BS Summary: This article contains 28 faulty reasoning types, including Anecdotal, Post Hoc (False Cause), and Availability Heuristic, with Appeal to Emotion as the most egregious example at 19.6% saturation with 179 hits. Analysis detected 1,928 faulty-reasoning hits from 915 analyzed words, generating a BS Score of 53.2% and a BS Rank of 56% (9,803 of 21,887 articles). This article is worse (more manipulative) than 55.20% of the article peer group.
I am 88 years old. that means that I have been around for more than one-third of the life of the United States—and I have learned a few things along the way, about myself and about this country.
Among them: We are all actors in the world, like it or not.
When the opportunity arises to do something on behalf of others, take it.
If you feel the call, heed it.
Leaps of faith are my main form of exercise these days, and let me tell you, the payoff is profound—not just for the people and the ecosystems you are fighting for, but for yourself as well.
I began to discover these truths in the late 1960s and early ’70s, when my life of protest first took shape.
It started with a tour of the GI coffeehouses that opened in the late ’60s and early ’70s outside military bases around the country.
They were places where enlisted men (it was only men then) could meet each other, be entertained, and learn about Vietnam and movement history.
A woman named Terry Davis ran the Oleo Strut GI coffeehouse outside Fort Hood in Killeen, Texas.
She was kind, fully present, and didn’t talk down to us or treat me as a celebrity.
I was tasked with going onto the base to distribute leaflets announcing an anti-war rally the following week.
I’d be risking arrest.
To prepare me, Terry gave me tips on how to behave and advised me never to resort to violence.
Being with her was like looking through a keyhole into the future we were fighting for, and it was that—how hopeful she made me feel—that made me decide hers was the team I wanted to be on.
Other causes, and lessons, followed.
One day, I read an article by Peter Collier describing the Native American occupation of Alcatraz Island that began in November 1969.
Alcatraz has long been significant to Native peoples, who cite the 1868 Treaty of Fort Laramie, which promised that unused federal lands would revert to Native tribes.
That winter, they issued a proclamation claiming the island “by right of discovery” and offered to buy it for $24 in beads and cloth—mocking the largely mythical “purchase” of Manhattan Island by the Dutch West India Company.
I asked Peter if he’d take me to the occupation at Alcatraz.
It was quotidian—people camping, talking, writing, hanging clothes out to dry, cooking food—and it was hard to believe the whole world was watching.
But that winter, donations of food, clothes, and money poured in from across the country, and the media focused on it in a new way.
I saw the outlines of what a campaign can look like and how peaceful resistance can make change when it captures the public’s interest.
Within two years, President Nixon had adopted the “self-determination without termination” policy, which reversed decades of resistance to Tribal rights and led to the return of millions of acres of land and new laws that supported Native American self-governance.
The rest, I can honestly say, is my history.
I have started several organizations; some didn’t survive, but most are still here.
I have worked—and protested—on campaigns around reproductive rights, civil rights, peace, economic democracy, anti–nuclear energy, the rights of Indigenous people, violence against women and girls, and now, perhaps the most important campaign of all our lives: the climate crisis.
Here’s what i believe to be true.
First, anyone and everyone can engage in nonviolent protest against unjust laws and threats to our planet.
We have a guaranteed First Amendment right to do so.
But activism is also an opportunity—a great opportunity, I would say—to shape the course of human events.
It begins with learning.
You don’t need to be an expert, but I recommend listening, asking questions, and staying close to committed and dedicated people.
Second, you can’t do it alone.
If I’d tried that, I’d be dead by now—I’m foolhardy sometimes.
I came through this all because of my friendships and alliances.
Alone, you can be knocked down or bought off.
Together, there’s power.
When the backlash to my Vietnam activism hit—threats, hatred—everyone expected me to crumble.
But I didn’t, and the reason was that I had the support of friends, particularly women, who just wouldn’t give up on the issue, or on me.
Believe me, when you are released from jail and there is a group outside waiting for you with water, a snack, and a hug, you realize how important it is to be part of a community.
Why do I still protest?
Because it works.
Every important victory in the history of this country—and of this world—has been launched by people standing up and saying no, in whatever way made sense in that moment.
Think about the Boston Tea Party, about teenagers sitting down at lunch counters, about Gandhi’s struggle to liberate India.
They all depended on civil disobedience.
And I still protest, because now it’s existential, particularly with a climate crisis that could destroy us.
The big question for me now is not what I regret from my life.
It’s what I might regret not doing with the rest of my time here.
I am focusing on the people I love and making sure my life is authentic.
I don’t despair, because activism, it turns out, is the antidote to despair.
Civil disobedience feels like freedom—you might have handcuffs on, but you are whole, not fragmented.
That’s worth fighting for.
Speakers
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Analysis
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