When I was 17 I experienced my first disappointment about activism. I was a senior at Redwood High in Marin County. Rumor then had it that our building was designed by the San Quentin architect (impossible). But the school was built around a courtyard (senior quad) just like the prison. And we could see San Quentin from our back parking lot. We felt a connection.

On April 11, my schoolmates and I awoke to the news that a convicted man was to be executed the next day. As far as I can recall I had been against capital punishment for awhile, so I don’t know why I remember it as sudden news, but the way I recollect those days all of us were last-minute mobilized against what would be the first execution since Caryl Chessman and the last in the gas chamber. I remember asking my parents for permission to attend the vigil outside the prison gates. They declined.

The demonstration was to be peaceful. It was candle-lit all night and the plan was to continue the next morning until the deed was done.

I stayed home that evening. I had no choice. But the next morning, after first-period physics, I agreed with friends to make a run for it. I even secured the permission of my second-period boss (I lab-assisted for Mr. Girton, so he wasn’t exactly my teacher then).

I headed for the front parking lot, where my future husband was waiting for me in his Corvair. I didn’t make that either. The school administration and most teachers had formed a cordon around the place, prohibiting students like me from leaving.

I shoved the Dean of Boys in my attempt to break through and he shoved back. That brought Nick racing to my defense, which not only didn’t get us to the vigil; it got him suspended. I followed Nick and Mr. Bosque to the deans’ offices, where I planted my butt in a chair and in solidarity with my friend, refused to leave when the Dean of Girls ordered me to, and lectured her about the true and only value of school: socialization.

After Nick was sent home I continued to refuse to go to class. Instead I made a circuit of the place, beseeching my mates to sign my petition, to get involved way ahead of the next execution. I didn’t know then that we’d get a quarter century break from cold-killing prisoners. I had no idea what court judgments were coming. I just knew we couldn’t wait till the night before or day of; we had to put in organized work.

And I didn’t get any takers. I soon saw that the passion of the preceding twelve hours was hormonal instead of philosophical. Everyone had gotten off on the excitement – the crowd, the night, the candles, the disobedience – and no one wanted to do any work.

The disappointment was crashing and crushing.

I didn’t get over it. I remain discouraged and pessimistic about most activism. And it’s not like I didn’t witness it. Six months later I started four very political years at Cal (stop the draft, make education relevant (black, women’s, and native American studies), get out of Vietnam, Kent State, Cambodia). We all sported blue denim so no one stood out, bandanas for gas-filtering, hormones. But seriously? Most of the demonstrators were no more committed to the cause than puppies, and no more rabid than any excited late adolescent. The sex was good after a riot, just like it used to be after a big game bonfire or heated sports event.