The Chicago 7 and Me
By Gene Aronowitz
It was 1968, and Chicago would soon be in the glare of the Democratic National Convention, a magnet for thousands of activists opposing the Vietnam War.
Initially only an advisory presence, the United States increased troop strength from about 16,000 advisors in 1963 to 563,000 military personnel in 1968. Graphic news coverage caused public opinion to turn against the war. Young men, concerned with being drafted into an unpopular and, from their perspective, unnecessary war, began to rebel and were joined by many people sympathetic to their cause. Thousands of protesters came to Chicago, my hometown at the time.
Poised to protect the city were (according to Wikipedia) 12,000 members of the Chicago Police Department on twelve-hour shifts, 6,000 U.S. Army troops, nearly 6,000 members of the National Guard with an additional 5,000 on alert, 1,000 Secret Service agents, and up to 1,000 FBI and military intelligence officers.
During the Convention, the Chicago police officers began to clash with the protestors, which included indiscriminate violence, such as beating the protesters with billy clubs and rifle butts. The crowd, in turn, threw food, rocks, and concrete at the police. I didn’t participate in the demonstrations but stood on the periphery. I also watched the behavior of the police on television, shocked and revolted by the whole scene but unwilling to turn it off. I heard the protestors shout, “The whole world is watching.”
I wrote this memoir shortly after watching the meager police presence in response to the Trump-inspired mob that invaded the U.S. Capitol on January 6, 2021. Suddenly, I understood Mayor Daily, who was outraged by what he imagined the thousands of anti-Vietnam War protesters could do to his city. But while I cringed at the recollection of what the Chicago police had done, I paradoxically wished that reinforced Capital police had done the same.
Some of the protest leaders in Chicago were charged with conspiracy and crossing state lines with the intent to incite a riot, and what unfolded became known as the Conspiracy Trial. I viewed Federal Judge Julius Hoffman's behavior as quite repressive and took the side of the protestors. Not only was I on their side, but I identified with them. Repression had become a flash-point for me because of what I was then experiencing as a student in a Ph.D. Program at the University of Chicago.
I had enrolled at the age of 30, a year before the protests in Chicago. Five years had passed since I received a master’s degree in social work, and I was on my way to a successful career. It was a time of exploration, creativity, and accomplishment. But as a student, I was presumed to know very little or nothing relevant to my education unless, through papers and exams, I could demonstrate that I had acquired the necessary knowledge. I had a hard time dealing with this presumption as a doctoral student.
Before entering the doctoral program, I had a responsible position at a highly respected agency with an international reputation. Students from the University of Chicago frequently observed my social group work practice. The school’s own professional journal had published a paper on my approach, and another had been accepted by the journal of a major social work organization. I had earned the respect and admiration of many University of Chicago faculty members, and contrary to my experience in the doctoral program, my knowledge and competence were not questioned.
I found this transition from respected professional to fearful student distressing, and it wasn’t long before I began to feel disparaged and disrespected. While the faculty knew me as Gene before I entered the program, they addressed me as Mr. Aronowitz. I did not consider this a sign of respect. On the contrary, I saw it as a way of creating distance between them and me. I interpreted the educative process as essentially demeaning and repressive. I saw the judge’s reaction to the defendants and their lawyers as similar, although not equivalent, to what I experienced at school.
Judge Hoffman had his hands full with the alleged conspirators and their lawyers, some of whom acted outrageously throughout the trial. At the time, I loved watching their antics, although, over the years, that admiration has cooled. The leading attorney, William Kunstler, once called the courtroom a “medieval torture chamber.” The defendants, particularly Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin, turned the trial into political theater. Both showed up in court once wearing judicial robes, and when the judge required them to remove them, everyone saw that, underneath, they were wearing blue police uniforms. Abbie Hoffman blew kisses to the jury and called the judge “Julie.”
After the jury started to deliberate, the Judge cited all the defendants and their lawyers for contempt of court and sentenced them to jail terms ranging from less than three months to more than four years. The defendants were unquestionably contemptuous, but I thought the judge provoked them with his obviously prejudicial behavior. He often implied that the defense team was "inept, bumptious, or untrustworthy." Once, when four jurors initially refused to convict the defendants, he told them that he would not accept any other conclusion but guilty. The sentencing seemed to me to be vindictive and unfair.
I went to the courthouse that afternoon, thinking I would see many equally concerned people. Instead, I found just a few individuals standing around and talking with each other. There was no one around that night, so I made a sign and started walking around the building myself under the quizzical scrutiny of the Federal Marshals. Soon, others came by and joined me. By the end of the night, there were about 60 people. The next day, more arrived. I gave our efforts a name: “Concerned Citizens for Justice,” and the protestors inflated to over a thousand people within days. Once, while I was speaking to the crowd, a police officer came up within two feet of me and took several photographs. I think he was trying to intimidate me, but I looked straight at his camera lens for as long as he thought it necessary to take my picture. I’m sure my photo is in a police file and in some sort of FBI anti-terrorist folder. By that time, my adrenaline was flowing unabated. I imagined myself quite the radical, a delusion but a thrilling one.
The Concerned Citizens for Justice morphed into The Social Work Radical Caucus, and my next target was an organization known as The National Conference on Social Welfare, which had scheduled its annual six-day conference in Chicago. I suggested they move to another location or cancel the event, thus making a statement about how repressive and unacceptable Chicago had become. “Social work values require such action,” I wrote.
The Executive Director replied that it would be impossible to find another venue, and canceling was out of the question. I suggested they “at least have a large session on the public policy implications of Chicago’s behavior.” He refused again.
The committee I assembled decided to have our own presentation on the subject and were prepared to rent a movie theater near the Conference hotel. But the organization ended up giving us a good-sized room for our session. One of the women working with me had a personal relationship with William Kunstler, the leading attorney for the “Chicago 7,” and was able to get him to agree to be our speaker. At breakfast, with just the three of us, I looked at him with starstruck awe, restrained to the point of almost not speaking. I was enthralled when introducing him to the overflow crowd that came to our session. I can’t remember a time in my life when I was more pleased with myself than I was that day, a bit out of proportion to what the actual events called for, but exhilarated, nevertheless.
