1965

 In October of 1965 I am 18 years old, living at home and attending my first year of college.  The previous year has been one of enormous change. My sister married and in no longer living at home.  My desire to attend a state university  was thwarted by a state financial crisis that saw the entire Freshman class, already admitted, put on hold and promised admission sometime next year.  

I enroll in a community college to take advantage of the less expensive cost, and knock off some required classes and because waiting six months with no academic stimulation is not an option in my house.  My circle of friends narrows.  Some to out of state schools, some into the military, some into the work force.  I have a part-time job that lets me take classes in the morning and work 5 hours every afternoon.  There is some overtime too.  

At home, my mom is in the early throes of an ovarian cancer diagnosis.  We are optimistic and a treatment plan is in place.  I have recently purchased my first car, a 1959 VW bug.  I can commute to school and work on $3.00 worth of gas a week.  At $1.25 an hour, I'm living large and enjoying a new found freedom.  For the first time in my life, evenings are my own.  There are suddenly no more house rules that govern where I go and when I come home.  I do not exploit this sudden autonomy.  I'm a good kid that loves his family and looks forward to his future.

One of my chores at home is to put out the trash barrels the night before pick-up.  I look forward to this and wait for a specific time to tackle this job.  To carry the two metal barrels by their handles from the backyard to the front yard takes me about 7 minutes.  But I stall.  I go slowly for a reason.  My transistor radio is in my back pocket, the earphone in my ear.  Tuned to station KFWB, I await a Thursday evening feature that occurs between 6:45 and 7:00pm. 

It is then that they play the top 10 songs in England.  Like our youth culture, the station is looking to the British Isles more and more since the Beatles invaded the previous year.  I covet this feature because there is one song I can only hear then.  There is a song that has come in at number 9 on the list that fascinates me.  I've heard of Bob Dylan.  His music is attracting more and more people my age.  Artists like Peter, Paul, and Mary as well as Joan Baez are singing his songs.  The music is different.  No more My Boyfriends Back or I Will Follow Him, this music has attitude.  It's topical, defiant.  It warns the listener to pay attention.  I'm waiting for my only chance to hear The Times are a Changin'.

I maneuver the second trash barrel in place then stop to listen.  I turn to walk back up the driveway so nobody can see or hear me mouth the words.  Something is going on and I'm not sure what it is.

Now You Know

 I have been reading with much interest all the comments, pro and con about the new Dylan movie, A Complete Unknown.  Many conflicting ideas and a multitude of takes, but that's to be expected.  What pleases me most is that there is renewed interest, especially among younger generations in the life and work of Bob Dylan. To discover this most prolific artist is always an adventure and a mind expanding experience.  Among the more bizarre reactions was one I read yesterday in which a young man wrote that after seeing the film Dylan seemed more concerned with getting laid than in writing and performing protest music.  I think there is a bit of projection going on there. In any event, a few folks, including myself, sent him lists of Dylan songs that are definitely social comment.  If you include songs like "Who Killed Davy Moore," there are many more than even Dylan contemporaries are aware of.  In two minutes, even the least aware Dylan fans can rattle off social comment lyrics written and performed during the Civil Rights Movement and the Vietnam War resistance years.  Enough said.  

In thinking back about those days, it occurred to me that Dylan's words and music contrasted so sharply with anything else at the time that any thinking person was hard pressed not to be blown away.  A quick look back shows us that in 1963, our transistor radios were blaring  It's My Party, My Boyfriend's Back, I Will Follow Him, Sugar Shack, and Rhythm of the Rain.  Of course, that same year Peter, Paul, and Mary's cover of Dylan's Blowin' in the Wind was on the list but well down the top 40.  Also present were some great MoTown recordings like Smokey Robinson's You Really Got a Hold On Me. 

My point here is not that the existing music was inferior to Dylan's music,  but rather completely different. When you grew up on some rather simplistic high school drama music or often sappy love songs, Dylan lyrics were mind blowing.  The world was calling this new generation and Dylan picked up the phone.  

Compare these lyrics from Oxford Town,

He went down to Oxford town
Guns and clubs followed him down
All because his face was brown
Better get away from Oxford town

Oxford town around the bend
Come to the door, he couldn't get in
All because of the colour of his skin
What do you think about that, my friend?

Me, my gal, and my gal's son
We got met with a tear gas bomb
Don't even know why we come
We're goin' back where we came from

Or The Gates of Eden

The savage soldier sticks his head in sand
And then complains
Unto the shoeless hunter who's gone deaf
But still remains
Upon the beach where hound dogs bay
At ships with tattooed sails
Heading for the Gates of Eden

And especially Hey Mr. Tambourine Man

Though you might hear laughing, spinning, swinging madly across the sun
It's not aimed at anyone
It's just escaping on the run
And but for the sky there are no fences facing
And if you hear vague traces of skipping reels of rhyme
To your tambourine in time
It's just a ragged clown behind
I wouldn't pay it any mind
It's just a shadow you're seeing that he's chasing

Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to
Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning I'll come following you

The Times changed, dramatically.

Times Were Changing

 Like many of my generation, I found my way to a movie theater on Christmas day to see the opening of the new Dylan film, A Complete Unknown.  I'd read many of the reviews and seen the interviews with the actors, so I expected that the performances would be first rate, and the music would be worthy of its objectives.  It was.  We're going to see a few Oscars here before all the reactions die down.  I knew that this film only represented some critical years in the rise of Bob Dylan and was glad that it didn't attempt to be a complete biography.  I knew, too, that Dylan, himself had given his blessing to the film and wasn't critical of anything.  

When history becomes a movie, many liberties are taken and facts altered for various reasons.  Fortunately that didn't happen here.  Yes, there were some changes made, and poetic license was taken here and there.  But at its core, the film is sound and solid.  For someone my age it can't help but be sentimental.  It was such a heady time when the country was about to enter a full-time war in Vietnam and the Civil Rights movement was full swing.  

To hear those topical songs, sung with the authenticity of acoustic instruments, was powerful.  We suddenly went from novelty songs, early rock and roll, and teen idols to something so serious and true that the impact was revolutionary.  Transformative, to be sure.   Going electric was not that big disappointment for me and many of my friends. We loved Al Cooper's organ sound on Like a Rolling Stone.

So many of us picked up harmonicas and guitars and joined the movement.  Our ethos had a sound tract now.  We had new idols and most of all, the world was changing right in front of our eyes.  

For me, the controversy of Dylan going electric was overblown.  He still wrote and performed his music and that was all that mattered.  Yes, there were purists who wanted folk festivals to remain acoustic and unsullied, but the times demanded much more.  The film's color pallet is as warm and inviting as many of those small clubs and coffeehouses I recall from those days.  I'm overjoyed that new generations will now be introduced to Bob Dylan and his music.

Body of Work

 

Hey Mr. Tambourine Man,

    A Hard Rain's A Gonna Fall,

Like A Rolling Stone,

    with no Shelter From the Storm,

To uncover the Masters of War, who make Desolation Row,

    and Don't Think Twice, with God on Our Side,

The Ballad of a Thin Man, got

    Tangled Up in Blue, from a Hurricane, that left My Back Pages

Blowin" in the Wind.

No Restless Farewell, the Times They are a Changin'

and I Shall be Released from the Gates of Eden.

    A Simple Twist of Fate, left you Knockin' on Heaven's Door,

Shouting I Contain Multitudes, 

    And It's All Over Now Baby Blue,

   Yes, it's getting late, but it's Not Dark Yet,

I Read Banned Books

 I see my home state is at it again. Book banning at some schools in Grant's Pass, Oregon.  his overprotective, curiosity killing sport lives on.  Funny thing is, though, all that ever results from attempts to keep books from readers is that they find other ways to secure the forbidden material.  Even funnier, however, is that some fairly well-known and award winning titles continue to make it onto the "Frequently Banned Books" list.

I'm rather proud that about 60% of the books I taught to high school Juniors and Seniors are on those lists.  No, my classes did not contain books that were objectionable because of vivid sex scenes or radical political theories.  Yes, there was some violence, some expressions of affection for self and others, and certainly political statements.  There were also some Nobel Prized winners in the group as well.

Today the offended school boards and their supporters are complaining about books that deal with themes of gender identity.  This is to be expected, given where we are with the emergence of young people declaring themselves non-binary.  But it's only natural that people would write books helping young folks who struggle, mostly aline, with these issues.  Lives are often in the balance so you'd think that even the squeamish would welcome some assistance in this department.  But no.  Onward they go banning left and right, often books they have not even read.  

Of course the old standbys continue to be banned.  Even titles like The Grapes of Wrath, The Color Purple, Beloved, and yes, The Catcher in the Rye are off limits for some high school students.

Also high on the list is Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye.  That is a book I taught for over 25 years with as much success as anything I ever did.  The offending portions are some passages, quite lyrical I might add, where the young protagonist  self pleasures in discovering her own body.  Hard to see how this can offend people, but nevertheless they scream about it.  No matter every person deals with these issues at some time in their life.  The real treasures in the book are the discussion possibilities about standards of beauty, the power of self hatred, the power of media images, and the consequences of emotional and physical abuse.

I would have loved to have testified before a committee about how I taught The Bluest Eye.  The emphasis would have been on how many important themes, topics, and issues would be lacerated from the curriculum if that book were unavailable.  I recall one particular group presentation in one of my English classes where a small group of African American girls.  They discussed and demonstrated the many hair straightening and skin lightening products available to Black women.  Pecola Breedlove, the book's main character is bound up in thinking her worth is in her beauty and what is beautiful is white skin, straight hair, and blue eyes.  Not only was this particular presentation eye-opening for my students, but even more so for one particular student who was challenged by this Honors class but after this experience felt much more comfortable with her peers.

I should mention too that the ethic make-up of a class goes a long way in determining the quality of discussion and the life experience that students bring to a work of literature.  I'd be happy to elaborate on that, with illustrations, should anyone want to know more.  Simply contact me through the information on my Blog profile.  

So, what gives someone the authority and agency to suggest banning a book?

Reading Aloud (Allowed)

 I must have done 35 Back To School nights in my teaching career.  Like an open house, a Back to School night occurs after the first month or so of the new school semester and gives parents an opportunity to meet their child's teachers and learn a bit ab out the expectations and curriculum for the school year.  Of all the post presentation comments I ever received from parents, the most memorable came from a parent who whispered something in my ear and then walked away.  Apparently her need to tell me something was greater than to stand in the modest line and wait her turn to talk with the teacher.  

Still the comment did not fall on deaf ears.  "Thank you for reading to your class," she said. "Especially at this level." That latter comment meant that she believed just because they were high school Juniors in an Honors class, they weren't beyond being read to.  In my view, she gets it.  Reading aloud is a vital part in educating a person.  Language, in all its rhythm and flow, needs to be heard out loud.  

Research tells us that parents and people who read to kids model important skills and help insure lifelong reading.  Given that we live in a country where half the people did not read a book in the last year, this is significant.  I'd wager no reading in the last 10 or even 20 years for most.  Scary, no?

With the increasing impact of technology, that figure isn't going to improve any time soon.  Maybe audio books will have an impact, but they compete with so many things that are available.  I guess listening to something whether it's music or pod-casts or audio books is time well spent, but does it reproduce the experience of personal engagement with a text and the various skills that develops.

I recall having a class of virtual non-readers.  It was a small group of mostly teenage boys who started the academic year late.  Some came from Juvenile Hall, others had been expelled from one school district to another.  Still others had moved recently. All were seen as students with low skills that were reluctant readers.  Quite a challenge.  This came at a point when I was a fairly young teacher and did not have the classroom library I ultimately developed over 30 plus years.  I had only the materials that were available to me.  This group consisted of 14students, of which 11-14 showed up daily.  Mostly male, African-American, and low skilled.  I chose Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea to start the year for a couple of reasons.  It involved fishing, and it was there in the textbook room.  Ever aware of meeting the needs and interests of all my students, male and female, diverse ethnic groups, all skill levels, I often supplemented other genres of thematic literature while teaching a novel.  Could be a poem, a sone, a short story, or even a film.  

We read that Hemingway novel together.  Every word, aloud in the classroom.  I'd read a while, and then ask for volunteers.  While I'd read for 15-20 minutes at a time, students would usually read for 5-10 minutes.  If there was a lag, I'd emote, vary my voice inflection, pause for digesting a particular poignant event.  I gave that novel all I had in me.  As a friend of mine would say, "I taught the hair off that book."

For some in that class, it was the first time they'd completed an entire adult book.  By that I mean a piece of literature rather than a child's book.  I like to think it set a tone and made reading other books by that crew possible.  People like a good story.  They like being told a good story.  Isn't that what happens when we mature readers sit down with a good book.  

Disappeared?

 They disappear. People, treasured memories, cherished objects.  From car keys to one-time friends, to collections, to everyday items, things disappear.  

Over a lifetime, a few chosen objects or people irritate the mind.  Where did they go?  We all have these mysteries.  For me it's a few folks I knew in college, my baseball cards, and accidental displacements.

I had a robust collection of 1950s baseball cards between the ages of 8 and 12.  Lots from the glory years of 1951-1956.  They were in a couple of shoe boxes, the thin ones that originally held US Keds.  After I turned about 14, they went from my bedroom closet to the garage.  At least that's what I tell myself.  By the time I left my childhood home for good and returned to clean it out after my father's death, they were nowhere to be seen.  Nobody in my family would have thrown them out.  Nevertheless, like so many before me, they disappeared.  

When I see 1955 Mickey Mantle, or Willie Mays cards online, and what they sell for now, it's a gut punch.  Those were the glory years,  I played Little League baseball, I spent every nickel and dime I came by on those cards, and I traded for some.  

There was a kid I knew back in the 5th grade. He lived a few blocks from me in an older house on a street that wasn't completely paved.  I recall a wishing well in his front yard and a C-shaped driveway.  Kids called him Chuckie.  He wanted a few of the black and white glossies I used to get from a NY uncle who worked for King Features Syndicate.  These were photos that never made the newspapers and would be thrown out.  He'd scoop up a handful and every so often I'd get a large brown envelope in the mail.  Uncle Murray would always say, these are for you, but please don't sell them.  He never said anything about trading them.   traded three photos of Yankee baseball action (two of which I had doubles) for about 6 1951 baseball cards.  In the cards I got was Satchel Paige when he was briefly with the St. Louis Browns, and a couple of other players.  Still those 1951 Tops cards are worth much more today, but like all the other cards I had...disappeared.  

After the internet captured our fancy, I found I could see those colorful cards  buy simply using Google Images.  Whoa! did a flood of memories unfold when I saw 60 years later the likes of Spook Jacobs, Ferris Fain, and Sandy Koufax from the 1954 editions.

Too bad the Internet can't always bring back people or places as they were.  The house I grew up in still stands, but I wouldn't recognize it or be able to make my way safely around it in the dark.  The back yard is most likely full of concrete and the elm tree my grandfather planted gone as well as Orange, Lemon, plum, and apricot trees I once harvested.  The wooden fence and my mother's clothes line will always exist in my mind, but all are gone now.  In 1969, when I left that home, I could tell you who lived in every house on the street, nobody today.  That's just the way of things.  As Willy Loman, in Arthur Miller's prize winning play "Death of a Salesman" moaned:

“Figure it out. Work a lifetime to pay off a house. You finally own it, and there's nobody to live in it.”

Those losses are to be expected, what about people who have crossed your path and seem impossible to forget? Four folks I knew in college disappeared when I graduated.  If I hadn't gone to such a large school like UCLA, that might not have happened.  Marv was my age and dealing with the draft in the same way as me.  We often spoke about filing conscientious objector status and ultimately did.  After a good high school friend of mine was killed in Vietnam, it became easier to make that decision.  I hope Marv is still around and fondly recalls those years, especially for the music and counter culture.  Another Bruce was a person I could have remained friends with longer with if circumstances hadn't interfered.  Last I heard he was in Chicago.  Bruce G (my initials too) served as a spirit guide for me helping me navigate the changing values of the 1960s.  He took say more risks than I did, but I could always pick his brain and know what to expect.  A cheerleader, a deep thinker, a guy who wanted to help people, not kill them, he was the kind of friend I needed in those heady yet lonely times.  

There were two women I knew back then that drifted into the ether too.  Judy liked to quote Shakespeare, knew a lot of crash pads and passed me my first joint.  I recall a period on my life when I was drifting amid a pile of moral questions.  She was there for me a few times and I never got to thank her properly.  We had the kind of friendship that was just that.  No real sexual tension, just good friends.

With Susan it was different.  She was 4 years younger than me, a Freshman I met during my Senior year at a party.  I really liked her, but we both knew the timing wasn't right.  I've often wondered if she ever achieved her career goals and if she ever found, "the one."  One of the few genuinely nice people I met on that large campus.  

Maybe they haven't disappeared if I recall them so vividly after all these years?  There is some merit in holding on to the images and emotions we retain.  Retained probably for a reason.