During the late 1960s, 1970s, and into the early 1980s, Detroit’s Kennedy Square — on the west side of Campus Martius, where City Hall once stood — was the place to host political protest rallies. At a time in my life, I was involved in a leftist organization, and I engaged in numerous rallies at that stark bastion of concrete located in downtown Detroit.

It was the mid to late 1970s; I no longer recall the exact date. It was a protest rally held at Kennedy Square; I no longer recall the exact rally. I keep thinking it was a rally to free Joan Little, but maybe not. I was carrying a sign; I no longer recall the slogan on the sign.

It was a sunny day, and I know it was warm. I was wearing blue jeans, bell bottoms, and my Greek fisherman’s tunic — a treasured gift from my brother’s girlfriend when I was in high school. I probably was wearing boots — work boots or my beloved fawn brown Frye square-toe boots. I was wearing hippie-ish wire-rim glasses. My hair was long and dark and wavy with corkscrew curls. (My hair now, post-Covid, after decades of short styling, is once again long and wavy with corkscrew curls, though mostly gray.)

I was marching and standing with Don, my friend and comrade-in-arms. We had stopped marching for a moment and stepped out of the circle of protestors to chat. We faced away from the group and gazed out to the sidewalk leading to the center of Kennedy Square. We were watching people pass by — a few nodding their assent, others scowling in disagreement, some ignoring us in that way one does when one chooses to look away and not take notice. We chatted aimlessly while we took the much-needed break from walking round and round in the circle of protest.

As I looked ahead, I noticed a man walking with resolve in our direction. I turned to Don and — in a voice I thought was hushed, but apparently was not — said “Isn’t that Donald Lobsinger?” 

For reference, Lobsinger was a well-known figure in Detroit, a relentless right-wing agitator and head of the racist, antisemitic, white supremacist organization Breakthrough. 

Walking directly toward me, closely skimming the air next to me as he passed by, he declared loudly,

“That’s right, Jew bitch.” 

Maybe it was my hair. Maybe it was my prominent nose. Maybe the countercultural context was enough for him to spit out those hateful words with such precise venom. Though I had encountered more subtle prejudices before, this was my first brush with direct, vicious antisemitism. 

It hit me hard. I stopped breathing. It shocked me. It shook my sense of security. It had me shaking. 

And that feeling has never left me, even if I’ve forgotten the year and the cause.