Gentlemen, Start Your Engines

It was a beautiful October morning in 1967, and I was preoccupied with the life around me, classes, books, clothes, girls, and totally oblivious to the real world around me.

I was still so innocent, and I liked it that way, keeping my eyes focused on nothing in particular. I did love literature, and was beginning to be absorbed with knowledge, but real life was still a dream away.

One Saturday morning, my good friend and politically astute boy informed me, without any equivocation, that I was to accompany him to Washington for a peace rally, and that every bodied person was needed. I was not to let him down. My body was required to be there, even if my head had no idea where I was going or why.

So off we went, and arrived in Washington D.C. on Saturday morning. I was in shock, there were thousands if not hundreds of thousands of students dressed wildly with long hair, beards and placards proclaiming the virtues of Che. As I had no idea who Che was, at first thinking it must have been some Chinese or Latin restaurant in the area, I quickly learned that Che was not a restaurant, but revolutionary who all these kids idolized. Obviously although I think he was dead at the time, he had become not only the model of anti-government revolution, but had created a new fashion statement.

His face was placarded on every t-shirt that I saw, with a fist clenched tight and upright on the back. Everyone obviously wanted to be his look-a-like, because they must have felt as they became more and more messy, bearded and longhaired, they must have identified with the revolutionary spirit as it coursed through their veins.

I, on the other hand, arrived in my neatly pressed khaki pants, Brooks Brothers shirt and tie, and Paul Stuart sports jacket. I must have looked like Bozo The Clown to all of them. Rock music was blaring, girls were dancing half naked on the mall, and the hippie revolution, which was part party, and part demonstration was beginning.

This was all totally new to me. I kept saying to my friend Robert, “What am I doing here? I am not sure I am even against this war!”

As usual I am the latecomer to most things, and as time went on I became very fervent and active against the war, but at this time I knew nothing.

My mouth must have been gaping open the whole time as I watched the spectacle. Girls dancing, guys screaming and chanting “Hell no we won’t go!” through megaphones. Up on the stage there were people yelling into microphones while I had no idea what they were saying or talking about. I kept saying to my friend, “OK, enough is enough. It is time for a nice lunch in Georgetown.”

My head was spinning with the screams of revolt and all I wanted was a nice hamburger with a few well-dressed girls to look at. Although there were thousands of girls at the demonstration, and it seemed like free love was definitely free, I can remember thinking I wish these girls would shave their legs, wash their faces and put some lipstick on.

My friend was entranced and loved it all. He was much smarter than me, politically aware, and socially active. Even though he came from Charleston, South Carolina, and I, Mr. Know Nothing, came from the big apple, sin city itself, where everyone knows everything, Robert was years ahead of me. He would have none of my babbling about leaving. He too was a man of style but he also had substance, unlike myself, which I have worked many years to cultivate.

He would not leave and would not let me leave as well, and finally just as I thought it was over, as the meaningless speeches had ended, the whole crowd of hundreds of thousands began to march toward The Pentagon.

Now as it must be clear to many of you who have observed me or have read my blog, you would know I am a member of no group, organization, or movement. Mr. Smith is a loner and the best I can hope for is that he is original at times.

But this day, Robert had me marching along side of him along side kids that I did not relate to or understand. Kids who were yelling at the Government and authority, which I wasn’t sure that I approved of. They were long haired, bearded, drugged out on some acid, with Mr. Meek, myself, walking beside them, who at best to be wild would wear a pink shirt and on a special occasion drink two beers. Without realizing it all of a sudden I found myself ten feet from the front door of The Pentagon.

At first it seemed like a giant party, but then it quickly became more ominous. Thousands of people behind us began to yell and push all of us in the front. I found myself amidst a screaming horde of pushing, ranting and becoming angry mob. I looked up and saw hundreds of guards all across the top of The Pentagon with guns pointed down at us, and I now knew besides being scared out of my life, that it was time to leave this party before I became a member.

It took me close to an hour to extricate myself. Luckily, no one was shot or killed, but on that day in October, in 1967, my life changed for the next 5 years. It all began at the front door of The Pentagon.

The March on The Pentagon was my first real introduction to the sixties that everyone else already knew. The hippie movement, the anti-war movement, the music, the counter-culture, the rebel with a cause. The next weeks I will tell you more about a fast changing world and my thoughts on all this. For many people of my generation the Sixties represent the high point of their lives. It definitely was the turning point, but innocence lost may not be society’s gain.