Every time I come here to Michael’s grave, I recall what my Sixties were. Laying a pair of red roses at the headstone. I still wish he was here, but than think that it might be best this way because things didn’t end up the way Michael wanted them to. World peace still hasn’t been achieved. Our friends dropped the Flower Child way of life and became a part of the establishment. Even Vinnie settled down, starting a family with a white picked fence of her own. She went back to using Virginia too. I sometimes wonder if it was losing him that made the movement fail. Once he died, we lost our leader. He was the pulling force for all of us. Without him we were lost and disbanded.
* * *
It was a decade of free love, free drugs and being free. While I was into freedom… I wasn’t totally into free love. In fact I was still living at home, with extremely conservative parents: a happy little housewife and a noble war veteran who were the pride of the local social clubs. On the other hand Michael was into free love and I loved him. He was my soulmate since high school and that was it for me. He looked like a regular guy; tall, with dark hair and bright blue eyes, but he was far from regular. He loved me too, but was still into free love and I accepted it. Who was I to hold back on someone’s freedom?
I remember sitting on the grass in the park. The grass was still bright green and full of life. We “flower children” filled the park. It was like a rock concert without the band. A group of friends were singing, trying to get the attention and hopefully the support of the passers-by, who all scoffed at us as they walked by. Shaking their heads and turning away. We were like second class citizens in their world.
Michael was out making friends, and I was sitting with our old ones from school: John, Danny, Carol, Denise and Virginia. We never called her that. To us she was Vinnie. Her real name never suited her. She was too easy going and free for a stuffy name like Virginia. We were talking about the horrors that were going on around us, Cuba, Vietnam, Nukes. Not to mention what was just down the street, racial discrimination and intolerance.
“It’s just gotta end,” I remember everyone saying. There was general agreement on that. We wanted a better place to live. So we protested and tried to get everyone involved.
Time, songs and people had passed us by when Michael returned to the group. He sat on the grass putting his arm around me. I knew where he had been and what he had been doing, but the fact that he always came back made it all feel better.
“I heard about a few events goin’ down,” he began to tell us, “There’s a protest tomorrow downtown by Blake, we’ve gotta go…” His enthusiasm was strong, and so was his dedication. I looked up to him. Everyone looked up to him.
“So we all gonna go?!” He had stood up and commanded the listeners’ attention. He was a born leader. Everyone followed him. He could have ruled nations; instead he led us.
My father warned me, “If you go to one more of those damn hippie gatherings, don’t you even think about coming home!”
My mother just agreed with him, “Listen to your father.”
The threats ment nothing to me, not if I had Michael.
The next day I crept out of my parent’s house to meet Michael and the group downtown. It felt like I was escaping from prison. No matter how much my stomach ached I wasn’t going to let Michael down. I was going to that protest.
When I reached the meeting place in front of Blake University, on the same street as my father’s store, there were about one hundred other people there. It was quite a turn out. I scanned the sea of people to find Michael and took my place at his side.
The protest started as a quiet Sit-in with some folk singing, but soon changed. “God damn slacking, no good hippies!” A few passers-by yelled.
The storeowners started calling out, “Draft burners!” as they threw cans and bottles at us.
I was glad that Michael was a draft burner. I wouldn’t have to worry about him getting killed over there. He was safe here. But he didn’t appreciate the new label and started yelling choice words back at the storeowners. Before long there was a full fledged fight in front of the university and spilling into the street. Fists were flying along with the words.
The whole horror of the scene didn’t hit me until my father was hit with one of the flying fists. It was Michael’s fist. But in his best defence my father did call him a “No good, lazy, card burning hippie,” in the same voice he used when he was threatening me. He had it coming. And I suppose I had it coming when my father kicked me out of the house. Luckily Vinnie let me move in with her and her latest lover, John.
Over only a matter of weeks more protests ended badly. Verbal and physical fights broke out more and more. It was starting to turn into a war zone. I was scared to go to the protests with Michael, but I couldn’t sit around either. I had to do something.
As each protest passed I felt sicker. I figured it must have been from watching the bloody images of women, children and soldiers coming back from Vietnam over the small television set in Vinnie’s basement apartment. Or maybe because of the tension at the protests. Or even not seeing my parents. But it turned out to be more: I was pregnant.
I didn’t know how to tell Michael, although I wanted to. Only he was busy organising protests and rallies, while still participating in the Swinging Sixties. So, I decided to wait for the excitement to die down a bit or at least until after his next big event: Woodstock. He was so hyped about going. Almost bouncing off the walls when he talked about it. And I was excited too. We had a chance to get away from the tension at home, so I waited.
For me the ride to Bethel was a blur- Music, colour and thoughts. Laying in the back of Rick, Vinnie’s new lover’s van I realised how scared I was. Patting my stomach I thought: What if our peace didn’t carry though? What if war is all everyone knows? How could he- or she deal with war? Especially since I couldn’t…but they would have their father’s strength. That was a comfort.
I’m not sure if Michael noticed that I was preoccupied. I think he was too caught up in the magic of the event. Five hundred thousand people, all with the same ideas as him, the buzz of music and the haze of drugs were clouding his view. Vinnie, Rick, Michael and I all moved around and through the hazes. Almost floating through it. All of us were drawn into the atmosphere. Only my mind snapped me back into what I needed to think about, my baby.
After nightfall on the second day Michael and I were laying on the ground absorbing the sounds of The Who while watching the stars when I told him.
“I’ve gotta tell you something,” I almost whispered to him.
“What?” He asked.
I gathered up all my enthusiasm and courage and during a song change I blurted out, “I’m pregnant.”
Michael stared off for a while, blinking a few times. “Wow,” a smile crossed his face and he put his hands on my stomach.
I sighed in relief.
“I can’t wait to change the world for him”, He said it like it gave him a reason for his mission.
“Or her...” I added.
“Yeah…or her,” he laughed and kissed me.
As soon as the sun rose Michael went around the entire farmground telling everyone he was going to be a daddy. He was so proud.
He vowed, “I’m goin’ to make this world peaceful for my baby. Everyone’s babies.”
I was proud of him. For his pride in becoming a father and for what he vowed to me.
“You’re it for me. I’m gonna marry you,” he whispered in my ear as we left the grounds and piled into Rick’s van.
I couldn’t have loved him more than I did at that moment. He made everything seem right.
I remember driving back from the magic of Woodstock. My mind was recording every detail. The colour of the sky was a deep ocean blue only a few clouds danced over the sun. We came to fifty-six red lights when I was awake. The songs that were on the radio ranged from Janis Joplin to Creedence Clearwater Revival.
Our drug supply had become low because we picked up three other people on our way. I was still feeling high on the moment but the others wanted to stop in the hopes of finding some more.
Michael walked around the small town we stopped at announcing to everyone, “I’m gonna be a daddy!” He had a broad smile from ear to ear.
I had to pull him back into the van; people still weren’t accepting us. I hadn’t even thought about dealing with that intolerance anymore. But we were both going to have to face it when it came to our parents.
Michael had spent most of the trip home writing a letter to his parents telling them of the news. He hopped that this would make them accept him again after his father threw him out of the house six months ago. His father couldn’t stand his son’s movement and physically threw him on the lawn like a bag of garbage. Michael felt that now everything was going to change.
Now I had to tell a pair of real conservatives about me being pregnant? That was a difficult task. Michael wouldn’t let me go to protests now; he was worried about how violent they were becoming. While Michael was at a protest at Blake University I went to my prison, my parents’ house. I hadn’t been there for two months, and was very nervous. Butterflies flew in my stomach. The day was as dark as I was feeling, a thick overcast on the bright sun. I knocked on the towering wood door and my mother welcomed me openly in her apron like June Cleaver.
“Hello dear, please come in,” she smiled as she lead me in, “Martin look who’s came home.”
It was like a poster for the happy little family. Mother getting ready to knit and father sitting in his chair both listening to the radio.
“You still with him, “ a look of disgust crossed my father’s face whenever he mentioned Michael, “and doing that hippie behaviour?” He looked as if his skin crawled when he said it.
“Yes I am,” I replied proudly, feeling all my courage to tell them about the baby leave me.
My father scoffed and held his newspaper up in front of his face. My mother tried her best to make the visit pleasant, but that was hard to do.
“What brings you by?” she cheerfully asked, motioning for me to sit on the plastic wrapped couch.
I gathered as much courage as I could still find in myself, but still wished Michael was sitting next to me holding my hand, “I have news.”
“Oh,” my mother replied eagerly. My father didn’t even look up.
I took a deep breath, “I’m going to have a baby.” There I told them.
My father dropped the paper and my mother’s face dropped. I was scared stiff about what would happen next, I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. The butterflies had turned into birds.
“That’s some news,” my father replied, as if scolding me for the way I had said it.
I looked to my mother for a form of support, but she could barely look at me. The tiniest shred of her dream of débutante balls was destroyed in one statement. She started to cry.
I got up, the tears were building in my eyes and I started to leave. I had expected my father to shut me out, but not my mother. When I reached the door all I could hear was my mother sobbing. But my father followed me.
“Come back in here,” he took hold of my arm and lead me back into the living room.
My mother covered her face trying to cover the sound of her sobbing.
“What will everyone think?” she sobbed.
My father sat me in the middle of the couch staring down at me. It started to feel like an interrogation. If it wasn’t for the homey furniture and soft music I would have thought I was in a police station.
Clearing his throat my father started, “What do you plan on doing now?” His voice wasn’t the same as it usually was when he commanded me. It was oddly softer.
“She’s not going to keep it!” My mother broke through her sob soaked voice.
“What do you mean she isn’t going to keep it?” My father towered over my mother who was sitting in his chair now.
“Just think of the scandal. I have already had to make the best I could out of her following around that boy and in that crowd. Our friends will only take so much.” It was the first time I ever heard my mother stand up to my father. It was too bad that it was against me.
“No grandchild of mine will be shipped away…” my father replied. They had started to argue as I sat, silently holding my stomach.
I tried to block them out, letting the music from the radio take the place of their voices. Letting my mind wander to anything other than this. I thought of marrying Michael. In the park, when the grass is still fresh, bright green and the flowers are just opening. The song was interrupted sending a cold, sick feeling over me. My parents were still arguing and I strained to hear the announcer over their rising voices.
The announcer spoke, “It is reported that the National Guard has opened fire on the protesters at a peace rally in front of Blake University this afternoon…” His dry voice filled my ears and head.
I jumped to my feet and rush to the radio at the front of the room to turn up the volume.“What is it?” He lowered his voice again when my father asked.
“Shh,” I shook my hands at them. My heart was going to jump out of my chest as the announcer continued.
“It is confirmed that shots have been fired by the National Guard and have injured some of the protesters.”
My eyes filled with tears, “They shot Michael,” I bellowed.
“You don’t know that,” my father said.
“Are you even sure he is there?” my mother asked as she wiped under her eyes with her fingers.
“I have to go to him,” I tried to go for the door but my father blocked the doorway.
“Make her relax Martin,” my mother commanded, “This isn’t good for her or the baby to get worked up.”
“But I have to go to him.” Tears were streaming down my face. I felt as if I was pleading with them to let me go. Pleading for my life.
My father saw the panic in my face and stepped aside opening the doorway. I ran past him and out the door into the fast falling rain.
My mother commanded my father as I rushed out, “Go after her Martin.”
The heels of my shoes smacked down on the wet pavement as I ran franticly to the university. My father could hardly keep up and kept calling me to slow down. But I couldn’t, I needed to go to Michael.
When we reached the campus, it was in total chaos. There were police, ambulances, crowds of people and crying. I started to run, screaming out for Michael. Like a child who was lost at the mall. I slowed down when I spotted a small group of paramedics crowding together. Michael’s backpack was thrown to one side.
I approached with caution, unsure of what I would see. I held my stomach. One man moved to the side and I saw Michael lying on the grass. I don’t remember running over to him, I just remember kneeling down in the cold, wet grass and holding his still warm head in my lap. No one tried to pull me away. I don’t know if my father had explained who I was to them or not. I didn’t care. All I could see was the blood soaking the white tee shirt Michael was wearing. I stroked his hair that was wet from the rain, wanting so much for him to look up at me. But all I got was a cold hand on my shoulder and heard a voice trying to be gentle, “He’s gone.”
The words ripped through me. I fell into hysterics and threw myself over Michael. I wasn’t ready to let him go. He couldn’t be gone! He was too alive to be dead. He still needed to change the world for his son, like he said he would. He needed to do so much more…I still needed him! I didn’t really get angry, I was over come by the sadness. There was a part of me missing now. I felt hollow.
My father pulled me to my feet as the paramedics covered what was once Michael with a white sheet and he held me.
I cried into his shoulder, “We were gonna get married…”
He held me tighter and I felt safe like I did with Michael. I knew that I was still his little girl.
The funeral was a blur, but nothing like the blur of Woodstock, this was dark, but the day wasn’t. The sun had shone all day. It would have been a day Michael would have loved. I don’t remember a full sentence anyone said only parts. I don’t really remember who was there either. I was shaking and blinded by tears. My father held me and my mother sat quietly. Michael’s parents didn’t even bother to go. I do remember wanting to do anything to be with Michael again. Even jump into the grave. But I knew Michael would want me to keep fighting, so I did.
* * *
Whenever I visited Michael’s grave I brought Michael Jr. almost every time I came. His bright blue eyes were never dim when he came, he was happy to visit daddy. He’d give the drawings he did and show his report cards to his daddy and tell him what he was doing. And once he was old enough, I told him this story too. He is very proud of his father, and wants to follow in his footsteps. He doesn’t practice the freeness of the Sixties. He has a wife and two daughters, Hope and Michelle, but he does speak out against war and intolerance. He is the living tribute to his father. He still comes to the grave to tell his father everything, like he did as a boy. Usually bringing Michelle, she has the same blue eyes. I’m very proud of him. Just as I am of his father.
