My Tie Dye Attitude — Woodstock Days
By Charles E. Kraus
Fifty 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, air-conditioned, New York City 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 wore ties.
My father, who was against things in those days, felt holding this hippie gathering in the Catskills gave the resort area a bad reputation. Sullivan Country hotels featured Steve & Eddie, not Sly & the Family Stone. He had voted for Kennedy, then for Goldwater. Dad was highly intelligent but also impressionable. You might say he 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 sloganeering 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 topic of conversation moved from menu selection to Hồ Chí Minh.
Like the majority within 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 we would achieve a better world, our answer reflected a popular song, If We Only Have Love. Love was the cure.
Dad was having none of it. He countered with a diatribe featuring historical facts, statistics, specifics, names, places, dates, and authorities. What about Stalin? MacArthur? Neville Chamberlain? What about Jane Fonda? 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 culled from The National Review.
Over time, most people mature. A Berkeley chair caning guy I knew during my bohemian past became an accountant. His ex-wife evolved, morphing from earth mother to nurse practitioner. Ultra conservative David Horowitz, a red diaper baby who considers himself a founding member of the New Left, migrated 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 the aforementioned Jane Fonda, who’d switched from protesting the war to starring in workout videos, and settled into his role as state legislator. Tom represented the Republic of Santa Monica, California. A shanty town if there ever was one.
As my youth dissipated and I was absorbed into stability, I’ve attempted to become a responsible, reasoning member of society. It turns out the goal line is not easily crossed. Facts are slippery, need context, contradict one another. Science, with its evolving theories, religions with their competing theologies. Irreconcilable components seem to form each day.
Yet, as the recent success of main streamers such as Eric Adams and Shontel Brown reveal, chaotic times beg for practical solutions. But I am proud to have been a kid who believed better, idealistic, angels could make a difference. That Woodstock was more than a party. That the gathering was a statement. Love, as in All We Need, is rarely practical. But a touch of altruism is essential. It’s one of the tools. Only now, I realize that shaping the future also requires coordinates.
