Woodstock Days

Woodstock Days
By Charles E. Kraus

Late 1960s:

My father, who had voted for Kennedy, then for Goldwater, was experimenting with right wing politics. He was highly intelligent but also impressionable. You might say Dad knew a lot and that some of what he knew conformed to reality. He was one of those shy, soft spoken individuals, good-natured unless and until you pushed a hot button issue. The Vietnam War, for example. That brought on his high voltage outrage. It was difficult to believe his two personalities wore the same pants.

Our country was undergoing a generation gap. The press had proclaimed it; younger folks and their more experienced elders weren't seeing eye to eye.  The media's narrow focus on rebelliousness vs. stodginess, colored by dogmatic phrasiology such as never trust anyone over thirty, widened the schism.   According to television coverage, America seemed to be in a state of near anarchy.  Strangely, out there in day-to-day actual life, things seemed pretty stable.

One evening, I was taking my girlfriend to a movie playing in midtown Manhattan. My father lived in the area and for some foolish reason we had arranged to meet him for dinner. I'm guessing I thought he would be impressed by my choice of girlfriends, and that my date would be impressed with my choice of fathers. Things turned out quite differently. That happened when the conversation moved from menu selections to Hồ Chí Minh.

Like the majority of our cohort, Tracy and I hadn't taken to the streets or burned any flags.  But we identified with the more active members of the youth movement, those whose endeavors qualified for media attention.   Ours was a theoretical rebellion --  rhetorical outrage against war, against inequality,  hypocritical politicians and greedy capitalists.  When asked how to achieve a better world, our answer reflected a popular song, If We Only Have Love. Love was the cure. We were unsure about implementation.

Dad was having none of it. He countered with a diatribe of historical facts, statistics, specifics, names, places, dates, and authorities. We offered no rebuttal. We were sincere, but clueless.

Years later, thinking back on that evening, I realized that much of what my father spouted was gibberish packaged as gospel. He didn't know what he was talking about, but won the round because we were naive and massively under informed. We mistook his authoritative sounding oratory for wisdom when it was just some stuff he had read in Buckley's column.

Over time, most people mature.  A chair caning guy I knew during our bohemian past became an accountant.  His ex-wife evolved, morphing from earth mother to nurse practitioner.  Some people merely adjust.  Ultra conservative David Horowitz, a red diaper baby who considers himself a founding member of the New Left, moved to the far right.  Evidently, he likes extremes.  In the early 60's, radical student Tom Hayden wrote the influential Port Huron manifesto.  Later, he calmed down, married Jane Fonda and settled into his role as state legislator, representing the republic of Santa Monica, California.  A shanty town if there ever was one.

Absorbed into stability, I've attempted to become an informed, reasoning member of society.  It turns out this goal post is not easily reached. Facts are slippery, need context, contradict one another.  Science, with its evolving theories, religions with their competing theologies.  It's enough to make you watch another sitcom.

Forty-nine years ago this week, Trump and I were not at Woodstock.   Though I didn't go, I wished I had.   Trump never identified with the youth movement.  That August he probably spent his evenings visiting exclusive New York night spots.  Not dancing of course; according to his draft deferment, the bone spurs in his feet would have prevented him from taking to the floor.   In any event, he was not the hippie type.  He did not wear tie-dyes; he worn ties.

Having matured, or at least aged, I'm leery of gurus and ethereal solutions. I tend to put my faith in practical wisdom. But I am proud to have been a kid who believed better, idealistic, angels could make a difference.   I still do.  Love, as in All We Need, is rarely practical.  But a touch of altruism is essential.  It's one of the tools.  I now realize that shaping the future also requires coordinates.

Despite current conditions, I have hope. After all, my father did not remain a conservative.  Reagan talked him out of it.