I was born in 1952. Which means I was a teenager in the 60's. If anyone had told me then that Woodstock and hippies would become an icon for the decade, I would have said they were tripping on something. In my High School graduating class of 622 there were 5 of us who identified ourselves as hippies. We were ridiculed and outcasts. Sometimes the ridicule had merit.

I supported the California Migrant workers and dutifully boycotted grapes. I was in a heated argument at lunch, frustrated because I couldn't explain how this would help the workers other than "Because Chavez says it will", when one 0f the boys started laughing and nudging the others. Soon they were all holding their guts and pointing to my little box of raisins. "Where do you think they come from?" 

We organized the first celebration of Earth Day. We made flyers about the threats to the environment. Now I don't remember what we thought they were. At the end of the day the flyers were littered all over the student parking lot. Our first project became cleaning up our own mess. We threw them in the garbage and hoped no one noticed. The next week there was a front page article in the school newspaper citing how many trees we had murdered that day.

One of my most rebellious actions was not saying the pledge of allegiance at a pep rally. I did it first as solidarity with black friends who felt it was hypocrisy. This was after the 68' summer Olympics when two US Athletes raised the Black Power sign during the National Anthem. After we refused to stand, it was announced that students who did not want to say the pledge could attend study hall instead of the pep rally. I was relieved. I hated pep rallies. They were run by and for the "popular crowd". I had once been a fringe member, but we had parted ways. I cried when Dr. King died and they celebrated. Whenever we were trapped in the same physical space they made the ostracism clear. They pointedly spoke to people all around me and said nothing to me. They would whisper among themselves and then catch my eye to mouth "nigger lover".

But the other students protested this would deprive us of our right to attend the pep rally and NOT pledge allegiance. They wanted to call in a civil liberties lawyer. No one had that big of an allowance. We ended up in the study hall. Some used the time to plan a demonstration that never happened. I read Emily Dickenson to lighten my mood.

I needed to make sure my rebellion was enough to make me appear revolutionary, but not enough to get me thrown out of the house. My father was threatening to not pay for any more college tuition because my brothers boycotted classes in protest of Viet Nam. Dad was livid.  I tried to stay out of his way until he calmed down. His reaction to this was why I kept my black armband in my locker. My vow to wear it until the war ended, only applied to school hours. I stopped completely when I graduated from high school, even though the war wasn't over. I was just tired of wearing it. The constant reminder of war was a real downer at parties. Especially among the draft age boys. There was no one I was specifically honoring. I didn't know anyone who had died in the war. That came later. And even later still, working in the psychiatric ward of a VA hospital, I saw the devastation of hearts and minds. I had worn the black armband prematurely for them. Their bodies and brains were being destroyed while I put the armband back in my locker at the end of the day.

I had a very simple philosophy on war. War was stupid. I thought humans should be smart enough to work out conflicts. Viet Nam was a war so I protested. But I could not have given a coherent argument against it because reading books and listening to the lectures about it bored me. But I did have a recommendation. If leaders couldn't work out a solution they should have their best chess players play a tournament. Whoever won was the victor.  People laughed but I thought it had merit. Actually, I still do.

Members of the John Birch Society, an Ultra Conservative Political group, sponsored a billboard. It pictured the American Flag with the slogan "Love It or Leave It!"  One of my more articulate friends drafted a letter to the editor about rights of free speech, right to protest, exercising our civic responsibility to state our opinion and concern if we felt the country was headed in the wrong direction. We all signed it. After it was published we decided to go to a John Birch Meeting. With our long hair, headbands, beads, sandals and gigantic bell bottoms we were easily spotted as outsiders and were soon escorted out. On the way out the door I saw our letter to the editor on their bulletin board. Above it was written "Brainwashed by Communists." A silent friend, whose father was a  John Bircher, told us they sent a copy to the FBI to let them know who their enemies were. Some reveled with the thought we may have made the subversive list with Abbey Hoffman. I worried that we had gone too far in coming to a meeting we knew we would disrupt. I'm hopelessly polite. Being rude made my stomach ache. 

The spring of my senior year in high school four students were killed at Kent State University during a protest of the bombing of Cambodia. Nine others were injured and one paralyzed for life. Some were not a part of the rally. They were bystanders. The Ohio National Guard had fired on the student demonstrators with real guns and real bullets. My father was a Nixon supporter until it was clear Nixon had lost his mind. But after this I saw my father’s intensity shift. Instead of standing for our nation right or wrong, he wanted to make sure I understood this wasn’t playtime anymore. He asked me to promise if he sent me to school I wouldn’t join in any foolish protest on campus. His eyes were begging me. They didn’t have to. I had no intention of dying for something I didn't understand.

On the night of my Senior Prom I sat on the bank of the Mississippi River acting like I didn't care that no one had asked me. We played guitars and danced to a car radio. One person had a joint. He passed it around. But I didn't take it. I had no clue how to smoke it and then I still cared about looking dumb. I also didn't buy into "free love". It always seemed like the boys had more fun with this than the girls. I said I was waiting for real love. Whatever that was.

So while 617 of my fellow classmates labled me a hippie, I know I wasn't. 

I just wore the costume.