In 1983, Martin Luther King Day was made a federal holiday by then -President Ronald Regan. Maine schools, however, weren’t keen on adding it to the roster of holidays students took off from school, causing some uproar at Brunswick High School.

As word spread among students, at the appointed time, they all left their seats and held a sit-in in the gym to protest the exclusion of Martin Luther King Day. Deep down, I’m a bit of a cynic, so I’m not going to pretend some kids didn’t want to just ditch classes. I’m also not going to pretend some kids were there just demanding another day off from school. The majority though, I’m confident in saying, were there demanding equality for King’s Day, right alongside Presidents Day and the oddly regional Patriot’s Day.

I wasn’t in high school yet, so I can’t speak much beyond my sister’s recollection that day. There were rumors of threats from the administration — detention, suspension and the like. It didn’t matter, really, because the heart of a protest is dissent. Acquiescence of the administration waters down causes, dilutes them into rallies and orchestrated nonsense. Righteous indignation, followed by a subversive act, such as taking over a school gym, are at the heart of the right to assemble.

It was an exciting time as I was preparing my turn. By then however, the day had indeed, become sanctioned by the administration but remained student led. By the time I was a junior at Brunswick High School, the sit-in had taken on a different life, becoming a public stage for the disenfranchised, the bullied and the forgotten. It was honest; a genuine place of dialogue with reasonable mutual respect — admittedly, a rare spectacle in the ’80s.

Although it had become a tradition by the time I was in high school, it remained poignant. The time came and we briskly stood up from our desks and defiantly marched into the gym — as if at any moment, the principal could announce he was just kidding and we should all go back to our classrooms. No, it was more than that, even if we couldn’t really articulate it at the time.

Speaking for myself, I saw the way many adults in my life — close adults I grew up with and respected — reacted to Martin Luther King Day. They were unabashedly offended — offended by the mere placing of ink on a calendar, much less giving it the same recognition as every other federal holiday. Unveiled racism gleamed from them as they made jokes with a side grin, “I’m not against it,” it would always begin with a long pause for effect, “wish they’d kill four more so we could get a week off,” they would spew, somehow proud of their delivery.

It was the last dying breath — the cold death rattles of the “Separate but Equal” generation. They saw the writing on the wall and the few that linger into this generation still claw desperately to hold onto it even as the plantation home in their imagination burns to the ground. I can’t speak for the others but that’s what drove me to the gym. It drove me to protest, to hear from people I may be mistreating and hopefully, to grow as a human being.

Was it wasted time? Should the school have been ramming dates of battles and skirmishes down my throat instead of letting me “skip” classes in an assembly? Perhaps the lot of us should have been suspended to teach us a lesson for our cheek?

My only answer is that I indeed learned. I learned more about civil rights and what it’s like to care about something greater than myself if for just a moment. I learned many of my role models growing up, people I loved, were indeed racists and there was nothing I could do about them. All I could do is work on me, my perceptions and how I react to it. But that, my friends, even just that, was a pretty damn good investment in my education.

As I write this, kids are walking out of class to observe 17 minutes of silence for the victims of Parkland. Now, I’m getting as close to politics as I care to here, but step away from the noise and take a minute to really listen. This isn’t about pro- this, versus anti- that. There are no “sides” for those asking why kids shouldn’t hear from the “other side.” What other side is there — pro-massacre?

It’s far too complex of an issue to put a simplistic “black and white” frame around it but the truth remains — children are being slaughtered wholesale and our generation — yes, my generation, who stood so defiantly for the recognition of Dr. King’s holiday, are failing them. These kids, that some deride with the same venom as those who, in my time, suggested the further deaths of African Americans to “get a whole week off,” these kids are standing up with a bravery and a commitment we couldn’t muster when we had the chance.

Are we the next fading generation, with an increasingly wrinkled death grip on “the way it always was?” Maybe we should be, then. Let’s fade into the background, listening to “Simple Man” by Lynyrd Skynyrd and yelling at the neighborhood kids to stay off our lawn. If that’s all the intestinal fortitude we have left then let’s get to it and get the hell out of the way so the next generation can step up and fix our complacency.

Douglas McIntire is a writer and educator in the Midcoast and although the snow fell heavily on the 14th, he stands firm with Parkland. He can be reached at [email protected]. McIntire’s views are quite loud but uniquely his own.