On Nov.10th, 52 years ago, a young man by the name of Roger Allen LaPorte died. It was a difficult and painful death but it had tremendous meaning to a group of people who knew, worked and spent time with him.
The times were difficult. It was 1965 and the war in Vietnam was raging. There were people resisting, mostly young men and women. They were protesting, refusing induction into the armed forces, writing, burning draft cards, laying down guns and refusing orders. In addition they were working with the poor and the devalued, trying to do good and change attitudes. Yes, trying to change the world. Some were religious, some not, some were philosophers, some were purely humans struggling in an imperfect world. They were future prisoners, authors, teachers, husbands, wives and lovers. They were a community who needed and depended on each other.
Roger was impatient. He wasn’t overly practical and most importantly he was sick of what he saw happening in Vietnam and in his own country. He watched and participated in protests against the war. He was frustrated with the slow pace of peacemaking and he worried about his friends and whatever suffering he perceived that they might encounter. He was upset with the pain of the war that fell on children and soldiers alike.
On November 9, 1965, in the early hours, Roger bought a small container of gasoline, walked to the United Nations, sat down, doused himself with the gasoline and lit a match. Roger was 22 years old, a former seminarian, a volunteer at the NYC Catholic Worker and a friend. Roger died the next day on November 10th at Bellevue Hospital. His action and death caused shock and confusion among that circle of friends who knew Roger. Why was he so impatient? Why didn’t he talk about it? What was he thinking? Could we have stopped him?
Here we are 52 years later. The war in Vietnam took close to 10 years after Roger’s death to end. Many other wars came and some went. The Bowery where Roger mingled with the poor and the addicted has become gentrified but the poor and the homeless still exist. Presidents and other leaders have come and gone and today we have Donald Trump and Kim Jong Un playing with nuclear weapons and people’s lives.
All of this led me to and on a pilgrimage of sorts. I have thought about Roger often over the years but especially in October and November. Over time, I found out that he was born about 16 miles from where I currently live and that he was buried in Tupper Lake, NY, the town where his family moved and where he grew up and left for the seminary. In late October of this year, I took a trip to Tupper Lake to visit Roger’s grave site. I had found the cemetery and his grave location through research. We, Jeannette and I, arrived at the cemetery at about 10am on a beautiful late October morning, sun shining with a light breeze. We parked and then walked to the end of the row and found Roger’s marker, a granite cross with the words “In God Alone” above Roger’s dates of birth and death. I stood for a moment and said what I suppose was a prayer - “Hello Roger, it’s been a long time and I’m sorry for that.” We walked back to the car to get a white ribbon that I had prepared a few days earlier. I had written a brief message on the ribbon. “Peace Roger - Jim, Nicole, Paul and other friends." It was also adorned with the international symbol for Peace. As we were walking back to the marker, Jeannette said “What’s that singing?”. I paused and asked “What singing?”. Then I stopped and listened and heard it too. It was far in the distance but no mistake, it was singing, more like chanting by women and men. In my mind it sounded like monks and nuns at some religious ceremony. A few days prior I had re-read parts of Nicole d'Entremont’s book, “City of Belief” (info click here) that chronicles Roger’s death and all of the things leading up to it. I remembered passages in the book that talked about Roger’s relationship to and memories of monks chanting. I was a bit numb but went to the marker and tied the ribbon to it. I continued to kneel, listening to the sounds of singing and said a final prayer in my own unholy way. “Thanks for the sign Roger. Thanks for the embrace of not just me but all of your friends at the Catholic Worker. I’m going to find those singing nuns and monks to see who they are and if they'll keep singing.” I believe in spirits and signs and hope. Like many my age, I question formal religious dogmas but I do believe in people, friends and the earth that surrounds us. My final act was to clip some grass by hand around the edge of Rogers grave, trying to leave a place nicer than I found it.
We drove toward the back of the cemetery, to this side and that side. Sometimes the singing disappeared. We finally found it coming from behind but to one side of the cemetery. I pulled out of the drive and turned to the right on my quest to find the monastery or church where these holy people were chanting. Just past the cemetery there was a formal looking entrance to what turned out to be the Museum of Natural History of the Adirondacks. We made the turn, drove down a wide drive and past a large building called "The Wild Center". As I parked the car and we got out, there it was, the mysterious chanting coming from the woods. We began to walk toward the sound. A young woman just arriving for her shift at the museum found us and led us toward a back entrance to the museum. I asked her about the music and the chanting. She explained that it was an exhibit of what she called immersion art where an artist had placed the chants and music throughout one of the paths in the woods, where it mixes with the sounds of the wind, leaves and birds. We told her we had heard it in the cemetery. She became concerned and wondered if it was a bother. I said no, of course not. We walked down the path, sat on a bench and listened to the marvelous sounds that weren’t really religious but that did sound like chants and they were beautiful.
I have been reminded recently that this brash, impractical young man named Roger LaPorte, who lies on the edge of the Adirondack Preserve, has ironically taught us patience. His friends have grown old. Many battles have been won but some big ones have been lost. If we ever needed patience and strength to continue resisting, it’s now. And we need memories about Roger and he needs to be remembered. At the time of his death and throughout the years, some have tried to dissect his act. Please don't bother. There is no value in the task. Leave it be. I hope those chants continue for awhile at least, and that they bring Roger and all of us some peace. I hope we all continue working for peace. Try your best and as hard as you can for everyone's sake.
To that small circle of friends who knew and worked with Roger, it's all good.
To that small circle of friends who knew and worked with Roger, it's all good.
And here is a re-posting of Remembering Roger Allen LaPorte from November 2015 on this site:
In the early morning hours of Nov. 9, 1965, a young man named Roger Allen LaPorte completed his trip to the UN carrying a container of gasoline. He sat down on the pavement, poured the gasoline over his body and ignited himself in flames. This self immolation was Roger's protest against the war in Vietnam. Roger was taken to Bellevue Hospital with burns over most of his body. He identified himself as a Catholic Worker and indicated that he was against war, all war and that he did this as a religious act.
Roger was 22 years old, a former seminarian and someone who volunteered at the Catholic Worker's House of Hospitality close to the Bowery in NYC. I knew Roger and worked with him. I was 21 and was in the middle of my own protest against the war. There were many other people who knew and worked with Roger. We were living in a somewhat surreal time. We worked with the poor and the marginalized. We cooked soup, gave out cloths to those who needed them. We sat up at night singing songs, drinking beer and arguing with each other about war, peace and our actions and reactions to the politics of the time. The times were intense. People were making decisions about their lives and about their futures.
Roger was quiet and thoughtful. He watched what was happening around him. A week earlier, another young man, a Quaker named Norman Morrison, had set himself aflame in front of the Pentagon and the office of the Secretary of Defense.
A few days before Roger's action he had attended a draft card burning demonstration at Union Square. He stood in the crowd and listened to hecklers telling the young men on the platform to burn themselves, not their draft cards.
Roger made a choice. He didn't tell any of us of his plan. He went to the UN early, before people would see him and intervene. He sat down and acted.
At 5:16 pm that evening, NYC and much of the northeast went black with a large power outage. Traffic lights, elevators, and lights throughout the city stopped working. At the Catholic Worker, the evening meal was being served. We were lit by candles and the light from a bicycle turned on its handle bars and seat with people taking turns turning the pedals. After dinner a small group walked the streets in wonder at how everyone was helping each other out. Pedestrians were directing traffic, people were helping each other cross streets. We sat together in an apartment talking about, praying about Roger. Wondering, thinking in silence and sometimes breaking into a song.
Roger died the next morning. There are those who spent and continue to spend time analyzing Roger's action. Was it this or was it that? It was what it was, a young man seriously frustrated and angry about a war that seemed to have no end.
Roger was a good young man and he should be remembered as such. That's the way I remember Roger LaPorte fifty years after his death.
