her heavy drinking, although Gary seemed to have more than his usual amount
when I was at his house. Kristina was an adorable and happy toddler, but Pam
still didn't display the same type of mothering skills used with Gary and me as
we grew up. She did everything correctly from changing diapers to feeding her
on schedule. However, any special cuddling or cooing seemed fundamentally
lacking in her interactions with her daughter. Gary made up for that missing
ingredient. He absolutely doted on his daughter and mentioned once or twice to
me during that summer that he hoped for at least one more child.
Whenever I spent time
at their home, I also indulged the pretty baby. It wasn't difficult to do.
Kristina seemed to thrive when given attention. She even began to recognize me
when I visited. I eagerly held her and played with her on the floor as she
crawled about chasing the cat.
When I got back to
Ann Arbor in late August, the winds of change seemed to have permanently blown
into this Midwestern college town and taken up residence. After the images of
Woodstock, the concert I had heard about all summer long, hit the national
consciousness, very little would remain from the leftover stagnation of the
1950s. In Ann Arbor, the first noticeable change occurred in the dress of the
college students. No longer did the sorority Peter Pan collars and fraternity
button-down shirts of the Eisenhower and Kennedy years exist. Instead they were
replaced by brightly colored T-shirts, often tie-dyed, and jeans, the uniform
of the new youth. Instead of cute dress shops on Liberty and State Streets,
bead shops and head shops and small dark cafes became the fad. And everywhere I
went that year, I smelled the sweet, leaf-burning odor of marijuana. I even
smelled it in my classroom. My students were suddenly aware of things like
Vietnam and the politics of Nixon who had been president for almost a year. No longer,
did I have to prod them to write; they had plenty to say and many of their
pieces made it into the school newspaper.
Teaching became a joy
as well as a challenge as I attempted to keep pace with the world around me. I
had never really been political before, but now I watched as those younger than
me began the protests that have come to mark this period indelibly as the one
in which much of American society became radicalized. Even sweet little mothers
like my own became political as they took to the streets to protest the Vietnam
War. Some of these women had sons, who had been drafted, but others had young
sons at home, and they hoped to make a difference before they became eligible
for the draft.
Women, blacks, and
students took to the streets trying to make the world a better place while
attempting to give corporate and governmental America a social conscience. One
group, who also began organizing and politicizing after June of 1969, didn't
receive the same amount of publicity as those other groups. I read with
interest everything I could about the formation of the gay and lesbian rights
organizations. Unfortunately, nothing much was written unless the news reports
were slanted to make it seem as if the police were being harassed by a
disgusting group of individuals.
Right after Gary's
arrest, protesters rioted every night on Christopher Street after the bars
closed. For four nights, the same ritual occurred.
My writing remained
stuck because I didn't know how to express Gary's torment. I wrote about a
character who wandered endlessly looking for his place in the world. At this
point in my life, that character could either be Gary or myself.
My teaching seemed to
be the only satisfying part of my life that year. I couldn't get published even
though I tried every summer to get something in print. So far, I had only
managed a letter to the editor in the Ann Arbor News .
I was lonely. I’d
been officially divorced for more than a year, and I had met no one else. The
sexual revolution swirled all around me, yet I found it difficult
when I was at his house. Kristina was an adorable and happy toddler, but Pam
still didn't display the same type of mothering skills used with Gary and me as
we grew up. She did everything correctly from changing diapers to feeding her
on schedule. However, any special cuddling or cooing seemed fundamentally
lacking in her interactions with her daughter. Gary made up for that missing
ingredient. He absolutely doted on his daughter and mentioned once or twice to
me during that summer that he hoped for at least one more child.
Whenever I spent time
at their home, I also indulged the pretty baby. It wasn't difficult to do.
Kristina seemed to thrive when given attention. She even began to recognize me
when I visited. I eagerly held her and played with her on the floor as she
crawled about chasing the cat.
When I got back to
Ann Arbor in late August, the winds of change seemed to have permanently blown
into this Midwestern college town and taken up residence. After the images of
Woodstock, the concert I had heard about all summer long, hit the national
consciousness, very little would remain from the leftover stagnation of the
1950s. In Ann Arbor, the first noticeable change occurred in the dress of the
college students. No longer did the sorority Peter Pan collars and fraternity
button-down shirts of the Eisenhower and Kennedy years exist. Instead they were
replaced by brightly colored T-shirts, often tie-dyed, and jeans, the uniform
of the new youth. Instead of cute dress shops on Liberty and State Streets,
bead shops and head shops and small dark cafes became the fad. And everywhere I
went that year, I smelled the sweet, leaf-burning odor of marijuana. I even
smelled it in my classroom. My students were suddenly aware of things like
Vietnam and the politics of Nixon who had been president for almost a year. No longer,
did I have to prod them to write; they had plenty to say and many of their
pieces made it into the school newspaper.
Teaching became a joy
as well as a challenge as I attempted to keep pace with the world around me. I
had never really been political before, but now I watched as those younger than
me began the protests that have come to mark this period indelibly as the one
in which much of American society became radicalized. Even sweet little mothers
like my own became political as they took to the streets to protest the Vietnam
War. Some of these women had sons, who had been drafted, but others had young
sons at home, and they hoped to make a difference before they became eligible
for the draft.
Women, blacks, and
students took to the streets trying to make the world a better place while
attempting to give corporate and governmental America a social conscience. One
group, who also began organizing and politicizing after June of 1969, didn't
receive the same amount of publicity as those other groups. I read with
interest everything I could about the formation of the gay and lesbian rights
organizations. Unfortunately, nothing much was written unless the news reports
were slanted to make it seem as if the police were being harassed by a
disgusting group of individuals.
Right after Gary's
arrest, protesters rioted every night on Christopher Street after the bars
closed. For four nights, the same ritual occurred.
My writing remained
stuck because I didn't know how to express Gary's torment. I wrote about a
character who wandered endlessly looking for his place in the world. At this
point in my life, that character could either be Gary or myself.
My teaching seemed to
be the only satisfying part of my life that year. I couldn't get published even
though I tried every summer to get something in print. So far, I had only
managed a letter to the editor in the Ann Arbor News .
I was lonely. I’d
been officially divorced for more than a year, and I had met no one else. The
sexual revolution swirled all around me, yet I found it difficult
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