1968
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1968 – An Episodic Memoir
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Kent came over to say goodbye the night before he was to ship out, terrified. We sat in armchairs, an occasional table covered with my mother’s knickknacks between us. My parents offered coffee and lemonade while we talked. Smokey was Kent’s man. We’d cruise up and down Hawthorne Boulevard listening to “Tracks of My Tears,” windows down to let the cool night ocean breeze wash over us. We weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend though I knew Kent was in love with me and I don’t remember writing to him during his tour or if he even asked me to. Why not? I wonder now.
He made it home in one piece and had a Vietnamese girlfriend he left behind. We saw each other a few times after that but with no chance for romantic involvement, our lives diverged. I can’t say I blame him although I missed his friendship and think of him to this day whenever I hear Smokey’s dulcet-toned voice crooning those rich lyrics and sighing, “oooooh baby baby.” ***
My parents were staunch Republicans. I mostly kept my political thoughts to myself but I made no secret of my opposition to the war. When Bobby Kennedy ran on an anti-war platform (finally a politician coming out publicly against the war! Although there were probably others before him—I wasn’t that well-informed), I was thrilled. My parents said things at the dinner table like, “If he gets elected, we’re leaving the country.” (Which is ironic given that my mother, in her 89 years, never did set foot on foreign soil; my dad at least was stationed in England in World War II.)
I remember sitting on the floor in front of the TV watching in shock, the footage of the assassination playing over and over. I guess we won’t be moving. ***
I was riding my bike along the Strand in Manhattan Beach in those carefree days before cycling clothes and helmets, me in my shorts and t-shirt, hair streaming behind me, and hearing Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band blasting from a beachfront balcony. The new Beatles album is out!
My friend Cris and I would take our dirty clothes to a laundromat in Hermosa Beach and pretend we were college co-eds living on our own. How sophisticated—doing laundry in a laundromat! Never mind we both lived with perfectly good washers and dryers at our respective homes. All those years of doing laundry around the corner in my apartment-living days in San Francisco, trudging back and forth, hoping no one’d stolen anything while I was gone, determining what I’d wear based on when I’d next do the wash, crazy to think of that crazy idea of mine and Cris’s. Now, after 18 years with my very own washer and dryer, I still don’t take for granted doing laundry in the comfort of my home. |
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***
Betty called me one morning in tears. Our phone was in the hallway, a green wall unit with a long curly cord so my sisters and I could lounge on the floor, legs up against the wall and yak to our friends. This, however, was no laugh-filled conversation. She’d been to a party the night before with a bunch of boys, older boys; we all knew them and had partied with them before. She was drinking and had blacked out and woke up in one of their VW vans without any clothes on. She thought she’d probably been gang raped. There wasn’t much discussion about this topic then, so I doubt I suggested she tell someone, an adult, or make any public accusations. I am a good listener, however, and gave her sympathy and understanding and was enraged on her behalf, all the while thanking my lucky stars it wasn’t me as it so easily could have been. She was popular and beautiful and as far as I could tell her tarnished reputation wasn’t held against her. No one snubbed her or talked trash about her (to my knowledge); but I can’t imagine those boys didn’t brag or somehow let it be known what had happened.
Not long after that Betty started using some serious drugs, downers, so that she’d show up at a party with her boyfriend and nod out in a corner somewhere, completely zoned out. I’m embarrassed to admit that I didn’t put two and two together until much later. We went our separate ways after high school and I didn’t see her again for about 10 years. My parents traditionally held an open house on Christmas Eve and one year, when I was down from San Francisco, she showed up with her fiancé, a seemingly great guy who clearly adored her. She’d cleaned up, no signs of drugs, but I remember when I was going on about my exciting life in the City, becoming aware of the look in her eyes, a deep sorrow as if to say, I will never have what you have, I will always have a before and an after. I am maybe imagining that. But if I made a movie, I’d put that in. That was the last time I saw her but I think of her and hope she has had a long and love-filled marriage, that the “after” turned out okay. ***
Somewhere buried in 1968 is my 17-year-old self, uncertain, self-conscious, filled with longing for an interesting future, longing to escape LA and have a career and make my way in the world. (Fast forward to my 20-year high school reunion: You live IN San Francisco? We were there once; we couldn’t find a grocery store.) My suburban upbringing felt like a prison despite the comforts, the beach, my friends and family. It was something I minimized when I made new friends and worked in theatre and publishing and mostly circumvented talking about what I thought of as my boring past. Now all of our pasts are fodder for books and movies. It’s not necessary for it to have been glamorously intellectual or celebrity-tinged or down-and-out and gritty. It just is what it is and we carry it with us all our days.
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