And I Burned My Bra For This?
Eisenhower was my first president. We didn’t own a TV, but we had an icebox, we ‘watched’ the radio and music was called “Popular.”
We were War Babies, born at the end of WWII, now on Medicare and Social Security. Dick Clark dubbed us the first ‘teenagers.’ We invented Rock and Roll, we grew up in the decades of the greatest social change in history… and we are never getting old.
When my parents returned from the “Great War” there was no housing so we lived in a tin Quonset hut in Roger Young Village, later to become the Griffith Park Zoo and in the summer… it was not unlike living in a frying pan.
Barry Goldwater was the first president I voted for in the 1964 election. “In our hearts we knew he was right” and besides, my mother voted for him. She was a ‘card carrying’ member of the John Birch Society and believed Fluoridation to be a Communist plot long before Dr. Strangelove.
Like Forest Gump, I seemed to be the right age at the right (or wrong) time in history.
On a crisp November day, I sat on the dewy lawn of Orange Coast Junior College and silently wept when our president was assassinated, as I did on that perfect September morning watching the draconian plume of smoke rising from lower Manhattan.
In 1965 I moved to New York. Cigarettes cost 25 cents a pack, there were no fax, answering or cash machines.
Lyndon B. Johnson announced the creation of Medicare and the sexual revolution began in earnest with the advent of the birth control pill…up to that point, we just had to keep an aspirin between our knees.
And so began the swinging turbulent 60s of which I don’t remember much… because I was there. The women’s “Lib” movement was born and we were all having sex with strangers and reading Erica Jong’s “Fear of Flying.” We hit the streets with banners and no bras.
We marched for civil rights and against the war. We saw Hendrix and Joplin and could tell you where we were when every single Beatles album came out.
from → Opinion