming he might send the photo to the FBI. But I was not intimidated. I considered it thrilling.
My behavior became quite insufferable, as I considered myself the personification of effective activism. That attitude influenced my behavior with the National Conference on Social Welfare, which was scheduled to take place in Chicago the following year. I wrote to the Director of the Conference, explaining that I was a social worker, and suggested they move the Conference to another city because of the repression that had taken place against the demonstrators. He said that was out of the question because they had deposited a considerable amount of money at the location where the Conference was to take place. I then asked if I could organize a large session about repression. He refused. Miffed, I recruited many volunteers to attend small Conference sessions and ask questions about repression related to the subject being discussed by the speakers. For example, they might have suggested that psychological, sexual, or familial abuse was a form of repression and asked questions about how to deal with such behavior. Some of the speakers resented what we were doing, and some even ended their session after a single series of questions. In retrospect, I’m embarrassed about what we did. The speakers had no involvement in the Director’s decision, and disrupting their session was both disrespectful and counterproductive.
I recently read a statement attributed correctly to actor and Zen Buddhist priest Peter Coyote on how to protest effectively. He said, “A protest is an invitation to a better world. It’s a ceremony.” He further said that the protest’s target should not be the police or politicians, but rather the general onlookers, helping them to decide who they can trust. He urged protesters to practice self-discipline, to dress in clean, presentable clothes to show respect, and to make the protest silent, letting the signs “do the talking.” I then heard a podcast by Jack Kornfield, an American writer who trained as a Buddhist Monk and has taught mindfulness meditation worldwide since 1974. He said that compassionate protesting is a necessary and spiritual act in a troubled world. He supported peaceful and respectful protests, citing historical figures such as Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr., and Nelson Mandela as examples of nonviolent resistance. I wish I had heard Peter Coyote and Jack Kornfield back then, and would come to consider my activities as compassionate, necessary, and spiritual. But I didn’t, and they weren’t.
I thought about my initial reactions to the song “For What It’s Worth” and what the song was saying, which resembled the anti-war demonstration taking place in Grant Park in 1968. However, seven years later, in the mid-1970s, I learned that “For What It’s Worth” wasn’t an anti-war song after all. It was about a gathering of young people protesting a new curfew and the imminent closure of Pandora’s Box, a popular coffeehouse on the corner of Sunset Boulevard and Crescent Heights in Los Angeles. The merchants on Sunset Boulevard apparently believed that the nightly collection of young people on the street to get into the club was bad for business, and the city complied with their wishes by imposing a curfew. A bunch of young people gathered to protest, refused to move, and were met by three busloads of combatant police. For a while, I heard “For What It’s Worth” in a new way.
I had little investment in the curfew issue, and by the mid-1980s, the police had ceased to be an issue for me. In fact, I became a supporter of police. I was asked to serve on a New York State task force to develop a curriculum for police officers on how to deal with people with mental illness. During that stint, I had the opportunity to meet many police officers and was even allowed to spend a day with the New York City Police Department’s Emergency Service Unit. I was struck by how skilled and fearless those officers were and how necessary they were for our community. I became a real fan.
However, on April 28, 2025, forty-five years later, President Trump signed an Executive Order that called for the militarization of local law enforcement and encouraged the use of aggressive tactics, intimidation, and force. He then sent National Guard troops and active-duty Marines into American cities. In a hastily organized meeting of generals and admirals on September 30, 2025, President Trump said the military would be involved in combating a domestic “war from within,” and he mentioned developing a military “quick reaction force” to deal with disturbances. I don’t support any of this, but to be fair, I had supported the use of federal troops in our cities in the past. During the Civil Rights movement, federal troops were sent into Arkansas, Mississippi, and Alabama to enforce court orders, to protect African Americans physically and from intimidation, and to ensure the safe integration of schools. In a move more related to the Trump initiatives, federal troops were sent to California in 1992 to restore order during the Los Angeles riots. Notwithstanding those precedents, when I heard about the president’s intrusion into our cities, the images of police brutality during the ill-fated 1968 demonstrations in Chicago’s Grant Park came rushing back, and the disheartening meaning I once gave “For What It’s Worth” was rekindled.
Writing this memoir has been eye-opening. Ever since my days as a doctoral student, up to the morning I was working on the final draft of this memoir, I can’t help but see repression all around me. Either I’m irrationally obsessed with the subject, or that’s the way things really are.
A version of this memoir is included in the book 23 More Memoirs.