These are not your grandparents’ Sixties

I suppose you could call me a child of the 1960s. I was born in the early 60s, too young to remember the assassination of President Kennedy or the start of Beatlemania, although I have studied both extensively. I remember watching on television as Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin walked on the moon. I remember classmates upset when they heard that the Beatles were breaking up. I also remember hearing something about a hippie concert in New York. (That summer I saw my first hippies. Several of them were in a car that drove down the road—long hair, colorful clothes, the car may have been a VW bug. One of them flashed a peace sign at me… a little short-haired boy standing in the front yard of his grandparents’ house.)

Last night I experienced two hours of that hippie concert in New York, thanks to a DVD player and a flat-screen stereo TV. Woodstock marks a high point for 60s nostalgia, combining peace, love, rock-and-roll, young people, drugs, sex, and politics. Plenty of timely idealism was on hand, as the organizers, musicians, and attendees showed that they could have a peaceful gathering to celebrate their culture (or counterculture, as the case may be). Yet the gathering also revealed contempt for authority (parents, police officers, and elected officials, among others), deliberate lawlessness (though it was nonviolent), poor management of the environment, and the arrogance of thinking that they were right and everyone else in the world was wrong. On the bright side, much of the music of Woodstock was epical and some was even profound; and the reaction to inconveniences of crowding, rain, and mud were largely hopeful and humane. On the dark side, much of the music of Woodstock was poorly performed due to poor planning and less than optimal conditions; and most of the investors lost money on the concert (except for those lucky enough to include recordings and the filmed documentary in their investment).

Some people older than me seem to want to bring back the 1960s in the summer of 2020. Many people younger than me seem to want to recreate the 1960s in the summer of 2020. Both groups are misguided. Donald Trump is neither Lyndon Johnson nor Richard Nixon. Nothing happening this summer compares to the Vietnam War. Rioting and violence are as counterproductive now as they were back then. From Birmingham to Ferguson, American citizens have gathered to protest racial inequality and injustice. When these gatherings are hijacked by vandals, arsonists, and looters, the protestors’ message is distorted and justice does not prevail.

Street protests did not end the Vietnam War. If anything, they lengthened the war, as the communist government of North Vietnam stalled negotiations to end the conflict, hoping that America would lose the will to fight and would withdraw unitarily. President Nixon brought an end to the war, keeping his promise to provide peace with honor, but serious negotiations only happened after his prospects for reelection became obvious in the summer of 1972, and they were concluded only after his determination to prevail was tested following the election late that year. Tragically, the United States Congress handed victory back to North Vietnam in the 1970s by refusing to enforce the treaty agreements that ended fighting in January 1973.

Fighting in Vietnam was part of the Cold War, pitting capitalism and freedom in the West against communism (actually socialism) and totalitarianism in the East. Both sides fought militarily, economically, and intellectually for decades, trying to prove that their way was right and the other way was wrong. Socialism and communism received support from many people in the United States in the 1960s, principally those who were also rallying under the banners of civil rights, anti-war, and rock-and-roll. Only one side in the Cold War had to build walls and guard borders to prevent its citizens from escaping. Over a twenty-four month period in 1989 through 1991, the Cold War ended, due to the crumbling of the Berlin Wall and of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Ironically, in 2020 some prominent Americans are speaking in support of socialism and of stricter government controls over the population, even though the bankruptcy of those ideas was clearly demonstrated thirty years ago.

Many of my favorite songs were written and recorded in the 1960s. I regularly feed my nostalgia for that time, the years of my childhood. But the legend of the 1960s created by our entertainment industry exaggerates the peace and love and artistry of those times, minimizing the fear and hatred and violence that also characterized those same years. The same entertainment industry wants to topple our present government. Again and again it insists that capitalism is bad, that freedom belongs only to the oppressed (and those who can identify themselves as oppressed), and that free speech belongs only to people who say the right things. Their arrogance resembles that of the Woodstock generation. Their legacy will be equally ephemeral. J.

Long hair and Lynda

I have not had a haircut since December. Usually I get a summer cut in May—get my hair off my neck and away from my ears and generally short enough to be comfortable in the summer heat. But everything was closed in May. Even now, in the last days of July, I haven’t bothered to try to schedule a haircut. Most men around me have had their hair shortened this summer. I don’t know how many made appointments with professionals and how many are sporting a home cut. I may try for a home cut this weekend. Time will tell.

My hair is probably longer now than it ever has been. This week I tried to see if that is the case, looking back in high school and college yearbooks. There may have been a time during my second year of college when my hair was almost as long is it is now. It’s hard to say, but I think my hair is longer now.

Finding my portrait among my high school classmates, I happened to notice Lynda’s portrait. We have the same last initial (or did when we were in high school), so of course our portraits were on the same page. We also sat near each other for freshman math class—for the same reason, because the math teacher assigned us desks in alphabetical order. I remember noticing Lynda in that freshman math class—in fact, I noticed Lynda many times during the four years we were in high school. We never dated. We never had any long meaningful conversation. If she sensed that I liked her, I gather she didn’t feel the same about me. Nor did she ever make a point of telling me that she didn’t like me. We were just part of the scenery for each other during those difficult adolescent years of secondary education.

Having seen and noticed, Lynda’s high school picture, my mind added her to a dream last week. In fact, I remember part of that dream in which I was introducing her to my parents and other family members. Usually my mind works the other direction—it pops a person from the past into a dream, someone I haven’t thought about in years, and then that person remains on my mind for the next several days. This time, at least I have a reason to have dreamed about a long-lost acquaintance. But, after that brief glance at one photograph, followed by a dream, I have been thinking more about Lynda and about high school in general.

Last night I pulled out my high school yearbook for senior year and looking up pictures of Lynda. (I hadn’t bothered looking at that volume earlier, because I knew my hair was shorter senior year than earlier in high school.) I saw photographs and Lynda and me in the National Honor Society. I saw photographs of Lynda working on the school newspaper. I saw Lynda’s senior portrait and other graduation pictures. Many years have passed since I’ve seen Lynda, but her high school pictures remain unchanged.

One of the novels I have considered writing at times over the past twenty years would be set at a high school reunion. The main character and his wife would find themselves seated at a table with another man who looked much like the main character and also had the same name. But the main character and his doppelganger would have taken different paths in high school, gone to different colleges, followed different careers, and would have married different women and raised different families. This novel idea is loosely based on my own experiences—specifically a choice I made my sophomore year of high school when I did not have enough time to work for the student newspaper and also take part in the spring musical production.

Even though I wanted then to be a writer, I chose to abandon the newspaper and stay with the musical production. That, perhaps, has made all the difference. Most of my enduring friendships from high school have been with people involved in the spring musical productions. My writing career has largely been limited by other professional obligations. Many things in my life might have turned out very differently if I had stayed with the newspaper and dropped the musical. One of those things is that Lynda and I might have become close friends… might have dated… might have stayed in touch after high school graduation, maybe even attended the same college… might have gotten married. The list of possibilities is endless.

I never featured Lynda in any short stories. I never wrote a song for her. Aside from yearbooks, I haven’t kept a picture of her. And, unlike other schoolmates I have remembered and researched, I cannot find Lynda on the Internet. I’ve searched her name in various ways, and the most I have found is the same yearbook photographs I already have.

It could be a great work of fiction, though. What if, somewhere out there, Lynda has suddenly started remembering me and thinking about me? What if she wonders what ever happened to me and what I have accomplished since high school? If the two of us could time-travel and communicate with those awkward teen selves, what changes (if any) might we recommend to them? And, after all this time, what difference, at this point, does it make? J.