B4 Metro The Boston Globe MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 2019
They are due to be ar-
raigned at the Central Division
of Boston Municipal Court,
though it was unclear whether
all would appear in court Tues-
day, according to Renee Algar-
in, a spokeswoman for the Suf-
folk District Attorney’s office.
“We respect the rights of in-
dividuals to protest and take
part in the democratic process.
However, that right never
trumps acts of violence or be-
havior that creates a risk for
other participants, bystanders,
or police,” Algarin said in a
statement. “We’re reviewing
each arrest and will make in-
formed decisions based on the
facts of each and the policies of
this office.”
US Representative Ayanna
Pressley, a Boston Democrat,
praised those who opposed Sat-
urday’s march in a Twitter post.
“TY to the allies & accom-
plices who stood in the gap &
laid their bodies on the line to-
day in affront #LGBT hate
march,” Pressley said in the
statement Saturday. “To every-
one feeling unseen & vulnera-
ble today... we got you. Equi-
table outrage. Our destinies &
freedoms are tied.”
Pressley also posted a link to
a fund that collected donations
to cover legal fees and other ex-
penses connected with the “un-
planned arrests,” according to
the fund-raiser’s website.
On social media Sunday, us-
ers posted videos of encounters
between police and protesters,
including one showing a pair of
officers discharging pepper
spray at protesters, forcing
them back.
Police did not comment
Sunday regarding the use of
force and pepper spray.
Boston Mayor Martin J.
Walsh, in a statement, said he
takes “any accusation of police
misconduct seriously.”
“I also want to be clear that
sowing division between peo-
ple is exactly the goal of
Straight Pride organizers, and I
will not stand for it,” Walsh
said. “Just as the people of Bos-
ton work to make our values of
love, inclusion, and acceptance
known to all, our public safety
officials work tirelessly to keep
people safe from harm every
single day of the year, and that
will never change.”
The department’s policy on
the use of an incapacitating
agent such as pepper spray re-
quires that officers “generally
confine” their use of it to de-
fend themselves or another
person, or for when an officer is
met with active resistance dur-
ing an encounter.
Those rules, which are post-
ed on the Boston police web-
site, also warn of serious injury
that can occur under some cir-
cumstances, such as being in
an enclosed area without venti-
lation.
Dr. Ali Raja, the executive
vice chairman of emergency
medicine at Massachusetts
General Hospital, said people
exposed to pepper spray usual-uPARADE
Continued from Page Bly experience immediate symp-
toms of irritation in the eyes,
forcing them closed, and in
lungs, causing a hacking cough
that can last for 10 to 15 min-
utes. And the irritant can re-
main in the eyes and throat for
as long as 90 minutes, he said.
While rarely fatal, there
have been cases where people
with pre-existing lung and
heart problems have died after
being exposed to it, Raja said.
A chemical used in pepper
spray — capsicum — is the
source of its irritating effects,
he said. And when people ex-
posed to the spray are brought
to a hospital, they have to be
decontaminated to prevent af-
fecting medical personnel, he
said.
“When it’s used on humans,
it’s really inflammatory... it
just starts irritating any mu-
cous membrane it’s exposed
to,” Raja said.
Somerville Mayor Joseph
Curtatone said Sunday night he
has ordered a report of events
at the protests, since Somer-
ville officers were working at
the event. Curtatone said if any
violations are found, “it will be
dealt with appropriately.”
Following the Saturday ar-
rests, several protesters criti-
cized officers for use of force,
including Justin O’Donnell, 29,
of Nashua, N.H., who said he
was pepper sprayed by police.
“There was no need to use
force,” O’Donnell said Saturday.
During large demonstra-
tions, police face the challenge
of determining when a protest
must be broken up, said
Charles J. Key Sr., a retired Bal-
timore police lieutenant who
works as a police consultant.
Key spoke generally, he said
in a phone interview Sunday,
and was not commenting on
the specifics of Saturday’s
march and protest in Boston.
“The police officer still has
to evaluate the potential of al-
lowing the group to continue,
and watching it spin out of con-
trol to the point... where peo-
ple get killed,” Key said, point-
ing to the 2017 march and rally
in Charlottesville, Va., when
hundreds protested the remov-
al of a Confederate statue. One
woman demonstrating against
the white nationalists was
killed by a man who had a fas-
cination with Hitler and drove
into a crowd, officials said.
Following large confronta-
tions with officers, police de-
partments will gather video to
try and identify suspects who
injured other people, he said.
“That actually is sometimes
very successful, just simply be-
cause the individuals involved
in it get carried away [and are]
not really aware of all the dif-
ferent ways they’re being video-
taped,” Key said.
Police will also review how
officers responded at the scene,
the level of force used, and
whether officers obeyed the law
and the department’s regula-
tions and training, he said.John Hilliard can be reached at
[email protected].times and then things are
smooth sailing, you really ap-
preciate it,” Saviano said.
“Amen,” Pavlak said. “What
Phil and I have in common is
that we are survivors with a
capital S.”
Nearly every year, the two
meet in either St. Paul or Bos-
ton. Saviano loves the raspberry
bushes in Pavlak’s backyard,
and Pavlak feasts on lobster
when she visits Saviano. In be-
tween, they call every month
and every week share articles,
lately on politics and cooking.
“I would not have predicted
this when I was out there look-
ing for a kidney,” Saviano said
of gaining a dear friend in Pav-
lak, whose sense of humor he
cherishes.
They pack their reunions
with kayaking, cooking, and
outings to museums. Saviano
bakes a delicious cheesecake,
according to Pavlak.
A few years after the trans-
plant, Saviano arranged for the
two to meet a friend, the singer
Judy Collins, backstage in Min-
neapolis. Pavlak was floored.
“That was the first record al-
uFRIENDS
Continued from Page B
bum I bought at 15 years old,”
she recalled.
Both described meeting the
other’s family as important
milestones in their relation-
ship.
Pavlak picked grapes from
Saviano’s father’s backyard, vis-
ited his mother’s grave, and
stood outside St. Denis Church,
where Saviano had been mo-
lested as a child. Saviano grew
close to Pavlak’s mother, a quilt-
maker whose intricate designs
he marveled at during his first
visit. He has slept under one of
her quilts for nearly a decade.
“It reminds me of Susan and
her mom,” he said.
“He’s got a piece of my mom
and me anyways,” Pavlak joked.
Saviano and Pavlak also con-
sider teaming up on advocacy
efforts fun.
“The driver for us getting to-
gether is the relationship. The
secondary gain is to use our
proximity to advance the causes
we’re passionate about,” Pavlak
said, noting that she learns a lot
from her friend’s intelligence.
Last Monday, the 10th anni-
versary of the transplant, they
met with the transplant medi-
cal team at Beth Israel Deacon-ess Medical Center.
At a Tuesday panel on clergy
abuse, Saviano reflected on
Pope Francis’s recent summit
on the issue and Pavlak spoke
about her organization, the
Gilead Project, which has
sought to gather survivors, of-
fenders, and other members of
the Catholic community to dis-
cuss healing and prevention.
Although both are commit-
ted advocates, they diverge in
their approaches.
Pavlak is involved in her lo-
calparish,servesontheboard
that reviews abuse allegations
at a monastery in Minnesota,
and advocates for a “non-adver-
sarial” response to the issue.
She believes that change can
and must also come from with-
in the Church.
Now an agnostic, Saviano
said he is less interested in
preaching to bishops and cardi-
nals and instead focuses his ef-
forts on supporting survivors,
encouraging them to speak
publicly and name their abus-
ers, and serving on the board of
the BishopAccountability re-
search organization.
“We have this abuse as a
common denominator. Shegoes about it in a different way
than I do,” Saviano said. “But
our goals are quite similar.”
“When we’re together, it’s a
more holistic view,” Pavlak add-
ed.
Still, when Saviano visits
Pavlak, he accompanies her to
Mass.
“She sings, and I don’t. She
goes to communion, and I
don’t. But I enjoy meeting her
friends and other people in the
parish,” Saviano said.
“He’s a respectful man,” Pav-
lak said.
“I go mostly for the social
part,” Saviano said with a laugh.
When the two friends sit in
the pew together, Pavlak said, it
serves as a reminder to other
churchgoing abuse survivors
that they can thrive and survive
“into old age, happy, and in
great — well, good — physical
shape.”
When Saviano’s kidney fail-
ure worsened in 2008, his
nephrologist said he needed to
go on dialysis or find a kidney
donor. As an AIDS patient, he
was advised against dialysis.
Unable to find a donor with-
in his family, Saviano turned to
members of the New Englandchapter of Survivors Network of
those Abused by Priests
(SNAP), which he had estab-
lished in 1997. After medical
tests disqualified the five Mas-
sachusetts clergy abuse survi-
vors who volunteered, SNAP
sent a nationwide e-mail to
more than 8,000 survivors that
someone in the organization
forwarded to Pavlak, who is not
a SNAP member.
Pavlak said she sees it as
part of her calling to help
neighbors — even if it meant, in
this case, giving an organ to a
neighbor more than 1,
miles away. The loss of friends
to AIDS also compelled her to
save Saviano’s life.
“Everything about my up-
bringing and faith tradition has
taught me that when there is a
need and you can address it,
you should do that,” Pavlak
said.
In 2009, many hospitals
would not give kidney trans-
plantstoHIV/AIDSpatients,
but Beth Israel was participat-
ing in a clinical trial to test the
outcomes of transplants in pa-
tients with HIV, said Dr. Mar-
tha Pavlakis, the hospital’s med-
ical director of kidney and pan-creatic transplantation and
Saviano’s nephrologist.
She said only 3 percent of
kidney transplants involve al-
truistic donors who do not
know the recipent. And while
the recipient may meet the do-
nor to thank them, it’s unusual
for the two to become friends,
she said.
“Phil and Susan having the
connection that they do is prob-
ably a reflection of their other
shared circumstances,” Pavlakis
said.
Invested in Saviano’s well-
being, Pavlak gave him another
set of sun-protective pants and
a long-sleeve shirt on this visit.
Organ transplant recipients
have a higher risk of skin can-
cer, and he flies to Mexico a few
times each year to buy folk art
for his online business.
After Pavlak finished pack-
ing her suitcase Wednesday
morning, the two stood in the
doorway, singing Judy Collins
lyrics to each other:
“Who knows how my love
grows? Who knows where the
time goes?”Sarah Wu can be reached at
[email protected].line through a state forest. At
the time, she parked her wheel-
chair in a restricted area.
“She has this very clear mo-
rality about what is right and
wrong,” Jeff Napolitano, execu-
tive director of the Resistance
Center for Peace and Justice in
Northampton, told the Daily
Hampshire Gazette this past
spring when the newspaper
named her person of the year.
“When has she been on the
wrong side of history? She has a
record,” Napolitano added. “If
Frances is on your side, then
you know that you probably are
on the moral high ground.”
Though Ms. Crowe started
down the road to activism as a
young girl, the events of 1945
brought her politics into sharp
focus.
“I was a 26-year-old Ameri-
can married to an aspiring radi-
ologist,” she wrote in a recollec-
tion published in the Valley Ad-
vocate last month. “I listened to
the radio as I ironed our clothes
and learned that my country,
the United States, had de-
stroyed Hiroshima, Japan, by
dropping an atomic bomb on
it.”
Ms. Crowe would go on to
counsel young men to become
conscientious objectors during
the Vietnam War and protest
often at nuclear power plants,
including Vermont Yankee in
Vernon.
In her early 60s, she was still
scaling fences, including at the
Seneca Army Depot in upstate
New York, where she demon-
strated against missile deploy-
ment. Her physical feat drew
cheers.
“Someone said, ‘Even the old
lady is coming over,’ ” she re-
called with a smile in the 1984
Globe interview. “One gets a lot
of mileage out of white hair.”
By 2011, in her early 90s,
she was deciding whether or
not to bring a cane to a protest
at Vermont Yankee and opted
to travel light.
uCROWE
Continued from Page B
“I just need to take my ID for
when we’re arrested,” she said
in a conversation recorded for
Robbie Leppzer’s documentary
“Power Struggle.”
Born in Carthage, Mo., on
March 15, 1919, Frances Hyde
was a daughter of William
Chauncey Hyde, who ran a
plumbing and heating busi-
ness.
“My mother, Anna Heidlage
Hyde, made our clothes,” Ms.
Crowe wrote in the Daily
Hampshire Gazette, just before
turning 100 in March.
Catholics in Carthage, such
as her family, were targeted by
the Ku Klux Klan, Ms. Crowe
told the Globe in 1984, recall-
ing that she had been struck
with stones on the way to
school in second grade.
In 1939, she graduated from
Stephens College, a women’s
college in Missouri. She also
graduated two years later from
Syracuse University, where she
met Thomas J. Crowe, who be-
came a physician. They married
in 1945.
She told the Globe that dur-
ing World War II, she had
worked on an assembly line as
part of the effort to help defeat
the Nazis in Europe.
In the years following the
war, Ms. Crowe and her hus-
band had three children. Be-
cause one son was born deaf,the Crowes moved to Massa-
chusetts so he could attend
what was then Clarke School
for the Deaf, in Northampton.
Once there, Ms. Crowe be-
came a mainstay of activist
groups, helping found a chap-
ter of the Women’s Internation-
al League for Peace and Free-
dom. In her basement she set
up a peace center office that
was filled with literature and
posters. Along with her draft
counseling work, she was active
with the American Friends Ser-
vice Committee.
She often said her proudest
moment was when she in-
stalled a large antenna behind
her home to broadcast the ra-
dio program “Democracy
Now!” when she was initially
unable to persuade local public
radio stations and college sta-
tions to do so.
From the early 1970s on-
ward, arrests at civil disobedi-
ence protests became a regular
part of her life.
“There comes a time when
to put your body there is more
powerful than all the organiz-
ing you can do,” she said in
1984.
In later years, she had a
ready answer for reporters who
always asked how many times
she had been arrested: “Not
enough.”
Ms. Crowe, whose husbanddied in 1997, leaves a daughter,
Caltha Crowe; two sons, Jarlath
Crowe and Dr. Thomas H.
Crowe; five grandchildren; and
two great-grandchildren.
Plans for a memorial service
were not immediately avail-
able.
In Western Massachusetts,
Ms. Crowe was such a well-
known activist that the mere
mention of her name drew ap-
plause, as was the case at
Hampshire College’s gradua-
tion in 1987, when a crowd
cheered a speaker who praised
her, Nelson Mandela, and Mari-
an Wright Edelman.
Smith College, which houses
Ms. Crowe’s papers in the So-
phia Smith Collection, awarded
her an honorary degree.
Her wishes, however, were
for something more lasting.
“I hope that the United
States and its citizens find the
moral insight and courage to
stop war of all kinds, end the
exploitation of other countries
and our own citizens, begin to
stop climate disruption by eat-
ing local and driving less, end
the use of nuclear weapons and
nuclear power and foster fair
and equitable employment for
all workers,” she wrote for the
Daily Hampshire Gazette just
before turning 100. “What a
happy birthday it would be if all
my wishes came true.”
To pursue such goals, she al-
ways encouraged everyone to
join her and raise their voices in
protest.
“People my age have been
lulled into the idea that they
shouldn’t take risks, that they
should stay comfortable and
take the easy way,” she told the
Globe in 2010. “But we’ve lived
our lives, and we have nothing
to lose — no kids or jobs to wor-
ry about. I say to them, ‘Have
some fun. Get out there and
join the community of people
acting on their beliefs!’ ”Bryan Marquard can be
reached at
[email protected].Theirfriendshipendureswithlove,laughs,andactivism
Frances Crowe, 100; her life spent of front lines of justice
COURTESY OF FRANCES CROWE
Mrs. Crowe lost count of the times she was arrested, this one
in Seneca Falls, N.Y., in a rally against nuclear weapons.PAT GREENHOUSE/GLOBE STAFFUrasenke
Boston, a
Japanese tea
ceremony
society,
celebrated its
60-year
anniversary
Sunday near
the lagoon in
the Boston
Public Garden.
Glenn Sorei
Pereira (Sorei
is his tea
name), led the
ceremony with
some of his
students. He
has been
teaching the
art for 36
years.
TIME FOR A GARDEN TEA Boston police response
at parade to be reviewed