After the first night of protests outside last week’s Democratic National Convention in Chicago, a rabbi told the New York Times that the strong police response to demonstrators critical of Israeli Prime Minister Netanyahu’s genocidal offensive in Gaza was “overkill.” He should have seen what came down at the 1968 DNC in Chicago, where Mayor Richard Daley had amassed a police force so large that there was a police car for every block.

As an anti-Vietnam War “campus traveler” for SDS (Students for a Democratic Society), I drove to the DNC from St. Louis with a full car of high school student protesters. As we drove through the city shortly after dark, a police car flashed its lights behind us. While an officer approached, a kid in the back whom I didn’t know muttered, “I’ve got an ounce of grass on me.”

I had to act fast. “The curfew covers people under 18 who are in a car, officer? I had no idea.” (I really didn’t. Nor did I know if he was lying.) “You want to search my trunk and passenger compartment? Please do.” (I knew full well that the search was illegal.) “You haven’t found anything, but you still want us to follow you to the police station? Absolutely.”

As soon as I began driving, I turned to the kid in back and declared, “Start eating. All of it, as fast as you can!” His reply: “I was only kidding.” Guess how that left me feeling. At the station, I only escaped intact by calling the blessed Bernice Milgram of the St. Louis Quaker Center. Bernice understood my prompts and ad-libbed that I absolutely had parental permission to drive their kids around Chicago.

The next afternoon, I headed to Lincoln Park along Lake Michigan where the Diggers, the hippy service group that birthed during 1967’s Summer of Love, planned to distribute free food. As I queued for the meal, all these beefy guys lined up around me. Said self to self, “Every other person in line is a plain-clothed cop.” (The parlance of the time was decidedly less polite.)

An hour later, as dusk approached, a group of Christian ministers began to defy curfew by marching a huge cross through the park while singing, “We Shall Overcome.” Way in the distance, I spied a curious looking multi-box vehicle that seemed to spout diesel smoke. As it got closer, I breathed in and realized it was a tear gas tank. Simultaneously, the police reached into their pockets, grabbed concealed clubs, and began attacking everyone around them. Fleeing at top speed, I found my route blocked by a six-foot high iron fence topped by sharp spikes. Without thinking, I flew over that fence in one leap and ran for blocks before I dare turn around to discover that no one was following me. Thus did I discover the power of adrenaline.

I don’t know how I, who obtained the storefront office that SDS used during the protests, managed to avoid being in front of the Hilton when agent provocateurs threw bags of blood at the police. But I did. As you may recall, the police went berserk. People were pushed so hard against the Hilton’s plate glass windows that they shattered. After every tumble into the Hilton, police began to indiscriminately club demonstrators and delegates alike as delegates and politicians on the balconies above watched in horror.

On the final day, when demonstrators head to rally in Grant Park, high schooler Cindy and this 23-year old borrowed bicycles and rode downtown to Discount Records where I bought an LP of historic recordings of Mozart’s Le nozze di Figaro and Don Giovanni. By the time we got to Grant Park, police had already sealed it shut and begun to tear gas and attack demonstrators for four hours straight.

That night, staying with other activists in an apartment, I began playing the record when someone asked, “Who wants to join me as I head out to demonstrate?” After turning on the radio and learning that, at that very moment, police were tear-gassing demonstrators in four different locations, I replied, “I don’t know about you, but I’m staying right here and listening to Mozart!”

Thus, through four days and nights of police riots and abuse did I manage to survive the 1968 DNC with skull intact. 56 years later, it’s democracy’s turn for survival…. and Palestinians’ and hostages’ as well. With fresh brain cells and renewed spirit, I join you in transforming new challenges into opportunities for better lives for all.

Jason Victor Serinus is a critic of culture, music, and audio. A longtime advocate for rights, equality, and freedom, he is also a professional whistler. Column tips: jvsaisi24@gmail.com