Although he is my brother, there is still much for me to learn about the doings of Anthony Donovan. As a younger sister, he was out and about while I was still living in childhood. Even when I began to notice the world, my focus was different and in many ways, still is. Nevertheless, we have accumulated a lifetime of memories. There is one extraordinary moment when our lives collided that always stands out to me. It was on April 24, 1971, when we were both part of the half a million people marching in Washington, D.C. to protest the Vietnam War. I was 15 years old, there with high school peers, while Anthony, unbeknownst to me, had come from college. Eventually, in the wee-hours of the 25th, the bus long gone, I was wandering alone, when I literally stumbled across his legs. After a brief conversation of the hows and whats and whys, he walked me to Constitution Ave. and flagged down a car with a New Jersey plate. Giving the driver and his companions the best big brother directive, and a few bucks, Anthony got me out of the capital and headed home. Before we said goodbye, I realized it was his birthday. A reason for me to stay, I suggested. He didn’t agree, as he knew what was coming: his arrest with over 12,000 others.  As we parted in the blue dawn, I was years away from understanding that his role in anti-war demonstrations was more than a lark. It is his mission, he says, for the next generation.

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