society without any oppressive armed presence; instead of blood and steel, we have scientific laboratories with attractive landscaping and press releases about economic benefits. Our vast assemblage of nuclear weaponry, like this well-behaved police force, creates the illusion that everything is under control. From Mercury, it’s another sixty miles north to Beatty, where we’ ll be charged with criminal trespass. The old bus, laden with protestors, labors up U.S. 95 .1 slip my hands out of the plastic cuffs and stare out the dirty window at a splendid desert panorama. An intense blonde woman leads the group in song. Her selfconsciously beautiful voice gets on my nerves. After twenty minutes, the monotonous rumble of the bus lulls people, and the singing stops. T HIS CIVILITY IS THE MOST INSIDIOUS FEATURE OF THE NUCLEAR WEAPONS CULTURE. THANKS TO NUKES, WE'RE A MILITARY SOCIETY WITHOUT ANY OPPRESSIVE ARMED PRESENCE; INSTEAD OF BLOOD AND STEEL, WE HAVE SCIENTIFIC LABORATORIES WITH ATTRACTIVE LANDSCAPING AND PRESS RELEASES ABOUT ECONOMIC BENEFITS. As the scenery rolls by, I brood. Can we really live without war, our most ancient cultural mainstay? Nuclear weapons present us with evolutionary truth writ simp le-change or die. Einstein’s warning, popularized on bumper stickers, pops into my mind: Everything has changed except our way of thinking. Reality interrupts my reverie. An endless wire fence hung with No Trespassing signs delineates the rehearsal space for Armageddon. Do we have the time to change “ our way of thinking” before The Day is upon us? I realize I don’t have the slightest idea how to make this change. Maybe it was one of the mile-long cables that occasionally break and come flailing out of the giant holes like a vicious hungry animal; maybe it was a forgotten fight in one of the bachelor dormitories; maybe he simply tripped and hit his head on a rock. Nobody knew or would tell. Nevertheless, somewhere on the Nevada Test Site my father received the injury which would lead to his ignominious death two years later. The bus pulls through the sun-blasted little town, smoke pouring from its long-suffering clutch. We’ re unloaded at the Beatty Community Center, a temporary lock-up for us. Inside we’re met by roaring applause. I’m surprised Waking up to Reality in the White House Clinton St. Quarterly—Summer, 1988 35
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