Burning Down the Bank of America

The following is a poem by my friend, the late Joy Eaten Loth, the most talented writer I have ever read. Joy died in 2016. 

Joy's poem was written for a writing class we took together in 1974. Then the "student activists" used the pretext of the War in Vietnam to justify their violence, but other than the cost of the tennis shoes ($1 2.00 was relatively expensive then) and her husband's childhood in a Japanese prison camp and service in Korea, it is as relevant today as it was when she read it aloud in class that first time.  




"AND, WHERE IS YOUR BLUE-EYED BABY BOY NOW, DR. SPOCK?"
by 
Joy Eaton Loth

They were burning down the Bank of America the other day,

on the kitchen colour television,
While I spooned fortified cereal into the Future's mouth.
He sat high and handsome in his germ-free plastic chair,
(a whirr of artificial air above).

The scrupulously scurrulous students in their twelve dollar
     tennis shoes,
     self-torn shirts,
     Chloroxed jeans,
           ran ridiculously across the screen,
           reticulating riotousness,
           throwing words,
           and obscene gestures,
          (as clownishly copied as their clothes).

They were burning down the Bank of America

on every channel, all day long,
while the Future went from his neat nylon-webbed play pen,
to his non-toxic baby bed with soft synthetic bumper guards
(a whirl of bogus butterflies above).

The pampered polished baby in his three dollar
     Carter's best boyish
     nightgown and,
     protective plastic pants,
          raised a familiar finger to his mouth, 
                  soft murmurs,
                  shushed by symbiotic gestures
                  (as primal and unpretentious as a loin cloth)

They were burning down the Bank of America,

on the six o'clock news,
while the Future nuzzled against his Mother's breast,
nurtured by nature, at last, after the artificial day,
(a wisp of waning moon above).

Mother and son exchanging a mutual nourishment,
     touching,
     receiving,
     giving,
            responding to each other's need; until,
            with milk stained mouth,
            blue veins on eyelids,
            like the veins on breasts,
           (the Future fell fast and fearlessly asleep).

"They burned down the Bank of America today,"

the Future's Father said,
arriving tired from the office bearing the paper load of his work,
wearing his childhood in the Japanese prison camp on his forehead,
and, the manual labor which put him through college on his hands.

And I, whose depression deprived parents,
left their skimping on my skinniness,
wearing that for knowledge, as well as what I'd learned in school,
turned toward him frightened; surrounded by the splendours of our struggles.

I was careful not to speak of the wings he wore over Korea.

Sitting amid the comfort of all we'd bought and built,
(our time together shining in every corner of the house,
and in our eyes)
we spoke of youth;
      jeans worn thin,
     mended shirts,
     one pair of run-down shoes,
              running ravenously through school,
              devouring everything,
              regurgitating this,'
              retaining that,
             (more nourishing than the meals we missed).

The Bank of America with a few feeble flames flickering

was featured on the next morning's news.
The Future was seated on my lap at the breakfast table,
learning to pick up Cheerios for his new teeth to chomp,
(the voice of the eloquent and elated reporter above).

The glib and garrulous students in their expensive
     Mod tennis shoes,
     fresh-torn shirts,
     and permanently pressed jeans,
            were now ranting residuals
                     pouting "gimme, gimme",
                     flipping the finger
                     to themselves,
                     (caged within their clothes).

I watched them writhing for awhile,
and feeling faintly sad,
pitied their affluent poverty...
(a kind of inverse avarice?)
Their desires from birth delivered,
by a doting Mom or Dad,
packaged in plastic; gratis.
(Unpayable debts are bad).

Though they had grown their hair for years,
to cover their vacuity,
I could no longer bear to see their 
                                                     charred, 
                                                                   ruined, 
                                                                              reeling bodies,
                                                                                                     ANYMORE.

And so,
I turned them off.

                            The Future, I put on the floor
                             and though he found it strange.
                             not cushioned or soft,
                             (not safe, at all)
                             I piled a set of wooden blocks,
                             and, he began to creep,
                             to crawl.

                                                          II

                             Rome fell by such as these,
                             My blue-eyed baby boy,
                            Barbarians not taught to build,
                            Know only to destroy


                                                          III

They have rebuilt the Bank of  America,

Ten years have passed,
and not one charred brick remains,
Those who berserkly burned it are,
            off on a tangled trip somewhere.
                         or walking in every Friday with a deposit....

The war is over.
All have lost.

The wounded are horribly hidden away,
       in V.A. hospitals,
                  or scabbed, pestilent rooms in Haight Ashbury.

The Future is:
        mowing lawns, walking dogs, setting tables, making beds, 
        sweeping floors, emptying waste cans, studying violin,
        and doing homework.

He gets:
        50c a week allowance

He wants to be:
        a magician, a doctor, a famous musician, a circus performer,
        or maybe an engineer "like my Dad".

He feels:
        that he is overworked and under-paid.

I watch him fondly.
I try to share his dreams.

But, I often wish that I'd never seen the Bank of America burning,
      or read one word of Gibbon.



Further reading on the subject of the unrest fifty years ago when radical agitators burned down the Bank of America, set bombs, murdered police. 
https://time.com/4549409/the-weather-underground-bad-moon-rising/

https://chicago.suntimes.com/politics/2020/1/3/21033388/chesa-boudin-bernadine-dohrn-bill-ayers-san-francisco-sds-weather-underground-brinks-robbery

https://www.nytimes.com/2001/09/11/books/no-regrets-for-love-explosives-memoir-sorts-war-protester-talks-life-with.html