Traveling cross-country to find myself

"It won't do any good."

That was all my dad had to say about my trip, but it was enough. I would pay my $100 and ride that bus to Washington, D.C. I would march in our nation's capitol, plead for sanity from our government and maybe write a column about what I heard and saw at this weekend's mass demonstration. But, deep down, like my father, I didn't believe it would do any good. None of it: not the signs carried or the numbers rallied.

The bus ride provided plenty of time for reflection, more than 24 hours to examine my motives and reasons for the trip. Was I an observer? An activist? Another young liberal with money to burn, looking for street cred from his peers? Maybe I was just a concerned citizen responding to my own conscience by doing what I could to make a stand, even a futile one.

Whatever the answer, I felt somewhat isolated on the journey for asking these questions. Surrounding me were people - good people - with a sense of purpose and feeling of excitement completely foreign to me. I felt like an alien in their midst: curiosity sending me along for the ride every bit as much as the principles motivating most of my fellow travelers.

We arrived in Washington about an hour early, stirring my fear no one would show. The steps to the Lincoln Memorial were not filled with students carrying signs. The stage near the Vietnam Memorial, where the rally would be held before a protest march at the White House, was swarming with more volunteers advocating obscure movements, issues and organizations than citizens who had come in hopes of being heard.

The sky was overcast. It was still drizzling a bit. I looked down at my shoes and jeans and noticed mud on both. I thought of Woodstock for a moment, remembering images of young people frolicking in the mud with music and peace on their minds, before reminding myself this was no Woodstock.

We could not afford to chase some idealized conception of Vietnam-era activism. That was a ghost from another time, haunting us still with its accomplishments and its failed promise. Like most ghosts, modern sensibility and cynicism demanded we question whether it ever existed, at least as remembered.

It seemed almost impossible in light of today's student apathy and dormancy of the working class. Maybe those days - those millions rallied for a common cause on college campuses across the country - were a fluke, formed from a complex mix of social awakening and self-preservation that could not be replicated. Those trying to relive or re-ignite such a movement were surely fooling themselves. Look at the polling data.

Besides, I really wasn't happy about the mud on my clothes. I hate getting dirty.

It was at this time, still before the protest had started, I noticed the first of a number of signs that really caught my eye. It read "Goodbye Senator Wellstone," a strange sentiment for a peace march. I knew the late Democratic Sen. Paul Wellstone was in the battle of his life to hold onto his Minnesota seat. He had been the lone senator running for re-election this year to vote against giving President George W. Bush the war powers currently at his disposal.

Maybe that vote had done more damage than I knew. Maybe, horror upon horrors, the Senate actually would end up under Republican control after next Tuesday, the Democrats' one-vote majority erased by Wellstone's conscience.

"Damn Wellstone," I thought for a moment, angry with him for voting as he did, refusing to compromise on a cause I supported, because it might cost him his job and, with it, maybe the future of this country. At least, that's what this sign bidding the man farewell seemed to be saying.

Of course, I was oblivious. From Friday morning at 7:30 until Saturday at 10 a.m. I was largely confined to the bus, with dozens of fellow Nebraskans and plenty of self-doubt to occupy my mind. We traveled like a moving island, completely separate from the outside world, not knowing how much it had changed from the time of our departure to the time of our arrival with the tragic deaths of Sen. Wellstone and several members of his family and campaign staff in a Minnesota plane crash.

Twenty-four hours after the man had died, I was angry with him - just for a moment - but a very telling one, because he'd had the courage to vote for what he believed. Hell, for what I believed.

As I continued on my way, I saw several other signs mentioning Wellstone. They weren't as exciting as the ones telling Bush where he could go and what he could do to himself, but I was still aware of them, assuming there was simply a large Minnesota constituency present and it had picked a strange, defeatist slogan by which to rally.

I got to the main stage. At 11 a.m., the scheduled start time, the rally began with a group of rappers chanting, "No Blood For Oil." Within half an hour, the clouds had cleared, and the event began to heat up. After a while, it became clear the rally would not be the embarrassment I'd feared. At least people had shown up.

A number of speakers took the stage. Young leaders claimed this was a historic protest because they weren't waiting for the body bags. They would stop this war before it started.

At about 12:30 p.m., The Rev. Jesse Jackson appeared looking somber, and only now did I finally learn the truth about his friend, Sen. Wellstone. Jackson led the crowd in prayer for all those lost, but especially for this one man who had proven his courage and conviction so many times from the Senate floor.

I was shocked, stunned. The sun was shining, but a pall had been cast across the entire day. My betrayal was clear and inescapable, even if only I knew of it. My mind was elsewhere as Jackson rallied the crowd in his inimitable style, everyone chanting Jackson's old mantra of "Keep hope alive!"

It was a message Wellstone had lived and died by. For many in this crowd, it was the only idea that could sustain them. They had to believe in something bigger than themselves, a future brighter than today. I had allowed that hope to be polluted, if not quite lost. I was unworthy of this crowd and unworthy of the memory of Sen. Wellstone, probably as true a patriot as this nation has seen in the last two decades.

The day continued. Brilliant and powerful speakers spoke. People marched and demanded to be heard. There was talk of 100,000 in attendance, then 200,000, though it didn't make a difference. Their strength was in solidarity and truth, not numbers. And I had failed them all, thinking, "It won't do any good."

It seems each man is his own Napoleon; each is his own dream's ultimate betrayer. There are the few: the Wellstones and the Bobby Kennedys, ... many of those beside me on the bus and in the crowd. But, for me, it was time to go home. I had a long bus ride ahead.

Kyle Michaelis is a senior political science and English major from West Point.