You’re pissed.
That morning you were pissed at the War – by the end of the day you were pissed at being under arrest and dragged off to jail.
Parents were going to kill you – crowning achievement to world war 3 at your house.
Dad was a Marine – mom was a Nurse – they voted for Goldwater. They voted for Nixon, twice.
They would look at you and shudder – your dad hadn’t spoken directly to you since 10th grade. Blame Ed Sullivan. He had The Beatles – they ruined your life.
Dad blew a gasket when you came home wearing a Stop The War button – He stopped talking to you the day you came home wearing a black armband.
Your mom was always throwing your clothes away – you would always pull them out of the trash and hide them.
Everything you did was worth at least a high-pitched yell. You were forced to watch George Putnam every night at dinner. Couldn’t get around it – dad put the TV on the dinner table; the fourth guest, every night.
The gap they talk about – ours you could sail a ship through.
They really didn’t like you – even on a basic level. Hated your music – hated your clothes – hated the books you read – everything about you screamed “where did we go wrong?” – they just didn’t understand.
They just didn’t understand how you could get together with several thousand other people and protest. It just wasn’t American.
And they REALLY didn’t understand when the Police brought in teargas – nobody told you about teargas – nobody told your friends either.
Up to that point it was good – Marching down Wilshire, chanting “What do we want?” – “PEACE!” When do We want it?” – “NOW!” – it felt like you were making a difference – well, trying to anyway. You were part of the solution, not the problem. You were involved – you were committed – you were going to turn 18 in six months and you had a Draft Board to consider. For a protest, everybody seemed pretty happy – you made friends – for once, a big family.
And then it got nuts – a mass of white clouds started drifting in your direction – bullhorns barking out something about illegal gatherings and getting arrested.
People stampeding in your direction – yelling. Rocks flying – more teargas. You; hacking, going blind, being paralyzed – not good.
Your newfound family splintered and ran to the La Brea Tarpits – you were rolling around on the ground – you couldn’t get up; snot and tears jettisoned out of your face and you were wheezing like a consumptive while a squad of beefy cops lifted you off the ground and tossed you in the back of an idling Police van.
Your first large scale anti-war protest – now complete with the monotone “You have the right to remain silent” echoing in your ears.
Two days in jail. First familiar faces you saw had murder etched across them. Your parents reluctantly sprung you – the city wasn’t interested in paying for your stay for more than two days. You had court later in the week anyway.
A silent car ride to the nearest barber shop where your head would resemble a basketball within minutes. Next, the silent car ride stopped at Sears – where a festival of cotton dress shirts and Stay-Pressed khaki Chinos became your new wardrobe.
Home and deposited in a bedroom that would seem sumptuous for a Trappist Monk – you used to live here – you used to have posters on the wall – you used to have albums – you used to have a black light. Now you had a bed – a desk – a lamp and a Zenith table model radio. No stereo – no glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. Your bedroom but you were missing.
The best it was going to be for the time being was you – your thoughts and your radio. One out of three wasn’t so bad.
In retrospect you cringe – you’ve done a lot of that. Part of growing up – part of being on the planet, complete with KABC-FM and a half-hour’s worth of Brother John as your background music.
