Thank God for the Sixties

When Woodstock happened in 1969, I was deep in my baby-making and raising years with a young son and two more soon to arrive, and if I’d seen the above photograph I would have been horrified. A naked baby, attended by bearded men, no mother in sight! Babies make conservatives of us all, at least for a brief period; the endless work, the endless practical details, the lack of help, and in those days the inability or lack of interest shown by fathers—all that seems to blot out ideas, certainly destroys illusions and any form of idealism.

Later, living in New Mexico where communes had once sprouted and some had survived, I visited one called New Buffalo, north of Taos, converted into a strange B&B and found my prejudices reinforced by photographs of women toiling over cooking, cleaning, laundry and child care, with little evidence of male involvement. As young women we were sometimes prone to excuse examples of male irresponsibility because they were so sexy and so cute. At New Buffalo, it seemed as though the women had banded together—we are good at that, fortunately—to keep the wheels turning while the men tried to raise crops or dig wells without much success. After all few of the commune dwellers had farming or ranching experience and New Mexico is arid and defeats most amateur efforts.

But never mind that now. As we sink deeper into a genocidal war and as always in war time the voices of women are muted, I’m so grateful for what we accomplished in the sixties: opening the dialogue about gender roles, refusing mindless conformity and, most importantly, helping to bring the Vietnam War to an end saving thousands of lives.

I’ve just discovered that we do have a protest here in Santa Fe at noon on Wednesdays. A small group stands on a busy corner outside the statehouse, holding up signs. I joined them this last Wednesday with alacrity and plan to be there every Wednesday. The number of passing cars that honked felt like a community response at a time when our legislators are doing and saying nothing. Our local newspaper is not covering these protests and so the only way I knew they were happening is that I chanced to drive by.

Wherever you live, look for a community protest to join. The spirit of the sixties does live on. And holding up a sign is a way of making your voice heard.

In New Mexico The Sixties