Marietta's Birthday

My friend from the death penalty movement is having a big birthday and a birthday book of remembrances is being gathered for her. This is what I've written about the first time we met:

I remember clearly the evening I met Marietta Jaeger – January 16, 1997. We were on the fourth floor of the Community for Creative Non-Violence in Washington DC sitting down to a meeting with our lawyer to discuss the next day’s activities. Marietta was wearing one of Abe’s blue sweatshirts reading “I oppose the death penalty; Don’t kill for me.” Before the night was over we’d all be wearing the green hooded sweatshirts that Abe had manufactured specifically for the event.

I was a complete newcomer to the movement. In fact, participating in this civil disobedience we were about to undertake was my very first abolitionist event; I was jumping in with both feet. Around the large table in the meeting room I sat next to Marietta. I’d no idea who she was or how important she was to the people in the room. But before long I’d learn.

The next day, the twentieth anniversary of Gary Gilmore’s execution, remains as one of the coldest days in my memory. Certainly not a day to be standing still at the top of a long open plaza while the bone-chilling wind whipped through my jacket and across my face. We’d come across the street from the Methodist Center disguising ourselves as a tour group, John Steinbach pretending to be our chatty guide. The Supreme Court Police rushed over to stop us, having been alerted to our intentions by our attorney, but let the frozen tour group continue on up the steps. Half way up we formed ourselves into a line and the banner – from underneath my jacket – was unfurled.

Although they were standing right next to us, the Police needed to use a small megaphone to announce that we were breaking the law and would be arrested if we didn’t move along – the wind carried away the unaided voice. And then one by one they put on the twisti-cuffs and assisted us inside where they were all set up to do our booking.

In the bowels of the supreme court building, in a wide hallway leading to the interior driveway, the 18 of us sat while they shuffled through sheaves of papers. We were not permitted to speak – but we could sing, and our human karaoke machine Art Laffin led us in protest songs of all stripes. As our voices wore down and they continued their paperwork, silence began to fill the spaces. In the still moments the police began to ask us questions. One, several probably, knew Marietta from her previous years on the steps for the Fast & Vigil – the grand annual event of which she was one of the founders.

One officer, trying to decide whether he felt contempt or compassion for us, asked her why she did this. Marietta began to tell her story, and in that moment the air in the basement corridor changed. As she spoke a stillness crept through the room until all was silence and every person present was listening.

Slowly I learned what had brought Marietta to that moment. She told the story of how her daughter had been kidnapped and killed while her family was on a camping trip. I was sitting next to Marietta during the story and even through this unholy tale her own deep commitment to peace in the world was palpable. Others with us knew her story well but still they sat riveted by her gentle voice telling a tale of such horror. The officer who’d asked, all the officers, listened cautiously, some realizing slowly that they’d need to change their minds when she were done talking. It was the most powerful time of the entire day for me. And that’s saying quite a lot.

Later, when 16 protesters had been transported to the city jail, Marietta and I sat alone in the basement room awaiting our chariot. There we were on the plastic court chairs, hands still in twisti-cuffs behind our backs. We’d been there many hours already and the shift had changed; newly pressed officers were waiting with us for the wagon to return. Down the hall came one of her court pals, an officer who’d been with us earlier now dressed in his street clothes.

“May I feed the prisoners?” he asked the current officer in charge. From his breast pocket he produced a small package of Oreos. And one at a time he fed us those scrumptious cookies. I’d never liked Oreos before that moment. But in that instant it was the most delicious cookie I’d ever tasted.