Sitting with the Mayday Tribe

“Hello, Smithsonian American Art Museum, office of the curator, how may I help you?”

“Hello, this is Anthony Bannister with NPR, may I speak with Mr. Grayson D. Stoke please?”

“Let me see if he’s available, may I ask you the object of your call?”

“I’d like to schedule an interview for a radio show.”

“Hold on please.”

The music isn’t bad for once, I recognize the saxophone, must be ‘Why Don’t you do Right?’ I’m just starting to enjoy it when…

“Thank you for waiting Mr. Bannister, I’ll put you through.”

“Hello Mr. Bannister, Grayson Stoke here, my assistant informed me that you’d like to do an interview, it’s about the SAAM then I suppose.”

“Hello Mr. Stoke, thank you for taking my call. The interview isn’t about the SAAM though. I’m in DC next week interviewing people about the events of May 1^st through 3^rd, 1971. I imagine you remember those events well.”

“Impossible to forget, my life was marked forever. It’s incredible when I think about it, it was the first time I walked though these doors. Now I couldn’t count the number of times I’ve entered this building.”

“Actually, I found your name among the names of the more than 12,000 people arrested over those few days. What intrigued me is that you were only 12 years old at the time. I’d bet my reputation that you have a story worth listening to.”

“Indeed, I do. I’ll be more than happy to do your interview. Let me look at my schedule. How about Tuesday? I’m available either from 9 to 11 or 3 to 5.”

“Tuesday at 9 is fine, it won’t take 2 hours, but perhaps you can pencil the 2 hours in and give me a tour of your collection after we finish? If you’re not too busy.”

“An art lover! Great! See you next Tuesday. I’ll inform my assistant. Good bye Mr. Bannister.”

“Good bye Mr. Stoke, see you next week.”

It’s too far to drive to the Capitol, so I fly in Sunday evening. Not having any interviews scheduled Monday, I relax and take the occasion to visit the National Gallery of Art Downtown.

Tuesday I’m up early like usual. The Hampton Inn Convention Center is only 10 minutes’ walk from the Smithsonian American Art Museum. I’ve reserved a small meeting room to do interviews with several other witnesses during the week, but this one will probably be the best.

I’m 10 minutes early so Mr. Stoke’s assistant asks me to wait, but he comes out to greet me straight away.

“Good morning Mr. Bannister, pleasure to meet you. Please.” He signals to come in.

“Morning Mr. Stoke, The pleasure is shared, thank you for accepting the interview. I’d just like you to speak freely, and tell your story. Our listeners love stories. I probably won’t ask any questions.”

We’re sitting in the small lounging area in his office with a coffee table between us.

“Would you like something? Coffee?”

Having spotted his espresso machine, I accept. “Yes please, the coffee at the hotel wasn’t great. Strong, no sugar.”

He serves me and sits down facing me, I place my recorder on the coffee table and start it. “Whenever you’re ready. I can edit it afterwards.”

He beaths deeply and stares off into space as he zooms back 48 years into the past.

“My uncle Simon was the first curator here in this building. He already worked for Smithsonian, and this building used to be the Patent Office Building. It was to be demolished to build a parking lot.” He notices my eyes. “Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, my uncle had the same opinion. He was part of a group that opposed the bill. They won and the building opened as the new location for Smithsonian’s Art Museum in ’68. (My mind is singing ‘Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you got till it’s gone.’ Joni Mitchell, not to be confused with U.S. Attorney General John Mitchell, who ordered the mass arrests) Anyway, as you already know, in ’71 I was 12 years old. Now I’m 60 and ready to retire. Art has been a passion all my life, and I got my first oil painting kit for my 12^th birthday. We lived in Rhode Island, and we came to DC from time to time to visit. My father had some business here on Monday, and even though I had school, I begged him to let me come to see Uncle Simon at the museum and he gave in and let me come with him. My parents always supported my love for art. That’s how I came to be here on that fateful weekend. We came on Saturday, May 1^st, and me and my dad came to take a little guided tour with Uncle Simon. When we left the building in the afternoon, we saw masses of people all headed towards West Potomac Park, carrying signs to protest against the Viet-Nam War. My parents were both opposers of the war, and so we decided to join them. We didn’t know it, but it was an enormous demonstration called the ‘Mayday Tribe’. There were about 35,000 protestors sitting and camping out in the park near the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument. It was about an hour’s walk from the museum. We hadn’t prepared to camp out, but everyone helped everyone. Dad called Mom from a payphone so she wouldn’t worry. He spent the whole afternoon and evening talking with organizers and planning actions for Monday. We were going to shut down the capitol. We slept out under the stars. It was already an experience for me, but we had no idea what was about to go down. Sunday morning at dawn my eyes were burning as soon as I woke up. There were riot police everywhere, clubbing people, frisking them, taking them away in vans. My dad and me were able to get away and drive back to Uncle Simon’s house. He was determined to stay and take part in the demonstration again the next day, and he said I should stay safe in my uncle’s house. I told him that I was just as much against the war as he was and begged to go with him. So, Monday we went back downtown, and the tear gas and billysticks were there to meet us. The police didn’t even ask us any questions, they just jammed us into police vans and hauled us off. We found ourselves literally in a concentration camp, behind wires on a football practice field with thousands of other protestors. There were soldiers all around the field to keep us in. No food. No water. No toilets. I can still remember hearing that President Nixon had fully approved of the way the protest had been handled. That’s the way it happened. I love my country, and I love being able to make people aware of the beautiful works that are part of our culture and heritage, but as Smedley Darlington Butler put it ‘War is a Racket’. My story is told. I hope that your broadcast will be a success.”

I’m all smiles. “Thank you so much Mr. Stokes, that was wonderful. How about a tour of your collection? I’d also like to invite you to lunch, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure, and you know what? Our current exhibition fits the bill exactly! It’s entitled Artists Respond: American Art and the Vietnam War, 1965-1975. Let’s go then Mr. Bannister.”

He’s just a year older than me, and I’ve got a feeling that we’re going to become good friends, despite the 2000 miles between us.

Note: this story is fiction based on a real event that occurred on the 1^st to the 3^rd of May, 1971 in Washington DC, known as the “Mayday Tribe”.