My own university, remember? Where J. Boyd Britton, administrative vice-president of Radcliffe, explained the pay differential between men and women cooks by saying, "There's a long tradition of male superiority." Where F. Skiddy von Stade, dean of Harvard freshmen, described the women involved in the 1969 strike by saying, "They were so insolent, the worst of the bunch. At least you have to respect the boys just a little bit since they have something real riding on this... But if the girls get heaved, they'll just go off to secretarial school."

The young law student does not understand. "I treat women like people," he says. "I find girls I date much more exciting if they think."

Interlude: On my way to cover minor demonstration at Federal plaza, very tired, hot, I stop and ask directions of policeman. Very young policeman. He in turn asks me, what do all these women want, and we talk. I have never actually talked to a policeman before, I tell him, and he says he has never talked to a demonstrator either. We are about the same age; he agrees finally that Women's Lib makes sense, but he won't discuss the war. I tell him about Harvard, about my nightmares of policemen charging, swinging clubs. I really do have those nightmares. He is horrified. Maybe, he says, the police in Boston are different. Maybe. He tells me he'll remember my freckles.

(Earlier, I tried to ask one of few police women patrolling the City Hall area what she thought of the scene. She said she wasn't allowed to comment, but smiled. Another said, "I sympathize with the girls.")

AT LAST, the March: I hurry first the wrong way along Fifth Ave., heading uptown to join the marchers waiting at the 60th St. entrance to Central Park. The march down Fifth Ave, is scheduled to begin at 5:30; 5 p. m. now and my feet hurt. Already the crowds fill the street, lining up along sidewalks behind police lines, waiting to watch. "Madness, confusion, police clearing streets," I write in my little notebook. A young boy, 13 or 14, is defending the women passionately toa group of angry men, all shouting at him. He grins at me when I stop to watch. "Gee, and this morning I didn't even believe in Women's Liberation."

At Central Park, so many people; this may be the most disorganized mass march I've ever attended. Potential marchers are repeatedly urged to go to the back of the line, wherever that is. I can barely turn around; I doubt that anyone ever expected this many women. (10,000, we are told at the time. Later estimates range from 7500 to 35,000). I am supposed to meet Debbie near the beginning of the march, but I never find her.

I join a group, stand surrounded; braless girls in blue workshirts beside working women with matching shoes and bag. A banner near me, marked with dove, Women's Strike for Peace. Not far away, Hands Off Angela Davis. The Third World Women's Alliance. I can't see in any direction; somewhere cars honk, and voices begin the familiar war whoop. We are anxious to begin. A laughing girl breaks off mid-whoop: "Hey, maybe this isn't feminine." In my notes I describe her as pretty, blond, and am ashamed. I would never describe a man that way.

It is a relief to begin marching. We are chanting, the group near me-Free our Sisters. Free Ourselves-and I feel suddenly happy, for a while at least, truly part of a movement, less alone. Even Liberation Now doesn't seem all that terrible. Along the sidewalk women wave, raise the V-sign, occasionally a fist; men look puzzled, sometimes hostile. "Fuck you" the most common insult. A little yellow car forces its way down the street, supposedly cleared of traffic; police apologize. I stand for a minute in its path, hoping I guess to stare down the driver. He doesn't look up, and I move.

FOR A WHILE I march with a group that looks like my Cambridge friends, with NLF flag and Right On With Weatherwomen banner, and am suddenly terribly homesick. It's been a long summer, my friends are scattered across the country. I'm walking alone down Fifth Ave., carrying a notebook. One of these women (I must admit, I don't really think of people my age as men and women, still) sees my notes, is suspicious. I mention the CRIMSON, but also the Post; she warns me. "This is not a bourgeois women's movement. It's OK to write something if you tie it in to the Panthers, to the revolution, but if you don't, it's fucked up." I don't know, I swear I don't. I don't even know what revolution means any more, but I don't think it's going to be marching with anyone's flag. We know it's all related; racism, militarism, and the masculine mystique, but where do we attack first? If bourgeois women don't relate to the Panthers, should they stop marching? I just don't know.

People hang out of windows waving all along the line of march. A group of about 25 male hecklers-those shifty-eyed little men who stand on streetcorners and smack their lips-follow along chanting "Be a woman, be a mother." Their hand-lettered signs read "We Love Women: In the Kitchen and in the Bed" and "End Toilet Facility Discrimination Now." Be a mother. "Why?" I shout at one and he shrugs. "Because I need a mother."

Finally: Finally, I sink down on damp grass, Bryant Park. Fifth Ave. and 42nd St. Almost 8 p. m., darkening tired; people all around. More speeches, but I don't listen; will read about in tomorrow's Times. We sit in the damp, and it grows too dark to see the speakers, and with 20,000 people around me (the park's capacity) I feel very alone. What do we want? so many, men and women, have asked today. I want to be a woman, equal in the eyes of the world and free within my own head. Are we a movement now? Most of the women here are white and middle-class: what do they have to do with my friends who work for revolution? With the young black woman carrying the banner of Third World Women's Alliance? Could we end the war by drafting all your daughters? Voices. Last year a woman wrote in RAT. "In the dark we are all the same, and we are all in the dark." I sit in the dark, on the wet grass, and think of the long ride home.