On July 20, 1969, while Michael Collins piloted Apollo 11's command module, Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin took small steps on the surface of the moon. Meanwhile, bouncers outside the Hofbrau Haus in Munich violently heaved in a great leap my drunken, 17 year-old carcass onto the cobblestones outside. They were so impressed that I had tried to smuggle out a souvenir, one-liter stein, they felt it right that my face wind up in gutter water.
Two comrades and I had hitchhiked across Europe in July with nary a thought to the impending history in the heavens. Our July was filled with come-what-may adventures and an eye to surviving on five bucks a day. We were oblivious to three other human beings who were rocketing a quarter million miles away and mesmerizing earthly multitudes with their ultimate pioneering adventure in survival.
Home was Ankara, Turkey, where our fathers were employed. We attended George C. Marshall Regional High School in a U.S. military enclave where American citizens could find shopping, a snack bar, tennis courts, and refuge from Turkish society. Some 350 American students attended the high school of which about a quarter resided in dormitories whose families lived elsewhere in the Middle East.
Each school morning, a fleet of blue school buses collected kids, like myself, who lived in several Ankara neighborhoods, and delivered us through the checkpoint at the base and to the front doors of George C. Marshall. Once inside, you might never think that the school was in a foreign country, unless, that is, you ignored the Turkish janitors and kitchen staff and never looked out the windows to see the sprawling Anatolian terrain and the minarets that spiked the cityscape beyond the security fences.
When I returned from Germany to Ankara with a fresh treasure of memories, I looked forward to my senior year. There were friends who would be returning to the dorms and there is that unique pride in feeling like a top dog senior in high school. And it was the best of times to be a long-haired American youth, what with anti-war and civil rights demonstrations raging at home, with sixties rock blaring through our souls, and with great quantities of hashish found accessible down dangerous Turkish alleyways. To come of age as a radicalized American teen living in a Middle Eastern capital with all its intrigues, to stand together with friends against those wobbling pillars of injustice, and to become steeped in it all by that delicious drug, well, it was a fine time to be a senior. Even though we lived half way around the world, as self-assigned members of Woodstock Nation, we felt a part of something greater in the fall of 1969.
Meanwhile, from September 29 to November 5, those shining American heroes, Armstrong, Aldrin, and Collins, set out on a side trip, dubbed The Giant Leap - Apollo 11 Presidential Goodwill Tour. They were the messiahs of the age and the great mass of Earth's occupants could now gaze up into the the night sky and feel a new kinship with that silver moon rising. Frenzied throngs of thousands swarmed them in 27 cities in 24 countries in 45 days. Speech after speech and parade after parade, some 100 million people saw them.
So it was that the astronauts landed in Ankara, Turkey, on October 20, 1969. The next morning, in George C. Marshall High School, as homerooms were convened for attendance, this message came down from on high: Apollo 11's three astronauts would be appearing for an assembly that afternoon in our very own high school gym.
Oh, mother of moons! Teachers and students alike, we were a quivering mass of golden expectancy. Classroom work be damned that morning as suddenly it felt like a day off. Teachers tried to manage the anticipation. The hallways buzzed between bells. The masses had greeted the astronauts in great public assemblies of chaos, but we would have them here in our intimate little gym, all to ourselves, live and in color on floor and bleachers. Just mere meters away: Neil Armstrong! The first man on the moon!
But in two hours, it all came crashing down. The assistant principal came across the intercom during third period at around 10:30 and spoke: "I regret to announce that the astronauts will not be attending an assembly today. Their schedule won't permit..." blah, blah, blah. There were gasps and spans of silence and angry shouts at those talking boxes over classroom doors. It was stunning. And kids were pissed off.
A lot of families considered Turkey a "hardship post" and tried to replicate their experience in Turkey as closely as possible to the American scene back home. The American bowling alley, movie theater, snack bar, and commissaries were very popular haunts. I imagine an appearance by the astronauts would have given them a much needed jolt in American pride and connection to all things United States.
We, who fancied ourselves as counter-cultural warriors, took a more jaundiced view. I was in awe by NASA's herculean achievement. We all were. But I have always felt that stabbing the moon's surface with an American flag, and in so doing somehow claiming it, reflected the apex of absurdity. I admired the sentiment in "one giant leap for mankind" while an amused universe looked on. I wanted to meet Neil Armstrong as much as the next kid, and I was angry too, Woodstock Nation or no. I'm sure the reason the heroes couldn't come was legitimate, but you don't tell hundreds of kids they won a free trip to the moon, allow the wonder to sink in, and then announce it was all a mistake. Cruel and unusual punishment.
I was pissed off by the announcement and I was still pissed off during lunch in the cafeteria along with my still pissed off friends. My comrade, Bill, and I walked into the corridor out the cafeteria door and agreed that something had to be done to protest. I pictured the student sit-in strikes erupting across the U.S. and looked down the hall at the subdued students milling around. It was then that I lowered my butt to the floor and sat back against the wall. "I refuse to go to class," I said. Bill understood and sat next to me on my left. We became a protest of two.
In that time and place, it was an odd thing to do, to just sit there, and soon our senior classmates wandered by and wondered why. "We protest," we said. In a matter of minutes we were joined on the floor by a dozen more. And like a brush fire spreading the word, we were joined by ranks of juniors, sophomores, and freshmen. By the time the bell beckoned us to fifth hour class, the sit-in filled the hall that ran from the cafeteria to the lobby, filled the lobby, and ran a ways down the two hallways that branched from there. No one paid heed to the fifth-hour tardy bells as some 280 students sat flat on their asses in strike. Meanwhile, some seventy kids remained obedient and sat in their largely vacant classrooms.
The principal was away at meetings for the day, so the task of managing the crisis was left to his assistant. But he was no match for the dogged determination of the protesters. At first, he came out of his office with threats of suspension and phone calls to parents, but the throng erupted in jeers and raised their hands in peace signs and clenched fists. Another time, he came out and asked, "What are you protesting," to which senior comrade Rod rose and shouted, "We're protesting your stupidity!" This brought on long, boisterous acclaim, the assistant stood speechless for a moment and again retreated to his office.
Before long, a committee of students was chosen, of which I was one, and was invited to powwow with the assistant in his office to problem solve. I don't remember what was said, but I do recall feeling very proud and connected with my brethren in the larger cause. No solutions were presented that were accepted, and in time, we returned to the floor. The bells for sixth hour came and went with the sit-down strike holding its own.
And up the walkway approaching the front doors, sauntered our principal, the highest authority, Mr. Cook. He had not been informed of these goings-on, and walked straight into the lobby, came to a halt, and slowly gazed across the congregation with a look I'll never forget. Forgive me, but he looked as one looks when one has shit one's pants. And with a tight-lipped grimace, he tiptoed through the throng and scampered into his office as fast as he could go.
Mr. Cook got busy. He hand-picked a few students and together they huddled behind closed doors. Meanwhile, we sit-downers were giddy with success, success at least in shutting down the school. We were proud of ourselves, and I felt a kinship with the student powers back home in the States. It was through their protests that we drew inspiration. Of course, our "victory", if you can call it that, was a very small potato compared to the righteous and seismic struggles being fought at Berkeley and other campuses across America.
But our fight on that Tuesday in October was very real to us. If there was a common feeling among us all, sitting there and packed tight in those halls, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee, two hundred and eighty strong... that feeling was J-O-Y. It's amazing how fears or assumptions about others dissolve away when a common and higher calling cements the bonds.
We expected to wait out the clock until the three o'clock dismissal bell sounded our release . But at about two, Mr. Cook emerged, walked around the front doors to face us, and delivered this simple message in expressionless, stone cold words: School buses were on their way to the school to transport us to the Marmara Hotel where the astronauts were staying. The astronauts would be there to greet us.
Well. You would have thought Lindberg had just crossed the Atlantic or the American hockey team had just defeated Russia at the 1980 Winter Olympics. Such sweet jubilation. And in minutes, some twenty five beautifully blue busses rolled up in front of George C. Marshall High School.
I saw Collins first and got to shake hands and congratulate Aldrin. Kids sat on each others' shoulders and formed swarms around the men, reaching for precious handshakes. The astronauts were gracious and smiling, if looking somewhat exhausted. They had not expected this, another throng of adoring fans, this time in their hotel parking lot. In all the chaos, I never caught a glimpse of Neil Armstrong. But it didn't matter. Hundreds of others did. I was most satisfied by watching. Joy multiplied by two hundred and eighty.
It seems the whole thing was over in twenty minutes. The astronauts walked back to the hotel. We boarded our buses to return home to our various Ankara neighborhoods. And as my bus idled in wait, one young American got on, found a seat, and looked out his window at the dispersing crowd. With a look of quiet disbelief, he said to no one, "I just met the first man on the moon."
Two comrades and I had hitchhiked across Europe in July with nary a thought to the impending history in the heavens. Our July was filled with come-what-may adventures and an eye to surviving on five bucks a day. We were oblivious to three other human beings who were rocketing a quarter million miles away and mesmerizing earthly multitudes with their ultimate pioneering adventure in survival.
Home was Ankara, Turkey, where our fathers were employed. We attended George C. Marshall Regional High School in a U.S. military enclave where American citizens could find shopping, a snack bar, tennis courts, and refuge from Turkish society. Some 350 American students attended the high school of which about a quarter resided in dormitories whose families lived elsewhere in the Middle East.
Each school morning, a fleet of blue school buses collected kids, like myself, who lived in several Ankara neighborhoods, and delivered us through the checkpoint at the base and to the front doors of George C. Marshall. Once inside, you might never think that the school was in a foreign country, unless, that is, you ignored the Turkish janitors and kitchen staff and never looked out the windows to see the sprawling Anatolian terrain and the minarets that spiked the cityscape beyond the security fences.
When I returned from Germany to Ankara with a fresh treasure of memories, I looked forward to my senior year. There were friends who would be returning to the dorms and there is that unique pride in feeling like a top dog senior in high school. And it was the best of times to be a long-haired American youth, what with anti-war and civil rights demonstrations raging at home, with sixties rock blaring through our souls, and with great quantities of hashish found accessible down dangerous Turkish alleyways. To come of age as a radicalized American teen living in a Middle Eastern capital with all its intrigues, to stand together with friends against those wobbling pillars of injustice, and to become steeped in it all by that delicious drug, well, it was a fine time to be a senior. Even though we lived half way around the world, as self-assigned members of Woodstock Nation, we felt a part of something greater in the fall of 1969.
Meanwhile, from September 29 to November 5, those shining American heroes, Armstrong, Aldrin, and Collins, set out on a side trip, dubbed The Giant Leap - Apollo 11 Presidential Goodwill Tour. They were the messiahs of the age and the great mass of Earth's occupants could now gaze up into the the night sky and feel a new kinship with that silver moon rising. Frenzied throngs of thousands swarmed them in 27 cities in 24 countries in 45 days. Speech after speech and parade after parade, some 100 million people saw them.
So it was that the astronauts landed in Ankara, Turkey, on October 20, 1969. The next morning, in George C. Marshall High School, as homerooms were convened for attendance, this message came down from on high: Apollo 11's three astronauts would be appearing for an assembly that afternoon in our very own high school gym.
Oh, mother of moons! Teachers and students alike, we were a quivering mass of golden expectancy. Classroom work be damned that morning as suddenly it felt like a day off. Teachers tried to manage the anticipation. The hallways buzzed between bells. The masses had greeted the astronauts in great public assemblies of chaos, but we would have them here in our intimate little gym, all to ourselves, live and in color on floor and bleachers. Just mere meters away: Neil Armstrong! The first man on the moon!
But in two hours, it all came crashing down. The assistant principal came across the intercom during third period at around 10:30 and spoke: "I regret to announce that the astronauts will not be attending an assembly today. Their schedule won't permit..." blah, blah, blah. There were gasps and spans of silence and angry shouts at those talking boxes over classroom doors. It was stunning. And kids were pissed off.
A lot of families considered Turkey a "hardship post" and tried to replicate their experience in Turkey as closely as possible to the American scene back home. The American bowling alley, movie theater, snack bar, and commissaries were very popular haunts. I imagine an appearance by the astronauts would have given them a much needed jolt in American pride and connection to all things United States.
We, who fancied ourselves as counter-cultural warriors, took a more jaundiced view. I was in awe by NASA's herculean achievement. We all were. But I have always felt that stabbing the moon's surface with an American flag, and in so doing somehow claiming it, reflected the apex of absurdity. I admired the sentiment in "one giant leap for mankind" while an amused universe looked on. I wanted to meet Neil Armstrong as much as the next kid, and I was angry too, Woodstock Nation or no. I'm sure the reason the heroes couldn't come was legitimate, but you don't tell hundreds of kids they won a free trip to the moon, allow the wonder to sink in, and then announce it was all a mistake. Cruel and unusual punishment.
I was pissed off by the announcement and I was still pissed off during lunch in the cafeteria along with my still pissed off friends. My comrade, Bill, and I walked into the corridor out the cafeteria door and agreed that something had to be done to protest. I pictured the student sit-in strikes erupting across the U.S. and looked down the hall at the subdued students milling around. It was then that I lowered my butt to the floor and sat back against the wall. "I refuse to go to class," I said. Bill understood and sat next to me on my left. We became a protest of two.
In that time and place, it was an odd thing to do, to just sit there, and soon our senior classmates wandered by and wondered why. "We protest," we said. In a matter of minutes we were joined on the floor by a dozen more. And like a brush fire spreading the word, we were joined by ranks of juniors, sophomores, and freshmen. By the time the bell beckoned us to fifth hour class, the sit-in filled the hall that ran from the cafeteria to the lobby, filled the lobby, and ran a ways down the two hallways that branched from there. No one paid heed to the fifth-hour tardy bells as some 280 students sat flat on their asses in strike. Meanwhile, some seventy kids remained obedient and sat in their largely vacant classrooms.
The principal was away at meetings for the day, so the task of managing the crisis was left to his assistant. But he was no match for the dogged determination of the protesters. At first, he came out of his office with threats of suspension and phone calls to parents, but the throng erupted in jeers and raised their hands in peace signs and clenched fists. Another time, he came out and asked, "What are you protesting," to which senior comrade Rod rose and shouted, "We're protesting your stupidity!" This brought on long, boisterous acclaim, the assistant stood speechless for a moment and again retreated to his office.
Before long, a committee of students was chosen, of which I was one, and was invited to powwow with the assistant in his office to problem solve. I don't remember what was said, but I do recall feeling very proud and connected with my brethren in the larger cause. No solutions were presented that were accepted, and in time, we returned to the floor. The bells for sixth hour came and went with the sit-down strike holding its own.
And up the walkway approaching the front doors, sauntered our principal, the highest authority, Mr. Cook. He had not been informed of these goings-on, and walked straight into the lobby, came to a halt, and slowly gazed across the congregation with a look I'll never forget. Forgive me, but he looked as one looks when one has shit one's pants. And with a tight-lipped grimace, he tiptoed through the throng and scampered into his office as fast as he could go.
Mr. Cook got busy. He hand-picked a few students and together they huddled behind closed doors. Meanwhile, we sit-downers were giddy with success, success at least in shutting down the school. We were proud of ourselves, and I felt a kinship with the student powers back home in the States. It was through their protests that we drew inspiration. Of course, our "victory", if you can call it that, was a very small potato compared to the righteous and seismic struggles being fought at Berkeley and other campuses across America.
But our fight on that Tuesday in October was very real to us. If there was a common feeling among us all, sitting there and packed tight in those halls, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee, two hundred and eighty strong... that feeling was J-O-Y. It's amazing how fears or assumptions about others dissolve away when a common and higher calling cements the bonds.
We expected to wait out the clock until the three o'clock dismissal bell sounded our release . But at about two, Mr. Cook emerged, walked around the front doors to face us, and delivered this simple message in expressionless, stone cold words: School buses were on their way to the school to transport us to the Marmara Hotel where the astronauts were staying. The astronauts would be there to greet us.
Well. You would have thought Lindberg had just crossed the Atlantic or the American hockey team had just defeated Russia at the 1980 Winter Olympics. Such sweet jubilation. And in minutes, some twenty five beautifully blue busses rolled up in front of George C. Marshall High School.
I saw Collins first and got to shake hands and congratulate Aldrin. Kids sat on each others' shoulders and formed swarms around the men, reaching for precious handshakes. The astronauts were gracious and smiling, if looking somewhat exhausted. They had not expected this, another throng of adoring fans, this time in their hotel parking lot. In all the chaos, I never caught a glimpse of Neil Armstrong. But it didn't matter. Hundreds of others did. I was most satisfied by watching. Joy multiplied by two hundred and eighty.
It seems the whole thing was over in twenty minutes. The astronauts walked back to the hotel. We boarded our buses to return home to our various Ankara neighborhoods. And as my bus idled in wait, one young American got on, found a seat, and looked out his window at the dispersing crowd. With a look of quiet disbelief, he said to no one, "I just met the first man on the moon."
