Hurricane Street. Ron Kovic
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thinking of all the things I wanted to say. I feel a powerful urge that’s hard to describe, only that I just know I have to write this book.
I love the night and work for hours as if no time has passed at all. I am exhausted and my back aches, but none of that seems to matter. Convinced that I am destined to die young, I struggle to leave something of meaning behind, to rise above the darkness and despair.
For the next several nights I continue to write as the words flow, seeming as if they will never stop. I feel wonderful inside, tired but completely consumed by my writing. I drink a couple cups of coffee and then with a new surge of energy work for another hour or so as the bright lights of the morning begin to fill the room. I neatly stack all the pages next to the typewriter after holding them proudly in my hands, then transfer out of my wheelchair and onto my water bed.
* * *
Everything is progressing nicely when, a few nights later, for some reason I stop writing. I don’t know what to do. For the next several hours I sit behind my desk waiting for the words to come—but there is nothing. I feel frustrated. I can’t concentrate. Why am I even writing this book? I ask myself. What am I doing here on Hurricane Street? The truth is, I can’t stop thinking about the war and the guys at the Long Beach VA hospital—Marty, Danny, Jafu, Willy, and Nick. I can’t abandon them. Wasn’t I the one who promised I would be there if they needed me? Wasn’t I the one who said I would never let them down? I have to do something.
For a moment there was hope with the Patients’/Workers’ Rights Committee, a belief that we could make a difference and that our lives could be improved. But they had infiltrated our group, set veterans against one another, did all they could to stop us. Who do these people think they are? How dare they try to stop us from expressing ourselves. What kind of country is this? What kind of democracy is this, where men who sacrificed almost their entire bodies are kept from exercising those very rights and freedoms they supposedly fought for? I am angry. There has to be another way.
My thoughts drift, and sometime around one a.m. I type the letters ARM. I sit staring at the letters, just three letters, ARM.
American Revolutionary Movement, I think to myself. Yes, that’s what I’ll call it!
ARM will be the answer. We will be the spark that will set off a raging prairie fire, sweeping away everything in its path. It will be a powerful organization, the vanguard of a great movement. Veterans from all across the country will join us. Millions will take to the streets, citizens from every walk of life, all of them will come, all of them will march with us, their fists raised high in the air, chanting and crying out for justice, for an end to this madness!
I continue to work on my idea throughout the next few days, but I soon begin to feel a queasiness in my stomach as I sit behind my rolltop desk. There is something about the name ARM that troubles me, something that makes me feel vulnerable.
Once again the nightmares return and I find myself trapped in a violent storm at sea. There is a terrible howling of the wind and a helpless feeling so profound that it leaves me shaking like a frightened child upon awakening.
At first I merely brush it off, but the next night is even worse. This time in my nightmare, a squad of heavily armed cops comes crashing through the door of my house with their guns drawn, cursing and screaming, calling me a traitor and threatening to kill me. “Get up, you fucking son of a bitch! Get up, you motherfucking Commie traitor!” yells one of the cops who looks exactly like Mr. Warden, my fifth-grade history teacher who warned us that “the Chinese Communists will someday have a billion people,” and that “Americans everywhere should be afraid!” The cops then drag me out of my bed and through a long and darkened hallway into an elevator, and take me down to the ground floor, where they pull me across a lawn covered in broken glass, laughing and cursing at me, slamming me against a brick wall where they say they plan to execute me immediately. I keep screaming to them that I am paralyzed and can’t stand up for the execution, and they are kind enough to provide a rickety old chair once used by the condemned Irish revolutionary James Connolly at his execution in Dublin, not long after the 1916 Easter Rising. I still remember them pointing their guns at me and firing as I jerked awake, my heart pounding in my chest.
Sensing right away what the dream means, I feel angry and frightened all at the same time. There has to be a way I can still accomplish my vision of a powerful revolutionary organization without the government cracking down on us before we even get started. How will we do it? What will be our approach? I have to be careful. I am already afraid that the government and police are tapping my phone and watching my every move. Perhaps a different, less provocative name for the group might be better.
I sit in front of my typewriter staring at the blank sheet of paper for a long time until finally I have it. It won’t be called the American Revolutionary Movement; instead I will call it the American Veterans Movement. This makes sense. I remember typing the letters AVM on the paper and then feeling a great sense of relief. Finally I have the name I’ve been looking for, a less provocative one, but still powerful. I work feverishly that night, as if there’s no time to lose. I type the words American Veterans Movement again and again, then the slogan, We will fight and we will win!
Just as quickly, I decide to design buttons and membership cards for the new organization. I draw a circle, and inside the circle I make a square with two lines through it. Above the top line I write the word red, in the middle the word white, and below the bottom line the word blue.
Across what is to become the red, white, and blue American flag, I write AVM in bold letters. Above the flag I write the words, WE WILL FIGHT, and below, WE WILL WIN! Outside the circle I then add, AMERICAN VETERANS MOVEMENT.
On the back I draw a crude map of the United States and across it I boldly print the letters AVM, giving the impression that it is a big national organization. No one even knows we exist! I think, laughing to myself. It’s nothing more than a dream in my head as I sit alone on Hurricane Street that night.
The following morning I get up early and can’t stop thinking about the AVM. After transferring out of the water bed and into my wheelchair, I head straight to my desk where I look at the drawings I did, feeling even more excited about the new organization. My mind fills with all sorts of ideas. I grab a blank sheet of paper and continue designing a membership card for the group. Across the top I type in the words, AMERICAN VETERANS MOVEMENT OFFICIAL MEMBERSHIP CARD. Below that, the obligatory name, first and last, address, phone number, and finally, at the very bottom, rank and specialty while in the service. I write down some basic rules and regulations for the new organization: veterans from every war will be welcome, no dues will be collected, and everyone will be treated equally and with the utmost respect.
That afternoon, after looking through the yellow pages, I find the AAA Flag & Banner store in Culver City. I call and ask the guy on the other end of the line if they make custom flags, banners, and buttons. “As many you want!” he exclaims.
The following morning I get in my hand-controlled car and head over to the store, all my drawings and designs for the AVM next to me on the front seat. I arrive around noon, transfer into my chair, wheel myself in, and am immediately met by a smiling bald-headed guy who seems to have just awakened from a nap.
“What can I do for you today?” he asks in a tired voice as he rubs the sleep from his eyes, straightening up a bit and taking a deep breath.
“I don’t know if you remember, but I’m the guy who called you yesterday about the flags and banners and buttons I need to have made up.” I hand him my papers with all the drawings and designs, explaining to him exactly what needs to be done.
“No problem,” he says.
I leave the store and head back to Hurricane Street.
About a week later I return to Culver City, hardly able to contain my excitement. I can’t wait to see the finished product. The guy unfurls a thirty-foot white canvas banner, and in large, bright red letters scrawled across it are the words, AMERICAN VETERANS MOVEMENT, just as I had envisioned that night on Hurricane