I never do anything the normal way if I can avoid it. This includes living my life in the right
order.
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| This could be me, back in the late 60s. It isn't me, though. Sorry. |
I was born on the leading edge of the Boomer
generation. I came of age in an exciting
time. My generation protested and demonstrated
against racial discrimination, the Vietnam War, and the subjugation of women. We studied ecology and warned people to
protect the earth. We even went
overboard, declaring, “Turn on, tune in, drop out.” Reefers were passed around at wine and cheese
parties, with the wine served in paper cups.
New forms of addictive drugs were developed and sold. The more reckless among us dropped Acid and
hoped they would survive with their brains intact. Transcendental Meditation became a fad. Brassieres were burned, boys and men grew
long hair and beards. Women and girls
grew long hair, too, including me. My
hair is thick and coarse and it grows at the speed of light. Growing it so long I could almost sit on it
was easy.
Speaking of going overboard, there was easy, open sex. This was hard for those of us who were still
reeling from strong religious upbringings.
We felt like a starving person with Celiac Disease locked in a room with
200 loaves of bread. It made us envy our
friends who could be “spiritual” and wild at the same time without a twang of
guilt.
Although I eagerly adopted a hippie look and a somewhat
broader outlook than the one I had been raised with, I didn’t take part in any
campus demonstrations, although there was plenty to demonstrate about. I was busy studying music and theater, attempting
to get my head together and breaking into an operatic singing career. Anyone who has ever tried that knows how it sucks every bit of energy and attention from body and brain, especially when you have to work a 9 to 5 job at the same time, to support yourself.
Fast forward to the year 2016. I was now a senior citizen, complete with
AARP membership, senior discounts, arthritic knees, doctor visits and friends
who worried about me, even when there was no need to worry. Suddenly, a loony guy who, up until now, had
been only known as a wealthy, obnoxious, egotistical real estate developer was
the Republican candidate for President of the United States. The loony guy proudly shouted his racism,
xenophobia, misogyny and whatever other dangerous ideas came into his head.
In other words, this was the Mother of All Causes.
At age 70, I suddenly became what I could have been
at age 21: a protester. I signed a gazillion online petitions and
gave a lot of contributions, which were, by necessity, small. I am not wealthy, and I would make a terrible
bank robber.
When the loony guy was declared President, even though he
didn’t win the popular vote, I geared myself to escalate the protesting – after
I recovered from being sick over the whole mess.
So here I am, still signing online petitions, still giving
small amounts of money, sending postcards, knitting “pussy hats” and trying to
talk myself into calling members of Congress, which is something I have a
half-phobia against (don’t ask me why).
The only reason I didn’t join the women’s march was that I knew I
wouldn’t last more than about 30 minutes because: (1) I have arthritic knees
(see above); and (2) we older ladies need accessible bathrooms, which can be
hard to find in New York City. On the
other hand, I can yell as loud as I ever could, and I can certainly sing loud,
so when the next opportunity to march comes, maybe I’ll go there and stay as
long as possible.
Those 30 minutes might count for something.
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| The Mother of All Causes |
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