Living My Life - Emma Goldman [165]
Several students who had entertained us at a fraternity dinner grew anxious about my safety and offered to call the police. I felt that such a step would only aggravate the situation and perhaps cause a riot. I informed them that I would face the music myself and take the consequences.
My appearance on the platform was greeted with shouts, bells, stamping of feet, and cries of “Here she is, the anarchist bomb-thrower; here’s the free lover! You can’t speak in our town, Emma! Get out—you’d better get out!”
I saw clearly that if the situation was to be met, I must not show nervousness or lose patience. I folded my arms and stood there facing the young savages while the deafening noises continued. During a slight lull I said: “Gentlemen, I can see you are in a sporting mood, you want a contest. Very well, you shall have it. Just go on with the noise. I will wait until you are through.”
There was an amazed silence for a moment, and then they again broke loose. I continued to stand, my arms folded, all my will-power concentrated in my stare. Gradually the yelling subsided and then someone cried: “All right, Emma, let’s hear about your anarchism!” The cry was taken up by others, and after a while comparative quiet prevailed. Then I began to speak.
I talked for an hour amid repeated interruptions, but before long, silence settled over the assembly. Their behaviour, I told them, was the best proof of the effects of authority and of its system of education. “You are the result of it,” I said; “how can you know the meaning of freedom of thought and speech? How can you feel respect for others or be kind and hospitable to a stranger in your midst? Authority at home, in the school, and in the body politic destroys those qualities. It turns the individual into a parrot repeating time-worn slogans, until he becomes incapable of thinking for himself or of feeling social wrongs. But I believe in the possibilities of youth,” I continued, “and you are young, gentlemen, very, very young. That is fortunate, because you are still uncorrupted and impressionable. The energy you have so ably demonstrated this afternoon could be put to better use.” [ ... ]
As soon as I had finished, they broke out with the college yell. It was the highest tribute, I was told later, that I could receive. Towards the evening a committee of students came to my hotel to offer apologies for the behaviour of their comrades and to pay the damage for the literature and vase. “You won, Emma Goldman,” they said, “you have made us ashamed. Next time you visit our city, we will give you a different welcome.” [ ... ]
In San Francisco I learned that Jack London1 lived in the neighbourhood. I had met him with other young socialist students at the Strunskys’ on my first visit to California, in 1897. I had since read most of his works and I was naturally eager to renew our acquaintance. There was also another reason: the Modern School the Ferrer Association2 was planning to establish in New York. [ ... ] I wanted to interest Jack London in our project. I wrote requesting him to attend my lecture on Francisco Ferrer.
His reply was characteristic. “Dear Emma Goldman,” it read, “I have your note. I would not go to a meeting even if God Almighty were to speak there. The only time I attend lectures is when I am to do the talking. But we want you here. Will you not come to Glen Ellen and bring whomever you have with you?” Who could resist such an amiable invitation? ...
How different was the real Jack London from the mechanical, bell-button socialist of the Kempton-Wace Letters!3 Here was youth, exuberance, throbbing life. Here was the good comrade, all concern and affection.