I had just begun my second semester at Boston University when I received a phone call from my godmother. I recognized her voice almost instantly, and although I was happy to hear from her, in a way, it kind of unnerved me. That's probably because I spent almost a half of my life being scared to death of her.

I had known my godmother for as long as I could remember. She had been a friend of my parents since college, in D.C., where they had grown up together, worked together, been activists together. She had been at my baptism and at my confirmation and at my graduation, and she stayed with us for Christmas and Thanksgiving and, sometimes, for no reason in particular. I never really felt like I got to know her that well, however, as I spent most of my time around her being intimidated.

Kathy was a tall, thin woman, with a prominent nose and a mop of curly, graying hair. She was the kind of woman that could make a little kid run and hide in the closet just by looking at him, and she often did. Her thin, frowning mouth had already become lined with tiny wrinkles, so she looked much older than she was. She had a tiny pair of reading glasses that she would take out to read her newspapers, her face increasingly frowning and creasing as she rapidly scanned the editorials page. There was a smell about her, too, a rich, expensive smell. Whenever I smelled it, I thought of her. When I was little, and I smelled it, I would run into the closet.

But as I got older, I got a little more daring with her. I remember watching her read in the dim lamplight in the sunroom, perched elegantly on a wooden chair with her legs crossed, and I would inch nearer to her. Disguising my footfalls as carefully as I could against the Chopin that was playing, I would approach her until she would notice me, and I would jump, and go hide in the closet. She knew she scared me. I think she enjoyed it.

I probably still felt some of my earlier fears when she called me that day my freshman year. Even though I knew that I was older now, and that she had grown to respect me as an intellectually capable person whom she could mentor, a part of me was still intimidated by her. Maybe that's why I was so flattered when she called.

"Jonathan, I was just speaking with your mother about you, and she tells me that one of your history professors is offering credit to attend the protest against the World Economic Forum in Manhattan."

"Yeah."

"Were you planning on going?"

"Um. actually, there were some guys who were talking about going down but there was this one-act I wanted to see, and."

"Oh well, then. I was going to invite you to accompany me, but, I see you're busy."

"Oh, no, no! I want to go! Seriously, I want to go."

"Ah, very nice. I thought you might. You know, it's too bad you weren't a few years older. You could've taken a course from Howard Zinn before he retired."

"Yeah, that's a shame," I said, awkwardly. "I have heard him speak, though."

"Have you now? And how was it?"

"He's a great speaker."

"Mm-hmm. Life-changing?"

"I." I thought about it for a moment. No, not really, I thought. The truth is that the famous old history professor had told me nothing that I hadn't already thought of, or, more importantly, learned at the feet of Kathy. Nevertheless, his words had certainly been challenging and convicting. "Well, let me just say that I didn't hear anything from him that I hadn't already heard from you."

"So you weren't impressed then?" I expected her to be flattered. She didn't sound flattered.

"No, no! I really was. It was very enjoyable. I think he had a lot of good things to say."

"Well, it's time you took those things to heart. We have a singular opportunity coming up in New York, and I won't have you sitting idly by. So. should I come pick you up Sunday, after mass? We could have lunch together, if you like."

When I put the phone down I was elated. Here was Kathy, my impressive, sophisticated godmother, voluntarily requesting my company! For some reason, after setting the phone down and just kind of staring at the carpet in my dormroom for a moment, I went over to the mirror on the closet door and looked at myself. I studied my freckly face, my long, straight bangs, and saw more of the little five-year-old boy than I wanted to. Stepping onto campus my first day as a freshman, I had expected to suddenly feel a lot older, but for some reason it hadn't quite happened that way. Instead, I watched myself step backwards, my boy-face out of place, my little phrases dated and quaint. The day I got that phone call was the first time in a long time I really felt like I was becoming an adult.

There had been another time when I suddenly felt older. It was the first time I didn't run when Kathy turned her grim eyes towards me, disinterestedly. Instead of running, I came forward, and I sat in the big, yellow armchair across from her, and I swung my legs. I pretended to be uninterested in her or what she was doing, but she saw right through me. It didn't help that I shortly blurted out, "Whatcha readin'?"

She arched her eyebrows at me. "The Washington Post."

"Oh." I swung my legs some more. "Is it good?"

"No." She smiled a little, a sort of superior smile, but not a condescending smile. It was a smile that made me think I was on her side, and that I was glad I was on her side.

"Then why do you read it?"

"You know, Jonathan." She sipped her tea. She was so elegant. "I don't really know why I read The Washington Post. It makes me mad. I suppose there's just some part of me that likes getting mad."

I grinned at her, and she started talking to me about things. Back then it was the Gulf War and later, Bill Clinton and Janet Reno. The topics changed with the news stories, but there was always something we could talk about. Some conservative right-wing media-type who had no clue, some religious special-interest group who needed subtle mocking. I began to ask her questions to get her started talking, and I would listen, enraptured by her worldly wisdom. And we got mad at the world together. I liked getting mad, too.

The upcoming protest in Manhattan at the Waldorf-Astoria was to be a celebration of being mad. People from all over the country would be gathering there to express their rage, to make known their righteous anger against those who would exploit the world. The WEF was an organization dedicated to the spread of global capitalism, and as such, represented everything that held mankind back from the beautiful future. Their forums held throughout the world traditionally caused riots that brought cities to a halt - Manhattan was to be no different.

That the organizers of the conference had selected Manhattan as the sight of the forum was horribly manipulative as well. The city had already been dealt a horrible blow with the terrorist attacks, and now, cynically, the rich suits were to take advantage of the climate of grief and despair that September 11 had created, using it as a weapon against the inevitable protests. I had already seen the weapon employed in all sorts of newspaper columns (reading them was a habit I picked up from Kathy), even allegedly liberal-friendly ones like the New York Times. I was not discouraged, however. The people's anger would find release somehow.

Waiting at the dorm parking lot for Kathy that frigid January morning, I thought that maybe I had given the famous Professor Zinn too little credit. I remembered him distinctly - the regally balding man, leaning forward on the podium, with a look on his face that told the world that he knew what he was talking about. He had started off calmly enough, making certain that everything he said was perfectly careful and reasonable, qualified if necessary. By the end of the speech, however, he had gotten emotional, and there was no equivocating then. It was not the oppressors and the rich and the powers-that-be of the world that angered him, he said. Not really. Not so much as the people who know better, the people like you and me who waste our lives on ourselves, knowing better yet not doing anything about it. We were the ones who were allowing the oppression to happen in the first place. We were the ones at fault, for our complacency and indecision. He encouraged all of us to become "activists," a word he apparently really liked. I didn't realize then how much of what he said I took to heart.

Getting into Kathy's little hybrid Toyota, I wondered how much of this little trip was simply me trying to alleviate my bourgeois guilt. I supposed that it was all right either way. At least I was doing something, something worthwhile.

"So, Jonathan," Kathy said, smiling more than I'd ever see her smile before, "are you ready?"

"Oh yeah," I said. "This is gonna be sweet."

I looked in the backseat and saw the posters that Kathy had made for us. One of them was yellow and hidden, the other was black. Scrawled on it in thick, dripping, red tempera paint were the words "CAPITALISM IS MURDER." I grinned so that Kathy could see me.

"You know. Kathy." It felt so awkward calling her by her first name. It wasn't that I had ever called her anything else. I just had never really had reason to refer to her so familiarly to her face. "This is really the first protest I've ever been on. I mean, other than that one prayer session we had for the death row inmate, but I don't know if that's necessarily a protest, you know?"

She frowned. "I don't know if this is necessarily a 'protest' either, Jonathan."

I flinched. "Why do you say that?"

"Well, I suppose it is a protest in the sense that we are angry about something and we're trying to let people know that. However, we are not appealing to any authority in making our protest. We explicitly reject that authority."

"So, what is then? A making of demands?"

"No, I wouldn't say that either. We are 'acting.' We are, in one sense, demonstrating and, in another sense, taking it upon ourselves to put a stop to the violence and terror we see in the world around us."

"Ah, I see."

I looked at her, and at her narrow eyes, piercing whatever she looked at, and wanted to see things the way she saw them. I believed in a great and coming society, a society of harmony and peace. However, I never felt I saw that coming day so clearly as Kathy did. If I had, if I could have, I might have been less reluctant to act on what I saw.

The road trip to Manhattan would have been too short had it lasted a century. We talked, fluently and cleverly, about all kinds of things - history class, Howard Zinn, the war in Afghanistan, Guantanamo, my parents, Baltimore, basketball. Sometimes we mocked, cussed, and laughed, and sometimes we sighed and reminisced. At one point, when the conversation died down, she turned the radio on to NPR, and I fell asleep against the seat belt listening to Brahms and my godmother very expertly solving Will Shortz's latest puzzle before I even had a chance to.

I woke up in Manhattan, driving past the awesome façade of the Waldorf-Astoria, illuminated against the darkening red of the sky.

"See that, Jonathan? That's where they are. Sticking up in the air like a big phallus."

I wasn't sure I heard her last comment right, but I said something anyway. "Bunch of buttmunches." I mumbled, clinging to the seat belt. There was someone talking on the radio, mentioning names I didn't recognize. "What's this? Book on tape?"

"Bread and Wine," she said.

"Oh. I need to read that at some point." I yawned and looked up at the hotel, disappearing around a corner, painfully reflecting the setting sun. "Hey, Kathy?" The name no longer grated. "When you imagine the future, if you could have it any way you wanted, what do you see?"

"Hmm. world government, I suppose. Guaranteed income. Free health care."

I squinted at the disappearing hotel. "Oh. If it were up to me, things would be very different. There wouldn't be war for one thing. No race problems, either. Or riots, or McCarthyism, or hate." I looked at her to see if she was reacting, but she was watching the road, mumbling at some insane taxi driver. ".you know, that kind of thing. If it were my call. And you know, I can see it happening, too. I can see it. With a lot of effort, of course. But I can see it. Can't you see it?"

"I'm sorry, Jonathan," she said absently. "Help me find what block we're on. I could've sworn it was that last one but the sign said one way."

I frowned. It was late. Surely she saw the beautiful future. I mean, if she didn't see it, what were we doing in Manhattan in the first place? In the end, that's all that matters, I thought.

The next morning, we went down to Columbus Circle for "Reclaim the Streets." On the subway, hanging from my little strap, I felt almost nauseous in nervous anticipation. I looked to Kathy next to me, who was reading a newspaper and looking angry. She spat cusses like nails into the paper. "Whores of the NYPD is what they are. planned protest." Smarting from her words, I asked her what the matter was and, after mentally striking the obscenities, I managed to glean her meaning. She was upset because the planners of the "action" had informed the police and gotten the route to the Waldorf-Astoria approved. And while it was true that this seemed to defeat the purpose of the whole thing, for a split second, I wanted to disagree with her, because I almost thought she had spat some of those nails at me.

Upon emerging onto the street, I found an atmosphere strangely celebratory. There were bands performing, different groups chanting. Here were the Palestinians and their sympathizers; there were the gays and lesbians. The Anti-Capitalist Convergence, the anarchist Cub Scout troops. It was a wonderful melding of causes, all united against the "big phallus" in the distance. All around were the police, watching, looking bored, maybe bemused. I couldn't really tell.

I fell in with a bunch of students my age chanting "Ain't no power like the power of the people cuz the power of the people don't stop!" We chanted this while marching between police barricades and rows of onlooking riot officers, marching towards the designated rally point in front of the Waldorf-Astoria. I noticed a girl near to me with a video camera, taping everything, grinning. There was another girl about my age taking notes in a binder marked Hist245. Something inside me fell as I wondered what I was doing there, surrounded by a bunch of people - young, white people - who looked an awful lot like me, shouting at nobody.

I had lost Kathy, and I wondered how she was feeling about all this, even though deep down I knew. I managed somehow to break away from my little group of anti-capitalists to search for her. It wasn't difficult to find her, fortunately, as her curses were easily audible over the noise. I pushed my way through hordes of students until I finally saw her, her little fists waving about in the air. I stopped; a policeman was grabbing hold of her, a black man, and she was kicking and screaming and spitting, flailing like a madwoman. "Lady, lady." he was saying, unsure what to do. A number of barricades had been torn down nearby - had Kathy done it? My head spun.

I saw a Latina woman with long black hair down her back and a little toddler hanging off her, dressed in filthy clothes. They watched my godmother kick and curse, clawing desperately at the policeman's eyes, and I saw the eyes of the woman and her child, distant and uncomprehending, and I watched my godmother. The fine wrinkles on her mouth dripped with saliva; she wasn't making sense anymore, only cussing, over and over. She flung her arms and legs about, like a little kid throwing a tantrum. I don't think she noticed me, or the Latina woman who happened to be there, so I don't think she saw when both of us turned our backs and walked off. In fact, I'm certain she didn't see me.

I didn't return the next day to the protests, which was fine with me, because that was the day the police made 170-something arrests and some windows got broken. Someone was telling me that it was the grossest example of police brutality she had ever seen in all her years. I surprised myself by not really believing her. Instead of going to the protests, I went to the police station to see about Kathy, and I went to Ground Zero. I gazed out, tall, over the remnants of the World Trade Center, the biggest "phalluses" of them all. The buildings symbolized something I hated, but yet, seeing it in shambles gave me no sense of righteous fulfillment. I suddenly felt something terribly ignoble in me.

We somehow made it back to Boston after she was released. There was no conversation, really. Just books on tape and jazz music. I leaned up against the hard window and tried to sleep.

It was awkward talking to Kathy after that. I remember later, sometime that following summer, seeing her in her little wooden chair, her legs crossed, "All Things Considered" playing on the radio. She was frowning at the newspaper again, elegant, just like before. I sat next to her, unflinchingly.

"Kathy, what were you thinking that day when you got arrested?"

She frowned a little further, looking at me hard through her little reading glasses. "What do you mean by that?"

I looked right back at her. "Didn't you see what the people were thinking when they saw you? Are the people our enemies? I saw you out there, and I don't know what you think you were doing, but you certainly weren't getting the attention of anyone at the hotel. I thought I knew why we were there. Weren't we fighting for something? For peace, and. and world harmony and an end to hate? Wasn't that the point? I just don't get it. I don't get why you would do something like that."

"And I suppose you just wanted to march between the barricades to the approved protest site? Do you know how much difference you make when you don't do anything to make a difference?"

"But what good is making a difference if it doesn't bring the beautiful future any closer?"

She said something about having to do things that aren't pretty to get what we want but she never said what I wanted her to say. I looked at her, grimly, and she glared back with pointed intensity, and I realized that even if I could think of an argument for her it wouldn't have mattered. Instead, I just kind of got up and wandered the house for a time. At one point, I passed an open closet. I looked into the comforting darkness for a moment, and slammed it shut.