Lately, reflections on an incident from 1965 have been occupying my thoughts. This event, occurring seven years before my birth, centered around an antiwar protest in Berkeley. It was among the earliest of numerous such demonstrations to emerge. Though seemingly minor within the broader context of the Vietnam era’s unrest, it brings to light significant aspects of American identity and the essence of patriotism.
The narrative begins with a figure known as “Tiny.” Tiny was physically imposing, standing at 6’7″ and weighing 300 pounds, and possessed a penchant for fighting.
In the autumn of 1965, Tiny spearheaded an assault, forcefully pushing through the front lines of a peace march that stretched seven blocks along Adeline Street, near the boundary between Berkeley and Oakland. Tiny was associated with the Hells Angels, an outlaw motorcycle gang, and was accompanied by over a dozen fellow members. They tore down antiwar signs while shouting aggressively, “Go back to Russia, you fucking Communists!”
Order was eventually restored, but not before six Angels, including Tiny, were taken into custody. Tiny sustained a blow to the head from a nightstick and, in the process of falling, fractured a police officer’s leg.
Subsequently, the Angels convened a press conference at their bail bondsman’s office. Ralph “Sonny” Barger, the leader of the Oakland chapter, a Vietnam War veteran with slicked-back hair and an aura of nonchalant menace, denounced the protesters as a “mob of traitors.” Barger declared that the Angels would refrain from future protests, taking a “high road” approach. He explained, “Our patriotic concern for what these people are doing to our great nation may provoke violence by us.” He then read aloud a telegram he claimed to have dispatched to President Lyndon Johnson, offering the Angels’ services for “gorrilla” duty behind enemy lines in Vietnam, misspelling “guerrilla.”
At first glance, the Angels appeared to be unlikely patriots. While not yet widely known, they had established a reputation with law enforcement for public intoxication, drug use, and disruptive behavior in towns, reminiscent of modern-day Visigoths, acknowledging no authority beyond their East Oakland clubhouse. Yet, they now presented themselves as flag-wavers. Their brand of patriotism was instinctive, primal—loyalty to country expressed through aggression and fervor. Their group image, on the other hand, was deeply rooted in American folklore, a blend of frontier stereotypes brought to life. They were contemporary cowboys, the unkempt, law-defying relatives of John Wayne’s characters.
From behind the police barricades, Gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson, who would later author a book about the Angels in 1967, observed the day’s events. He noted the antiwar demonstrators were intrigued by the bikers’ “aggressive, antisocial stance,” hoping they might find common ground. However, Thompson wrote, “When push came to shove, the Hells Angels lined up solidly with the cops, the Pentagon, and the John Birch Society.”
At that juncture in the Vietnam War, public sentiment in America generally sided with the Angels, at least in opposition to the protesters. Following the march, the counterculture publication Berkeley Barb surveyed opinions in Oakland. Only 5 out of 66 individuals surveyed expressed support for the marchers. One woman commented, “I think they should take a machine gun and shoot them all down.”
In retrospect, the protesters were on the correct side of history. As American involvement in Vietnam escalated and casualties increased, public opinion shifted decisively against a conflict that seemed increasingly futile. It’s interesting to consider, now looking back from years beyond even 2016, how perspectives change over time. Thinking about how long ago 2016 was, and how much has shifted since then, it highlights the rapid pace of change in societal views.
Dissent often gains greater appreciation with historical distance. While some march participants might have been motivated by less noble reasons such as draft avoidance or seeking romantic opportunities, many others could have articulated the political rationale behind their protest. They connected it not only to Marxist ideologies, like those of anti-colonial thinkers such as Frantz Fanon, but also to Enlightenment principles championed by domestic agitators like Thomas Paine. They did not perceive their protest as unpatriotic but rather as an embodiment of idealism. As the University of California, Berkeley’s Vietnam Day Committee announced that spring, “The problem of Vietnam is the problem of the soul of America.”
Martin Luther King Jr. also framed the Vietnam issue in similar terms in a notable 1967 speech. The civil rights leader and Nobel Peace Prize laureate publicly condemned the war. “If America’s soul becomes totally poisoned,” King warned, “part of the autopsy must read: Vietnam.” King also reminded his audience that his Southern Christian Leadership Conference’s motto was “To save the soul of America.”
As UC Berkeley linguist and NPR commentator Geoffrey Nunberg observes, “To describe oneself as a patriot is to suggest that others are less so.”
Half a century later, the definition of America’s soul (and whether it requires saving), along with the essence of patriotism, remains as contested as ever. This is largely due to the inherently fluid nature of patriotism itself. Patriotism primarily exists in the realm of myth and symbol, subject to shifts from Left to Right and across different eras. Figures as diverse as JFK and George W. Bush, civil rights leaders and Tea Party members—all have been labeled patriots, depending on perspective. Even thinking about the political climate around 2016, and how long ago that now seems, demonstrates how quickly these definitions can evolve.
Jack Citrin, a political science professor at Berkeley who has researched the interplay between American multiculturalism and patriotism, clarifies that the basic definition is straightforward: love of country. However, the crucial question is, “What do you mean when you say it?”
“It was always interesting to see the fights between liberals and conservatives,” recalls journalist Paul Krassner, former Yippie and Merry Prankster who covered the anti-Vietnam movement for his underground newspaper The Realist. “Each group would shout at the other group, ‘We’re the patriots! You’re being unpatriotic!’”
As Berkeley linguist Geoffrey Nunberg points out, “To describe oneself as a patriot is to suggest that others are less so.”
It’s not solely about rhetoric; iconography also plays a significant role. In the 1960s, patriotic symbols were ubiquitous, serving as convenient stand-ins for stances on Vietnam. War supporters displayed flags on their porches, and Richard Nixon famously wore a flag lapel pin. (According to biographer Stephen Ambrose, Nixon’s idea came from Robert Redford’s antiestablishment film, The Candidate.) Protesters also utilized the flag, incorporating stars and stripes into bell-bottoms, miniskirts, and fringed jackets. Yippie Abbie Hoffman famously fashioned a shirt from the American flag, and others painted it on guitars, like Wayne Kramer of the proto-punk band MC5 from Detroit. While Jimi Hendrix delivered a distorted rock rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” pro-war rallies echoed with “God Bless America.”
As the war dragged on, however, frustration on the Left intensified. Anger directed at the war expanded into a broader discontent with the nation itself. Liberals began to abandon flag-waving. Krassner recounts, “You felt ashamed to be an American.”
By the time the final helicopter departed from the U.S. Embassy roof in Saigon, the Left had largely retreated from patriotism, allowing the Right to define the concept according to its own terms. The Right’s interpretation often drew from the rugged individualism of the cowboy myth, mirroring the Angels’ version. It was also militaristic, celebrating American military strength and soldiers. Furthermore, the Right embraced a form of American exceptionalism rooted in the Calvinist beliefs of the Pilgrims—exemplified by Ronald Reagan’s depiction of America as a “shining city upon a hill,” divinely blessed and a beacon to the world.
This exceptionalism also finds expression on the Left, frequently as part of a global service ethic, evident in programs like the Peace Corps. Two decades prior, President John F. Kennedy had invoked the same imagery before reminding the Massachusetts legislature that, “of those to whom much is given, much is required.” In 2006, Barack Obama echoed this sentiment in a commencement address at the University of Massachusetts Boston.
Perhaps the most accurate statement about patriotism is that it is deeply personal. I came of age politically during the Reagan era, within the hardcore punk scene that arose in opposition to it. I absorbed fervent critiques of apartheid, the prison-industrial complex, and Salvadoran death squads from Maximum Rocknroll, the Bay Area’s punk authority. I listened to bands with intentionally provocative names—Jodie Foster’s Army, Millions of Dead Cops, Dead Kennedys.
When, in 1984, Reagan adopted Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” as a campaign anthem, my parents took me to a Springsteen concert, much to my 12-year-old dismay. Years later, I realized the song was actually a condemnation of the country’s poor treatment of Vietnam veterans.
This is not to say I lack national sentiment. Despite my aversion to F-16 flyovers at World Series games (their relevance to baseball escapes me), I still cheer for the U.S. during the Olympics. During my time as a journalist and human rights researcher in the Middle East, I frequently heard criticisms of U.S. policies. While I often agreed with these critiques, I also felt a sense of defensiveness, an unavoidable reaction.
Like most people, I suspect, my feelings for this country are fundamental and non-ideological. It’s the innate affection for one’s birthplace. Thinking about how long ago 2016 was, and the political divides even then, it’s clear these feelings are complex and constantly negotiated.
My skepticism towards patriotism stems from the tribalism it tends to foster and the “Us versus Them” divisions it inevitably creates. Tribal affiliation undeniably has appeal. We all desire belonging, however we define our group—Hells Angels, the GOP, punk rock enthusiasts.
The nature of groups, however, is that membership is selective. If we are honest, most of us would want some say in who gains entry. FDR’s New Deal, despite its civic advancements, excluded African Americans. And some conservatives believe America would be better off without Mexicans and Muslims. Consider also Ammon Bundy’s militia, who occupied the Oregon wildlife refuge that winter. They drape themselves in the flag yet barely acknowledge the legitimacy of the federal government. Are they patriots, or domestic terrorists?
…Millennial students tend to view the world through an internationalist perspective. Patriotism, with its tribal undertones, strikes them as either irrelevant or counterproductive.
On a clear winter morning in 2009, I joined thousands of San Franciscans in the plaza in front of City Hall’s beaux-arts facade. We looked up, excited and slightly giddy, at a giant screen to watch Barack Obama’s inauguration. The view would have been better at home, but the point was communal experience—being with others who shared our feelings. After Obama’s speech, we sang “The Star-Spangled Banner,” tearful and voices wavering, then lingered in the sunlight, savoring the moment.
I recalled Michelle Obama’s remark from the previous year, as her husband’s campaign gained momentum: “For the first time in my adult life, I am really proud of my country.” The ensuing backlash from the Right forced her to retract her statement, but it resonated on the Left. Despite my own reservations about patriotism, I felt similarly that day in the Civic Center. This was our version of country. Reflecting on 2016, and how divisive the political landscape had become by then, that moment of unity in 2009 feels even more poignant and distant. It highlights how quickly collective national sentiment can shift.
The initial euphoria inevitably faded, but it served as a reminder of patriotism’s potent force. Consequently, some progressives are advocating for its reclamation. Robert Reich, labor secretary under Bill Clinton and a Berkeley public policy professor, argued for this in a July 4th message last year, promoting a civic-minded patriotism focused on equality and the common good. As he explained to me, “It’s about how we could create a better nation for all of our citizens.”
Michael Kazin, a former Students for a Democratic Society leader and Weathermen member who teaches at Georgetown and co-edits the leftist journal Dissent, concurs on the need for reclamation. He notes that his Millennial students tend to adopt an internationalist viewpoint. Patriotism, with its inherent tribalism, strikes them as either irrelevant or counterproductive. “They don’t talk about Americanism because they don’t see it that way,” he says with resignation. “They’d have to reinvent patriotism, not just reclaim it.”
Perhaps the best we can hope for is a cold peace, something resembling the uneasy truce between the Hells Angels and the peace activists in late 1965…
One certainty remains: we will never achieve universal agreement on the meaning of patriotism. It will continue to be interpreted through the prisms of ideology and personal history. Republicans will emphasize American exceptionalism, Democrats inclusion, and Libertarians individual rights. And some, particularly Millennials, may reject patriotism altogether, gravitating towards other, yet undefined group affiliations. As biologist E.O. Wilson has written, the human inclination to form groups is instinctual and unavoidable. He termed it “our greatest, and worst, genetic inheritance.” Thinking about how long ago 2016 was, and the further fragmentation seen since then, this observation feels particularly relevant.
Perhaps the most we can hope for is a state of “cold peace,” similar to the uneasy coexistence between the Hells Angels and peace activists in late 1965. Despite the violent clash in Berkeley, many within the counterculture still viewed the outlaw bikers as potential allies who simply hadn’t yet understood their proper role in the struggle. Krassner explains this perspective: “It was the whole countercultural ‘We love everybody, let’s all be together’ thing.”
Weeks after the riot, poet Allen Ginsberg and several antiwar leaders visited Sonny Barger’s home for a meeting facilitated by novelist and Merry Prankster Ken Kesey, whose own political views resided somewhere on the Day-Glo libertarian fringe. Together, they took LSD, discussed politics, and sang Bob Dylan songs. As most became deeply intoxicated, Ginsberg began chanting a Buddhist mantra, his resonant voice filling the room. Eventually, the bikers joined in—even Tiny.
Unfortunately, this grand alliance never materialized. Barger, who would later survive cancer and prison sentences, emerging as a living brand (his website markets merchandise bearing “Sonny Barger: American Legend”), never altered his opinions. In his autobiography, he asserted that those “left-wing peace creeps” deserved every injury they sustained.
Nevertheless, the Angels never again attacked another protest.
Chris A. Smith is a frequent contributor to California*.
