A Different Lifestyle

                                                A DIFFERENT LIFESTYLE


    It was March of 1968. I was living with my parents in Society Hill Towers, an exclusive condominium for affluent residents. For many of those years I lived in a restrictive environment. Mom, a patron of the arts and dad, a neurosurgeon at Thomas Jefferson Hospital wanted me to follow in their footsteps: benevolent, charitable and considerate of other people’s interests. I had other ideas, however.
    The History Channel was airing a documentary on the hippie movement. It’s leader, Abby Hoffman, proclaimed their beliefs: peace, love and happiness. After the documentary I realized the only way to escape my parent’s cloying atmosphere was to become a hippie.
    The next day I was in the Cottman Avenue branch of the Free Library of Philadelphia researching the hippie lifestyle. They wore bell bottoms with lots of jewelry, especially with peace signs and listened to music by The Beatles, The Grateful Dead, Country Joe and the Fish, and Jimi Hendrix. When I came home from the library I called my best friend, Callie Jackson and told her what I learned.
    Callie Jackson was considered a rebel by everyone she knew. She smoked marijuana, hung out with the wrong crowed and had a mind of her own. During arguments with parents she often told them, “Nobody, not even you, can tell me what to do.”
    “What can I do, Callie?” I asked. The more I live with my parents the less independence I have.”
“The first thing you need to do, she said, is to meet me at 19th & Sansom Streets tomorros after school. We’ll do some shopping at “Counterculture.”
    “Counterculture,” as the name implied, was and underground group of stores catering to hippies. Stores include a unisex clothing boutique, a Sam Goody’s Record Store and an ice cream parlor where you could flavors like Vanilla Beatle, Strawberry Hendrix and, it’s signature flavor, Jerry Garcia Swirl.
    I made several purchases: a pair of bell bottoms with a garrison belt, a necklace with a peace sign, a Rolling Stones album and an “Iron Butterfly” poster for the back of my bedroom door. I was proud of what I bought. I was beginning to flout my independence; yet, at the same time, afraid of my parents’ explosion.
    When I came home I tried sneaking up the stairs with my purchases.
“Are you hiding something?’ mom asked suspiciously.
“No,” I replied.
“You’re lying,” she said. “Show me what you bought.”
Reluctantly, I spilled my purchases on the couch. Mom shook her head as she looked at them.
“Return them,” she said.
“I won’t and you can’t make me,” I replied taking a page out of Callie’s book.
“We’ll see about that when your dad comes home.”
I was afraid of my father. I experienced his temper several years ago. It wasn’t pretty.
    It was 1963. As I came home from Woodrow Wilson Junior High School I was confronted by another girl taller and heavier than me. She pushed me and I pushed her back. A police officer saw our altercation and stopped it before a fight began. He separated us and called my dad.
“What happened to my daughter?” dad asked.
“She was almost in a fight with another girl,” the police officer said.
“I’ll pick her up at the station in about ten minutes.”
When dad and I came home  he told me how he felt in one sentence: “No daughter of mine will fight. That’s not how I raised her,” he said with a look that prevented me from saying anything in my own defense.
    When dad came home later in the evening he wanted to know why my purchases were strewn on the couch.
“Return them,” he said. ‘These things may be okay for Callie; but, they’re not okay for you.”
“But, dad,” I said. My friends in school wear the same clothes and listen to the same music.”
“I don’t care. They’re all rebels.”
“Why? Because they don’t fit your ideas of a proper teenager?”
“Yes.”
“Well, get used to the new me.”
I grabbed my purchases and stormed into my room.
    After putting my purchases away I called Callie telling her about the argument with my parents.
“I’m proud of you,” Callie said. “You took you first step toward independence. Now, for your next step. I’m throwing a party for friends on Saturday night. Why don’t you come over?”
“You know my parents won’t let me,” I said.
“Tell them you’re coming over to do homework with me,” Callie replied.
Callie was right, I thought. I did take my first step; yet, I have a long way to go before I achieve full independence.
    Saturday night arrived. I was apprehensive about Callie’s party and afraid of what my parents would say if they knew my real reason for going over.
What’s the worst that could happen, I wondered. I would be grounded on weekends? I could live with that.
I tiptoed downstairs. Hearing sounds from our den room I stopped, expecting to hear my name called. It didn’t happen. Continuing down the stairs I silently opened the front door and made my way to Callie’s house.
    I knocked on the door and Callie opened it.
“Hi. I’m glad you could make it,” Callie said.
I looked around. This was the first tine I was invited to a party by a friend and was startled by what I heard and saw: loud music, funny-looking cigarettes with a foul stench and a game called “Twister.” A girl came over and asked if I wanted a “hit” from the funny-looking cigarette.
“Why not,” I said.
I inhaled deeply. Immediately I developed a hacking cough, my eyes became watery and I felt dizzy.
How could I get home in this condition? I wondered.
Callie called me into the kitchen.
“Try one of these brownies” she said. “They just came out of the oven.”
Eating one of them made me feel silly. I began to giggle.
“May I have another? I asked.
‘Sure,” Callie said. “Eat as many as you like.”
I pigged out unaware the brownies were baked with ingredients not found on supermarket shelves. I told Callie I wanted to get home before my parents realized I was missing.
“Thanks for coming,” Callie said.
    I came home as the lights in the apartment flickered off and the alarm was set.
How am I going to get in without tripping the sensor, I wondered.
Walking around to the back of the house I saw our screen door ajar. I opened the door as quietly as I could; yet, I knew as soon as the screen door was opened my parents would be awake. I took a chance, hoping they wouldn’t hear me. Taking off my sandals, I tiptoed through the house until I reached the stairs.
If anything happened it would be now, I thought.
After what seemed like an eternity I made it up the stairs, stopping several times to make sure my parents were sleeping and made it to my bedroom.
    The next morning Callie called.
‘I’ll meet you outside the school’s main entrance. I need to ask you something.”
    When I arrived at school Callie was waiting.
“Did you have a nice time at the party?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Those brownies were delicious. What was in them?” I asked.
“It’s better you don’t know.”
I knew she was hiding something; but, not what it was.
“Would you like to go on a picnic with my friends and I?” she asked.
“Where is it?”
“Belmont Plateau.”
I never heard of that place and didn’t know who her friends were; however, if the picnic was anything like her party I knew I’d have fun.
“What time?” I asked.
“Meet us on the corner at 4pm.  We’ll pick you up.”
    I was waiting on the corner when a flower-decaled Volkswagen Mini Bus pulled up.
“Hop in,” Callie said.
I sat in the back next to a pimply-faced boy with long hair and her. A joint was passed around.
“Did you bring something for dehydration?” the pimply-faced boy asked.
“I didn’t know what to bring,” I replied.
“Don’t worry. My friends have something you can take. It’s better than soda or water.”
After a thirty-minute drive we reached the Plateau. I looked around as I got out of the mini bus. Two boys were tossing a Frisbee back and forth. Another group of boys were listening to a girl in a granny dress and flowers in her hair strum a guitar. Another group were sucking on sugar cubes. I assumed they were preventing dehydration.
“Here, take one,” the pimply-boy said.
Suddenly, I felt strange. A feeling of a vague uneasiness came over me. My mind conjured up images of insects crawling all over my body. I experienced dizziness, dry mouth, nausea numbness in my arms and legs, and an increase in my heart rate. I collapsed and began to convulse.
“Get an ambulance,” Callie screamed.
Five minutes later an ambulance arrived. I was placed on a gurney, restrained and transported to a nearby trauma unit. Callie went with me and, upon arriving at the hospital, called my parents.
    I was rushed into the emergency room. The on-call emergency room physician inserted two IV drips into my left arm: a coagulant to allow my blood to clot properly and Benzodiazepine to relax my muscle spasms. While I lay on the gurney the doctor was speaking to my parents.
‘It appears your daughter ingested an hallucinogen,” the doctor said.
“What’s that?” mom asked.
“It’s a stimulant that’s supposed to raise one’s level of consciousness; however, what she took was laced with an unknown substance.”
My parents were shocked. The doctor continued.
“As of yet, we don’t what that substance was.”
“What happens next?” dad asked.
“We’re transporting her to an intensive care unit where her vital signs will be constantly monitored. If there are no adverse side effects you can take her home Friday. I suggest you both go home and get some sleep before you’re admitted.”
    Friday afternoon my parents took me home. I slept until the next morning. Upon waking up, I was hungry and weak. My eyes had a glassy look. My parents were worried. They didn’t know where they went wrong.
“Why did you go out with Callie when your dad forbade you to see her?” mom asked.
“Because I’m tired of life being controlled,” I replied.
“How do we control you?”
“You both don’t let me be what I want to be.”
“You say we control you?” dad asked. “Look at our neighbor’s son. He has to wear a pager every time he goes out. Do you want us to be like that?”
“I’m going to bed,” I said. “I’m still weak.”
    Callie called me the next morning.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “I was scared when they rushed you to the hospital.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “You care about me than my parents do.”
“Thanks. Tomorrow afternoon the Anti-War Coalition is staging a rally at Dilworth Plaza. Want to go?”
“As long as I don’t have to suck on any sugar cubes” I said.
“Don’t worry, Callie replied. “They’ll be none of that. The gazebo in Rittenhouse Square at 12pm?”
“I’ll be there.”
    When I arrived at the Square I saw crowds of teenagers holding signs with anti-war slogans like “ Hey Hey LBJ, How Many Boys Did You Kill Today” and “Hell No We Won’t Go.”
A whistle blew and we marched down 19th Street, right on JFK Boulevard and into the Plaza through it’s 15th Street entrance. Protestors were mingling. Speeches were given. A boy tore up his draft card to the cheers of the crowd. Balloons were released into the air. It was a festive atmosphere. I didn’t see, however, police cordoning off the Plaza.
    The police were supported by mounted troopers waving clubs in the air. The police riot began. Tear gas canisters were lobbed into the crowd. Troopers bashed the heads of everyone they saw.  Protestors dashed helter skelter toward blocked exits. Running around in a daze I spotted some bushes. There sharp brambles scratched my face as I hid beneath them. I slowly poked my head up and saw the remainder of the crowd herded like cattle into waiting police vans. The police riot was over.
    Still dazed I looked up unaware of my surroundings. Wandering aimlessly I heard familiar voices coming from the 16th and Arch Street entrance. Looking in that direction I vague saw my parents waving their hands wildly in the air. I ran into their arms crying inconsolably.
“Mom, dad, I’m sorry for putting you both in this situation,” I cried.
“Let’s go home and then we’ll talk,” mom said.
There was the lingering stench of tear gas as the three of us drove home.
    When we came home mom sterilized and bandaged my face. We walked downstairs. Dad was waiting.
    “Dad, I was wrong,” I said. ’I should’ve realized what I did was wrong. You taught to me responsible. I wasn’t.”
‘Don’t be too hard on yourself,” dad replied. “Part of the blame lies with us. We should’ve realized you were growing up and developing your own personality. We didn’t.”
I nodded. Dad continued.
“Your mom and I will give you your space; however, you’ll have to do something in return.”
“What?”
“Before you masked any rash decisions talk them over with us.”
“I promise,” I said, nodding my head.
    I was relieved when this traumatic episode in my life was over.