Looking back on that blue sky Sunday morning in 1971, I ask myself, “What was I thinking!” At the time, it didn’t seem scary or even out of the ordinary, but from today’s perspective it seems totally unthinkable. But, hey, I was a child in my late twenties and also a child of the sixties.
I was working with a group of social-action community organizers in an underserved neighborhood of Chicago. Our approach was direct confrontation and our targets were the power structures of the city. We’d planned a meeting on a Sunday afternoon with Chicago’s Chief of Police, sent him a formal invitation and were pretty sure he wouldn’t show up. Our intent, then, was to castigate him for his failure to attend and for his great indifference to the needs of the community, thus enabling the growth of a coalition to address that indifference.
Our intel told us that the Chief would attend a mass for Saint Michael, the patron saint of law enforcement, at Saint Peter’s church in downtown Chicago that morning, followed by a breakfast memorializing fallen officers. We had information that he would then attend a Chicago Blackhawks hockey game in the afternoon.
Since my face reflected more light and was more easily subject to sunburn than any other in the group, I was volunteered to infiltrate the Sunday morning police breakfast. I was tasked to follow the Chief when he left the breakfast and report his location by telephone to the folks assembled at our meeting. The community leaders, then, would build a case against the Chief for his lack of caring for the concerns of the neighborhood.
This seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing for me to do and I didn’t feel that it posed any great danger to me. How I long for those more simple of times.
And so it came to pass, as was the custom, that hundreds of police officers gathered to attend the mass and then walk a few blocks to a breakfast in a private dining room in a high rise building. Most were in uniform, but some were in plain clothes, ranging from jeans and T-shirts to suits and ties.
I slipped into the throng of officers as they left the church and was swept along the street, into the building, and up the elevators to the breakfast. I joined my faux friends grazing the buffet. We stood around eating bagels and talking cop talk. I felt the eyes of my presumed brothers-in-arms, as they tried to discern who I was and what my relationship to the buffet was. Was I a very young undercover officer? Was I the son of a high ranking official? Or was I, as I began to feel, just completely nuts.
I became a bit apprehensive about being caught. It never occurred to me that I would face any real consequences. After all, I was white, spoke Standard English and could use big words when necessary, dressed well, and could comport myself with ease in situations like this. At most, I thought I would be unceremoniously ushered out of the room. I vowed to go quietly if that occurred. How I long for those more simple of times.
Soon it was time for the inevitable speeches and I saw my fellow breakfast club members doing virtual eye-rolls and adopting zen-like positions, willing the time to pass. While the Chief was speaking, it occurred to me that I was parked in the wrong spot if I were to follow the Chief from this event to the hockey game. (I don’t know why I became obsessed with this. Perhaps I just wanted to get the hell out of Dodge.)
I left the breakfast, took the elevator down, left the building, and moved my car to a more strategic location. When I re-entered the building, two police officers who were presumably guarding entrance to the event began walking quickly toward me from across the great expanse of the empty lobby. Before they reached me, I asked, as nonchalantly as I could and with as much empathy for our mutual suffering as I could muster, “Are the bosses still talking?” Recognizing a kindred spirit, they smiled and slowed their steps while I slipped into the elevator. How I long for those more simple of times.
When I returned to the breakfast, I realized that the presentations were over and that the Chief had departed. I rushed back down but could not locate his car. My mission was a failure, but the breakfast was pretty good. Anti-climactic to say the least.
As I remember this event, I am astonished at how easy it was for me to join this group of officers in their private location and how at ease I felt about the thing. If I had tried this stunt today, I’m sure I would have needed some sort of printed pass or identification card, been subject to scrutiny of my right to attend and, if I managed to get into the room, would have been approached and questioned about who I was and what my reason for being there was in not so subtle a fashion. Especially upon attempting to reenter the building, my credentials would have been checked and, having none, I would have had my hands bound behind my back with those charming little plastic cable ties.
In 1971, however, no one questioned me as I joined the walk, took the elevator, entered the breakfast room, or chowed down at the buffet. There was no security, unless you count the two officers in the lobby who assured themselves of my legitimacy when I spoke disparagingly of their bosses. How I long for those more simple of times.