Daisy in a Gun Barrel: Peace & Freedom, Love & War, Rock & Roll, the 1960S

By Penelope Fox

DAISY IN A GUN BARREL
PEACE AND FREEDOM, LOVE AND WAR,
ROCK AND ROLL
THE 1960s

~ Penelope Fox

If you happen to be an “American Idol” fan, recognize Eric Clapton or Bob Dylan in television commercials, listen to classic rock, or follow the clash of conservatives and liberals in Congress, you know that the 1960s remain with us, even fifty years after the impact of the era. The dilemmas of that decade continue to confound us as we grapple with the ideologies that entered the consciousness of the nation during those years. A cascade of front page news marks the period: the election of youthful, progressive, President John F. Kennedy and the fear-mongering, strangle-hold of the CIA and FBI; peace movements versus military efforts; marijuana-smoking, long haired Hippies in loose fashions clashing with strait-laced, buttoned up, conservative law enforcement; Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and civil rights, followed by women’s rights, workers’ rights and everyone wondering what was right. More incongruities arose from international oil production and giant factory output clashing with breakthrough biological science and environmental concerns. Satellite communication battled with censorship in broadcasting. Youthful interest in the Third World, especially Asia, was shattered by a horrific, undeclared war that lasted for fifteen years and created a generational divide that has never been breached.

A background of iconic music continues to remind us of the colorful history of the 60s. But what about the everyday lives of young people thrust into that psychedelic and political maelstrom? What was it like for the individuals trying to be heard over the roar of questionable politics? One answer lies in the collective voice of music that framed a lyrical diary of their experiences.

“Daisy in a Gun Barrel” is the story of Dianna, a teacher, and Randall, a musician, who find romance in college, and shortly thereafter are torn apart by war and circumstances. It is a story of people coming to terms with personal and political beliefs, only to find that society clashes with their viewpoints at every turn. Theirs is a generation determined to change the world into a better, kinder, more democratic place. Little did they know the impact of their ideals, or the real and metaphorical ammunition that would be leveled against the beliefs they viewed as right, moral, and constitutional. Rock and roll with Dianna and Randall through the tumultuous and exciting years of 1962 through 1970, and consider the impact of their generation. Smile at their optimism, weep with their losses, and celebrate the memorable songs that grace the years. Join the characters as they encounter turning points and question authority.

This is history, alive and kicking, with a strong appeal to the curious young, who were not there, and to the post flower children who would like to remember. Light the incense, slip into something tie-dyed, and revel in the events that illuminate this carefully researched and truly American story, before time and historians erase the vibrant, human essence of this powerful decade.

You must be the change you wish to see in the world. ~ Mahatma Gandhi

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781453542620

Penelope Fox

Penelope Fox is a teacher. Her classrooms range from preschools through universities, in northern and southern California, Ecuador and Mexico. She served as a speech therapist in the Peace Corps (Malaysia) in the 1970s. There, she witnessed the exodus of the Vietnamese, and inspiration for her Master’s thesis, “Rocking the Boat People”. She predicted that Vietnamese students would impact universities by the 1980s, the only first-generation immigrants to do so. She listens to classic rock and blues, and like many former flower children, supports causes generated by the 1960s. She lives in the San Diego foothills.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Innocence and Consequences

Big Girls Don’t Cry *

August 1962. Imperial Valley County Airport, California

"Miss Dianna Doran—Flight 502 to Seattle, leaving at eight this morning. Only a one-way ticket, Miss Doran?"

The attendant’s kindly voice as he smiled and peered at me over the rim of his reading glasses somehow made me feel like a child, not the courageous young woman I envisioned for myself, traveling unescorted into the world.

Yes. One way. Thank you. I hoped my response sounded self-assured.

Desert sunlight filtering through the lobby windows caught the silver bangles on my wrist as I grasped the boarding pass. Here was the key to adventure—tangible evidence of my passage into adult life.

Now you have a nice flight, Miss Doran. He smiled again, still somewhat patronizing in tone, and beckoned the next person in line.

I turned to my father waiting to one side of the counter. I’m going to get a magazine for reading on the plane.

Here, sweetie, I just happen to have a dollar in my pocket. Keep the change.

I grinned. Thanks, Daddy.

With the offering in hand, I headed across the lobby to the magazine stand. As I scanned the choices, one cover caught my attention.

We saw her picture so often, we thought we knew her. She was too, uh, what’s the word?—too sensuous to die . . .

Excuse me. I reached past the tall man leaning casually against the wall by the stand.

Too ba-yed ’bout Mar’lyn. The southern drawl startled me as the man moved aside, giving me room to lift the Life magazine. Seldom, except in movies, did I hear white gentlemen with southern accents.

I glanced up just as he lowered his head to light a cigarette. I paid the cashier and returned to the place where my father waited patiently, offering to hold the magazine.

My dad looked at the cover. College prep reading, I see.

I smiled, thinking how I would miss his easy humor. That realization hit with a sudden pang of regret, and I blinked back a threat of tears as he bent to lift my blue vanity case, and we moved to join my mother and younger sister, Tricia, on the far side of the lobby.

The smell of coffee, cigarettes, and cleaning chemicals wafted through the air with help from a cooling system that kept the temperature tolerable, despite August warmth penetrating the big bay windows facing the landing strip. People reading books or magazines occupied the few scattered seats and benches.

I looked over at the tall man by the magazine stand. He smiled, cocked his head to one side, and winked. I felt his dark eyes follow as I turned and stood, nervously clinging to my father’s arm. My mother and Tricia chattered about inconsequential matters while we waited for my boarding call. For the tenth time, I checked the clock over the airline counter—almost eight o’clock.

I tried not to look at the tall man, but now he reminded me of Clark Gable as the handsome, romantic Rhett Butler in Gone with the Wind. Maybe it was the southern accent and his dark, wavy hair—or the dimpled smile. I couldn’t resist glancing again. He was still watching me. He lifted his chin and raised an eyebrow then nodded in my direction as if expecting some kind of response.

It struck me as odd—and confusing. Most of the people waiting for the flight were businessmen drinking coffee, smoking, reading newspapers, showing no interest whatsoever in an eighteen-year-old bound for college.

The lobby window framed a big silver plane on the tarmac. We watched while two men in blue jumpsuits rolled metal stairs into place below the airplane door. They finished and walked over to the lobby, opening the exits so passengers could filter onto the hot, dusty blacktop.

My mother spoke, hugging me, her voice close to my ear. Don’t forget to call as soon as you get to Seattle, Dianna. We’ll want to know if you’ve arrived safely.

She kissed me and stood back to straighten the lace bow of my blouse and smooth it outside the collar of my navy blue jacket. I could smell her perfume. She bit her lip as she looked at me, her eyebrows lifted in worry. I smiled, hoping I exuded confidence, but feeling saddened that my mother’s attentions would be her last for a long time.

Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll call. My voice caught in my throat. I’m going to be okay, and I’ll study hard. I hugged her again.

My father’s embrace was warm and strong. He held me tight against his chest. You’re going to do just fine, sweetie. Write and tell us about the university and your classes. Call collect if you need anything.

His warm embrace and the scent of aftershave, mixed with a tinge of cigarette smoke, surrounded me in a familiar circle of comfort. Passengers moved by us murmuring about the desert heat blasting through the wide doorway. I hesitated, prolonging the affectionate farewell of my family. Tricia pulled on my arm.

Bye, Dianna. I’ll miss you. We hugged and kissed.

I’ll miss you, too. Take good care of the horses, Trish.

I looked at her face as I pulled on my gloves. I felt an immediate sadness. My younger sister, my lifelong companion and confidant, would not be there to share this adventure. I realized how much I would miss her—and Cedar Rose, my beautiful, sorrel quarter horse, as well.

Vanity case in hand, magazine tucked under one arm, I joined the throng of passengers slowly climbing the steep stairs to the airplane’s entrance. With each step, I sensed my excitement diminish, replaced by a surge of adrenaline, the nervous pounding of my heart. Tears threatened to cascade down my cheeks. I had never spent more than a week or two away from my parents, and even then, my sister was with me, visiting grandparents or enjoying a kids’ summer camp. I stopped and waved on the top stair landing, nearly knocking off the hat of a man stepping up behind me.

Oops, sorry. I stammered, embarrassed.

He grabbed his hat brim and stepped down as I waved and my family waved back. The man looked up at me and smiled. It was then I recognized Rhett Butler from the lobby. I felt a chill creep up my arms. He followed me into the plane, pressing from behind. We moved down the narrow aisle, stopping every few feet as passengers settled into seats.

We may be travelin’ companions. His voice murmured much too close to my ear, Your numbah is the same as mine.

The smell of his aftershave was cloying, and his bumping against me seemed too frequent to be accidental.

My place is here. I rechecked my pass and dropped the magazine onto a seat. I had asked for a window. Setting my case on the floor, I reached up to shift a bag in the overhead bin to make room for mine.

Heah, let me help you. The man grabbed my case, his arm brushing my thigh and breast as he lifted the light vanity onto the shelf, placing his hat on top.

Thank you, I blurted, startled by his touch. Thank you—for what? I slid quickly into my seat, a hot blush rising in my cheeks.

"Glad to be of help, young lady—any time." His smile seemed to hang in the air above the last words he slowly drawled.

The aisle separated us. I moved to the window as he took a seat on the opposite side. The plane carried a lot of passengers, but no one sat next to me. I glanced at him; he spoke courteously to the man beside him. I silently thanked the airline for providing assigned seats and hoped he wouldn’t attempt to sit next to me.

Something about him, something I couldn’t name, made me feel awkward, unhinged. I had no experience with flirtatious attentions from an older man, much less one so movie-star-attractive. Should I feel disgusted, or flattered that he saw me as a desirable woman? His arm brushing my thigh and breast seemed intentional. Was it? A cold warning ebbed through my veins despite the oppressive heat inside the airplane. I turned my face to the outside view.

I could see my mother, a blurred figure in the small frame of the smudged window. She stood on the dusty airstrip daubing at her cheeks, her handkerchief billowing as the plane’s engines accelerated. My father and sister on each side of her smiled and waved. Moments later, the plane sped past, my white-gloved hand pressed against the window.

Morning sunlight sent heat waves shimmering across the tarmac, distorting my view and that of the plane’s shadow dropping beneath silver wings. I felt powerful forces lifting me from the cradle of my childhood, the sunny shelter of my youth. Forehead against the window, my family shrinking away—and then they disappeared. I pressed against the glass and tried to hold the image of tiny figures as they melted into a patchwork of green, brown, and yellow fields.

Below me, the landscape of Imperial Valley, an abundantly rich farming area carved from the sandy desert in this southernmost end of California, shrank away as the Salton Sea came into view. The long lake, a memory of ocean waters that once lapped between the rocky cliffs of the Chocolate Mountains and the Anza-Borrego foothills, formed a surprising blue patch in the brown expanse of dry sand and boulders. I sighed, remembering the last time my sister and I water-skied there.

I smoothed the navy blue skirt of my traveling suit, pressing it down over my knees, and breathed deeply, suppressing an urge to whimper. The thrill of embarking on a new chapter in my life, and the anxiety of breaking away from home and family, assailed me with equal forces.

I pulled off my gloves and glanced again across the aisle. The man no longer seemed Romantic Rhett to me. I silently renamed him, playing with words for R in my mind—ridiculous, rude. He fumbled with his collar buttons—ah, the green tie—reptilian. I wondered if he wrapped it around the refrigerator handle as my dad did every morning to form a perfect knot. He caught my glance and leaned over to say something. A stewardess chose that moment to step between us.

Good morning, miss. Coffee, tea, or juice?

She balanced her hip against the back of the empty seat next to me. Her bouffant blond hair curled forward framing a pretty face. She could have been a poster girl for the airline with her blue eyes above lightly rouged cheeks. My glance traced the red trim on her uniform, tailored to her slim figure, a perfect size ten? Every girl graduating from high school knew that’s what the airlines required.

Juice, please. I replied, returning her smile and thinking that she could not be more than a few years my senior.

She nodded and moved to the seat across the aisle, notepad ready.

I gasped as a masculine hand slid surreptitiously from the armrest and up her stockinged leg, slowly lifting the hem of her skirt as the fingers sought higher ground. He caressed her calf while she took his order and that of the passenger next to him. She squirmed uncomfortably as she wrote, lifting her other foot to push his hand away with the toe of her patent leather, high-heeled shoe. It did no good.

Were his actions visible to me—intentionally? Well, R for raunchy. I love that word.

I like my coffee black, honey, and my girls, sweeeet. The husky-voiced southern drawl resonated over the roar of the engines as his hand lingered on her calf. He wanted me to hear that—R for repugnant.

I thought of the Ku Klux Klan. White men with southern accents just seemed to do that to me. The stewardess shifted, flicking her hand down the back of her skirt and proceeded to the next row of seats. How many other businessmen on this flight would try to caress her calf? The heat rose in my cheeks as a silent mantra repeated in my mind, "Don’t ever let me be a stewardess."

I shivered and ducked behind the Life magazine. Memories of Marilyn Monroe headlined the lovely face featured on the cover. I read about the late movie star who died earlier in August under tragic circumstances that provoked unanswered questions. She wore a size twelve dress. Marilyn, the iconic model—unqualified for a stewardess’ job? R remained seated, turning his interest to a newspaper and occasionally calling for the stewardess. I pretended not to notice his hand on her leg—R for reckless. Couldn’t she report him? Probably lose her job if she did.

In early afternoon, Seattle-Tacoma Terminal bustled with arrivals and R hurried to disembark, squeezing past slower passengers. He gave no backward glance while I hunkered down in my seat, pretending to be traveling on to Vancouver. I straggled off the plane, the last passenger, and found my luggage sitting alone in the baggage claim area. Along one wall stood a row of public phone booths.

I pulled out my coin purse and called home, a brief conversation to let the family know of my arrival. Voices on the end of a phone line would be my closest connection for quite some time. I visualized them crowding around the receiver to wish me well, and with a last good-bye, we hung up. I stood a moment, my hand resting on the cradle of the receiver.

A porter assisted me in tugging my luggage outside to the curb. I scanned the busy arrival area. In the swarm of hats and gray business suits, there was no way of knowing if R for rat still watched me with his beady little eyes. I felt a certain relief in the obvious—that he found the stewardess more to his liking. The porter whistled for a taxi.

A short time later, I was whisked down a mansion-lined avenue, every twist and turn providing an opportunity to slide awkwardly across the slippery Naugahyde seat. I grabbed the armrest and held on. My thoughts turned to the events of the morning; the flight along the edge of the magnificent blue Pacific with foamy breakers curling on white beaches or farther north, crashing on rocky shorelines, the wrench of leaving my family, the excitement and anxiety of starting a new life. Images swirled through my mind like pages blown from a discarded picture book. Then there was the handsome and disturbing man, R for rogue—I giggled, at least he’d provided a distraction.

Sunlight winked off rows of mansion windows. I caught a glimpse of crystal chandeliers behind cascades of lacy curtains. This was nothing at all like the rural community, the Mexican-tiled, adobe home I’d left this morning. A moan escaped my lips as I blinked hard and with gloved fingertips tried to smooth the wrinkles on my worried forehead. I failed to maintain any impression of confidence.

The taxi driver caught my eye in the rearview mirror, his bushy eyebrows raised. "Is there a problem, miss?

I blushed and pulled off my gloves, jamming them into my purse. Just a lot warmer than I thought it would be in Seattle.

The driver’s kindly smile was reflected back to me in the mirror. The taxi radio, tuned to a music station, played my song.

The Great Pretender *

* See appendix.

CHAPTER 2

Southern Charm

Walk Right In *

Too soon, before I’d seen enough of the exciting and somewhat intimidating city of Seattle, the taxi pulled over to the curb and stopped behind a University of Washington van. Quickly, efficiently, my luggage was transferred into it.

I turned to the Negro man loading the van. Where will . . .

Don’t worry miss, your luggage will be in your dorm room. I see you put the tags in plain sight. Now you just run along.

That southern accent again, the kind you could expect in colored porters—or occasionally in white businessmen. The porter waved me dismissively toward a man holding a lettered sign, Orientation Meeting. The man pointed toward Denny Hall. With one more worried glance as my guitar case slid in among a variety of suitcases, I drew a nervous breath and turned in the direction he pointed.

The van door slammed, and my startled backward glance confirmed that my few worldly goods were now disappearing down a broad, leafy, unfamiliar street in the possession of a stranger.

Students bumped my elbows, laughing, jostling as we entered Denny Hall in a hubbub of garbled greetings and nervous posturing. Many seemed to know each other. Would someone here become my friend or even a boyfriend? My parents wouldn’t want me thinking about that—at least not now. My high school dates were never too serious—mostly guys I’d known from kindergarten—farmers’ sons, more familiar with tractor gears than stick shifts on fast cars. Their interest in the racy Firebird my dad let me drive my senior year might have been the reason they wanted to date me. I was never sure.

As we passed into the hall, I noticed the carved mahogany side doors, flanked by stone gothic pillars, a gravity of architecture. The chorus of voices became more subdued. Seats of well-rubbed, dark wood slid past the backs of our knees as we moved down the rows. Most of the audience had changed into less formal attire. Overdressed and awkward in my traveling suit and high heels, I crumpled into a seat. People in front of me sat down like dominoes, filling up the rows.

I watched as strangers my age sidled into the cool, wide lecture hall, murmuring softly, a flock of birds settling on an unfamiliar shoreline—no high school auditorium, this place. For the first time, the shock, the utter responsibility of selfhood, dropped like a leaded mantle, settling uncomfortably on my shoulders, pressing awkwardly on my chest.

As the audience quieted and waited, butterflies froze uncomfortably somewhere in my midsection. I smoothed the auburn locks that threatened to unwind from the pageboy curling damp on the back of my neck. White-knuckled fingers clutched the small leather purse in my lap as if it were a life raft. I nervously crossed then recrossed my ankles. My one comfort was the suspicion that many of the freshmen who surrounded me probably felt as anxious as I did.

The speaker entered and adjusted his microphone. A cautious glance down my row revealed no sidelong smile, no winks to lighten the somber mood. All eyes turned toward the stage.

The man with the microphone smiled. Hello everyone, and welcome to the University of Washington.

He was handsome, tall, and lean with thick blond hair. His navy blue sports coat was unbuttoned, and the lapels parted as he put his hands on his hips. He had an air of suave sophistication in spite of his surprising and distinctive southern accent—three times in one day? An omen?

He spoke casually to the audience, lifting the microphone and pacing around on the stage like an entertainer. This time, the drawl had a positive effect, lifting our collective mood and allowing us to chuckle at inevitable errors of incoming freshmen that he pointed out with humor.

Get lost, he advised as we smiled. See the whole campus before classes start, or we’ll find you wanderin’ around in a daze somewhere between English Lit. and Modern History. Oh and bah the way, if you see Rob, send him over to the administration building. You’ll recognize him right away—about so tall, and vera, vera thin. Lost him last year somewhere near the library, first day of classes.

We loosened up as Rob stories multiplied.

Rob was last seen posin’ in the art building, mistaken for a dusty sculpture, but then—he winked at a lovely young lady! He paused while we laughed. "She dropped her paintbrush. The art building now has an artistically designed floor. You won’t want to miss that."

The speaker nodded as the audience chuckled.

The art building—he pointed toward the rear exit—far end of the campus. And don’t get lost once you’re in there! We hate using huskies for search and rescue!

This time we laughed, imagining the UW football team, the Huskies, in hefty shoulder pads, knocking through rows of delicate easels.

We learned our speaker’s name and credentials, James Morrison, a senior and campus host. He gave us a brief history of the university, a calendar of events, and maps of the campus and of each building.

"Rob never could find the Student Union. Y’all need to get there, right where the big red X is on the map. That’s where you’ll find food."

James replaced the microphone on the stand and sat down on the edge of the stage to answer questions as people rose to leave.

Most of the students passed by while I paused to gather and read brochures from a table in the pillared foyer that opened toward the campus. Several minutes later, I found myself walking down the steps next to James. I stopped to look out over the scenery and immediately caught my breath. Mount Rainier, snowcapped and glowing in the sunlight, formed a dramatic, monolithic backdrop to the huge fountain in the center of the wide quadrangle below Denny Hall.

James stopped beside me and spoke in his slow southern drawl, Beautiful, isn’t it? I always stop here on the steps to look at it.

He grinned as I felt the familiar color rise in my neck and threaten to cover my cheeks.

Yes, it’s absolutely ma—majestic, I managed to stammer. Uh, thank you, James, for the talk. I think I might even be able to find my way around, but everything looks so much bigger than in these brochures.

Did I just say, so much bigger?—like a lost Munchkin from Oz? I fumbled with my maps as I spoke.

James grinned again, a boyish display of white teeth set above a square and manly chin. He leaned toward me.

Where you’all going? Ah’d be glad to help you get there. By the way, what’s yo’ name?

This time, the blush succeeded in rising to my hairline, like the butterflies rising inconveniently into my throat. James either didn’t notice or had the good breeding to ignore my self-conscious giggle.

I’m going to my dorm. I think it’s this one on the map.

My voice sounded squeaky. I pointed to the rectangle marked Freshmen Women’s Dorm.

Oh, yes, that’s easy to find, drawled James, leaning close to examine my map. Jus’ come right this way, young lady.

I could smell his aftershave—tangy, alluring. I swallowed hard, making an effort to speak in a normal tone.

My name is Dianna—Dianna Doran, and thank you, but don’t you have other things to do? Uh, I don’t want to keep you if . . .

Pleased to meet you Miss Dianna Dianna. James grinned and offered his arm as I laughed at his teasing.

My thoughts jumbled when I looped my hand through James’ arm and headed down the steps. Would his fingers slide up the leg of a stewardess? Even as the image crossed my mind, it was replaced by an immediate attraction to this handsome, sophisticated southern gentleman. Yes, a real gentleman, not the other type. I wondered briefly what he knew about the Ku Klux Klan.

My high-heeled pumps wobbled ungracefully on the paving stones, and I grasped James’ arm a little tighter on our descent toward the quadrangle. Would he think that an overeager ploy for his support? Yet stepping into this new life, his presence bolstered my slipping confidence as well as my unsteady footsteps. I felt grateful more than anything. The handsome face and obvious assurance of this knowledgeable escort made a less intimidating and more exciting entrance to the university.

James didn’t walk directly to the dorm but detoured to show me impressive stonework on the Student Union and administration buildings. We stopped and dragged our fingers in the pool surrounding the stone-carved fountain, playfully sprinkling each other with fingertips of cool water. We talked and laughed, finding common interests in diverse topics—music and horses. Such easy rapport; this won’t be the last I’ll see of him.

I didn’t ask about the Klan. Our mutual attraction was too fragile for anything that political—or uncertain.

You Don’t Know Me *

* See appendix.

CHAPTER 3

Waves and Worries

Surfin’ *

Randall and Brad dangled their arms in the water as sunlight sparkled off the choppy surface of the blue Pacific. Their surfboards lifted over the mild swells, rocking them while they waited for a big one.

You sure you’re going to turn down that football scholarship to Berkeley, Brad? Water too cold for you up north?

It came as a surprise to Randall that his best friend changed his mind about the university he would attend that fall. Brad decided on UC San Diego after a trip to Scripps Institute of Oceanography. Football, even that tempting scholarship, couldn’t compete with his interest in marine biology. How many times did he and Brad visit aquariums and tide pools in the past four years? Randall lost count.

Like I told you on the phone, Randy, the school’s new, and the oceanography department partnering with Scripps Institute—that’s gotta be a good thing. Oh, and I forgot to tell you—I also read that Jonas Salk’s new institute in La Jolla will be hiring scientists who may collaborate with the ones at UCSD.

Wow, that’s impressive. I think every kid in the U.S. owes a thank you to Dr. Salk and his polio vaccine. Remember when we went house-to-house raising money for the March of Dimes so he could build his lab in La Jolla?

Yeah, and now it’s happening. You know my pioneer spirit. I like getting in on the ground floor of things.

Brad grinned then stretched up on his surfboard to scan the horizon, his biceps tensing as his torso lifted high off the board.

Besides, he continued, lowering himself flat on the board, "after that thing with my sister at UC Berkeley in May of ’60, my parents weren’t so keen on my going there. Think I’ll paddle in a bit."

Randall remembered Brad’s older sister Laura when she joined the protest against the House Un-American Activities Committee, as they rolled into San Francisco. The HUAC was on a witch-hunt for communists, especially those supposedly infiltrating UC. She was injured when police fire-hosed the slippery marble steps of City Hall to get rid of protestors, most of whom were UC undergraduates. Longshoremen, unionists, and citizens sided with the professors and students, and HUAC packed up and left town without a single communist in tow, but Laura spent three days in the hospital with a concussion. Her mother and father pulled her out of the university. Now Laura attended Harvard Law School in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Her account of the incident, published in several newspapers, had won her a scholarship.

Randall watched as Brad maneuvered his board and then started paddling in earnest. He glanced back just in time to see the biggest roller of the day heading toward him. As the wave lifted him high in the air, he saw Brad perfectly positioned to slip in front of the curl. His last glimpse was Brad’s head descending out of sight into the tube. He shook back the thick strands of blond hair that fell over one eye. Damn! That boy could read the ocean.

The next wave lifted Randall, and he caught it in time for a short ride. It crumbled and he skimmed off, still in deeper water than Brad. He paddled, waiting for Brad who thrashed through frothy breakers close to the shoreline.

Hey, you missed the big one, Randy. Daydreamin’ again?

Brad laughed as he caught up and shook his wavy brown hair, blinking the brine out of his dark eyes. A series of medium-sized waves splashed over them. They fought their way into deeper water.

Always another one, Brad. I’m just taking my time today. Randall squinted against the sun, nosing his board over another roller.

Randall smiled at his friend. He knew they would miss each other. For years, they thought about going to the same college, staying close to the West Coast beaches, surfing together on weekends. Then their interests began to diverge.

Paddling hard, Randall remembered how music turned serious in his junior year. He placed high in the ranking of young musicians in school competitions, both on violin and alto saxophone. That summer, his music teacher helped him get a job in an L.A. recording studio. He’d met influential people and a few stars. It changed his life. He took an interest in guitar. Football faded from his list of priorities and music became paramount. Brad’s interests shifted at about the same time.

Hey, Randy. Brad’s voice jerked him back to the moment. Let’s take the next big one and then throw some balls on the beach.

Fine with me. Think you can hit the broad side of a barn? You’re outta practice, you know. Randall never lost an opportunity to chide Brad.

Maybe not a barn, but I can hit you coming or going. Man, you’re gettin’ old and slow. Brad gave as good as he got.

Catching their breath from the effort of paddling for position near the biggest waves, they floated lazily, the hot sun glinting off their tanned backs.

You gonna miss football? Randall asked Brad as he peered down into the depth of the sea watching for fish.

Brad turned toward him, Nah, but we gave it a good run, didn’t we? That last game was something I’ll never forget.

Randall smiled, remembering the championship game, the winning touchdown. Brad threw a long Hail Mary pass straight into his waiting hands, and he nearly walked it over the goal line unmolested; the perfect ending to a rough season. Both of them spent months recovering from aches and pains. That was the turning point, after that championship game their senior year.

Randall still liked playing football on the beach. The sand toughened their legs, and Brad, the quarterback, could find him even in a crowd of unruly surfers. Their beach buddies struggled to outrun them. During football season, the turf on the field seemed easy by comparison.

They both could have accepted football scholarships, but their parents didn’t push them in that direction. They talked about it for hours, though, until their other interests decided for them. Even then, Brad had a hard time saying no to that scholarship, especially since Berkeley’s oceanography department was reputed to be one of the best.

Brad stretched up, yelling at Randall, Wake up! Here it comes, Randy. Move!

Paddling hard toward the beach, they stood up simultaneously as their boards carried them high and in front of the wave crest. Together they slid down into the green room, only yards apart and moving fast. Randall could hear Brad screaming ahead of him.

They rode for several blissful seconds, momentum carrying them farther south, requiring a minimum of walking on their boards and allowing them to reach out and touch the inside of the wall as they sped along. Randall kept a short distance behind Brad. They finally skimmed off the top of the descending curl, grabbed their boards and stood in shallow water, panting and exhilarated, a communion with God.

Ooh-wee, that was good! Brad shook his head like a wet puppy, his sun-streaked brown hair settling back in waves off his tanned forehead. Almost as good as the one you missed, Randy. Brad’s grin was wide and happy.

Whooo! Randall panted.That was a ride. I could hear you screaming the whole way down the tube!

Randall used both hands to brush back the blond locks that dripped seawater into his eyes, catching his breath and grinning back at his friend.

The two pushed their heavy boards through the foamy surf and then lifted them under their arms, walking slowly up to the dry sand, the boards weighing them down with each step as their calves bulged and their breathing returned to normal.

Hey, look who’s heading our way! Randall pointed up the beach.

Jaime, a surfer and friend, was running to meet them. They got to know him earlier that year as a football rival, and Randall discovered that besides surfing, they had a common interest in analyzing and recording music. They remembered that Jaime preferred the Spanish pronunciation of his name, High-may. Now his muscular legs pumped through the sand, sending up little puffs of dust behind him.

They heard him call out before he reached them, Hey, you two, looking to make a movie? That was wild! Jaime stopped in front of them, bending down for a moment to catch his breath. I saw you ride that monster. Thought for sure you would smash into each other at the speed you were going!

He clapped Randall on the shoulder. You should see the big surf we’re getting in Huntington. I’ve been here a while now and haven’t seen much that compares, except that one. I was hoping to grab you guys today, but it’s getting late for the high surf. Jaime stopped to take a deep breath. Why don’t you come on down to my house tomorrow. Supposed to be high again, around eight a.m.

Randall looked at Brad as Jaime brushed his wavy black hair back from his tan face, waiting for their answer. Jaime’s smile crinkled his cheeks, his golden-hazel eyes focused on their faces.

Brad nodded. The woody’s ready to go, Randy. We could wax our boards tonight, load up, and be back by early afternoon.

I tell you, you won’t regret it. Jaime smiled, dancing on the hot sand. Besides, I want Randall to see my home recording studio before we all go in different directions.

The three of them stayed on the beach for another hour, throwing a football, discussing music, and reminiscing about the past year. Finally they sat down on their towels, resting and watching the slow breakers rolling in as the tide pushed out.

Randall asked the question that had been nagging at him since last night when he and his father sat in his bedroom talking after the rest of the family had gone to bed.

Hey, you guys thought about Viet Nam? My dad seems to think it’s going to get a whole lot worse. He even suggested joining the service before college, so I could get in and out before it turns ugly. Randall shook his head and then continued. That’s a first. My whole life it’s been ‘college, college, college.’ Randall let a stream of warm sand slip through his hand.

Brad looked startled, Yeah, my dad was talking about that last night at dinner, too. He mentioned that it’s a good thing we have college deferments. What about you, Jaime?

"I’m still waiting for an acceptance letter from San Diego State. I want to get into their Communications Department, either that or UCLA. My dad’s been talking about Viet Nam, too. Every man in my family is career military, my dad, granddad, and all my uncles. And yeah, my dad mentioned going into the service before college. Until recently he said, ‘finish college, go in as an officer’—just like he did. Now he’s talking about being a military advisor, getting out before the real combat starts."

Randall and Brad looked over at Jaime. He was watching the waves, a thoughtful expression on his face.

Well, I gotta get home, guys. See you in the morning. Jaime sprang to his feet and with a wave sprinted down the beach, his legs making short work of the loose sand once again.

He’s a Rebel *

In 1962, the Department of Defense ordered racial integration of the military—again. Legislation to integrate the military began in the 1940s with President Harry Truman. Armed services differed widely in providing integration, not only among the services but also in the means, support, and state-by-state recognition of the rules. Communities surrounding military bases had their own segregation rules for soldiers of color who were seeking housing, eating in restaurants, going shopping, or finding entertainment off the base.

The Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines complied somewhat with the 1962 ruling. But there were differing rates of success, and separate but equal divisions prevailed. As their numbers increased, men of color enlisting in the Viet Nam War effort formed their own units, squads, and platoons to avoid dealing with the ongoing discrimination, even though they trained and fought with white soldiers. The National Guard was excluded from the integration order and remained Caucasian. It was a policy based on Congressional fear of a regional Negro uprising that colored men in the National Guard would not effectively quell.

I hold that a little rebellion now and then is a good thing . . .

It is medicine necessary for the sound health of government . . .

God forbid that we should ever be twenty years without such a rebellion.

~ Thomas Jefferson, 1780

* See appendix.

CHAPTER 4

Friends

Where Have All the Flowers Gone? *

More than a few heads turned, some of them recognizable as women from the meeting in Denny Hall, as we approached the dorm. James left me at the front door.

Now you just get yourself settled, Miss Dianna. I’ll check in with you a little later on in the week. James winked at me.

Thanks, James. I’ll look forward to seeing you again.

I took a determined deep breath and entered the dorm lobby. The big bulletin board on the opposite wall held a list of names and corresponding room numbers. The map showed my room location and the name of my roommate, Gretchen, a name I liked.

I headed up the stairs and down the hall to room 308. With a glance through the doorways, I could see each college dorm room—small with twin beds, twin closets, twin dressers, and a bathroom down the crowded hall. On all sides, a steady stream of freshmen girls shouted, laughed, and unpacked, littering the hallway with boxes and suitcases, bedding, and clothes.

Ouch, grab that end, would you?

I got acquainted with Gretchen when she bumped into me just outside our room. She had been dragging our suitcases through the crowd in the hall.

They put our suitcases in the wrong room, Gretchen continued as we tugged on the handles. You must be Dianna Doran. I’m pleased to meet you—Gretchen Johansen. Gretchen stood up to shake my hand, and we both laughed self-consciously.

I’m pleased to meet you, too, Gretchen, where are you from?

I’m from Bellingham, and you? Gretchen’s wild blond curls bobbed. Didn’t I see you walking with James, the speaker at the orientation meeting? He’s a funny guy. And sooo good looking!

Gretchen’s perfect smile, accented by a dimple in each cheek, came and went as she spoke. She didn’t wait for me to answer as we tugged our luggage into the room.

Geez, we both packed a lot, she giggled, helping me lift my suitcase onto the bed.

Gretchen’s abundance of enthusiasm quickly turned our domestic chore into a celebration. Her sense of humor tickled the funny bone in the most straight-laced or anxious dorm dwellers. Several peeked in nervously while we organized our space.

Hi, Sally. Hi, Gayle. Hi, Marie—oh, hey, Dianna, have you met Lura? She knows how to dance a schottische folk dance! I think we should all learn it.

Gretchen introduced me to more dorm sisters in the first five minutes than I thought I would meet in the first few weeks. Her uncanny memory for their names and her quick recall of the humorous follies every girl experienced while moving into the dorm had me laughing in no time.

With a flash of intuition that sometimes allows us to glimpse the future, I knew Gretchen would be an important person in my life, a big part of my college years, dependable as the Seattle rain and much more refreshing. My butterflies exited with the first Gretchen giggle.

We kicked off our shoes and became friends. Gretchen loved music as much as I did and brought a small, red latch-case full of 45-rpm records and a little record player. She clapped her hands when I checked to see how my guitar had traveled.

We tackled our tiny closets and figured out that we could swap clothes. We flipped a coin for the twin bed closest to the window, then set about decorating our room with pictures, curtains, colorful bedspreads, and pillows.

We’ll have flowers—even in the winter! remarked Gretchen an hour later as we stood in the doorway to survey our little world.

The splash of pastels would be a welcome respite from the gray skies and rainy days Seattle inevitably promised. We gave each other a hug and set off, hoping to see most of the campus before sunset.

We were excited. Deciding to take James’ advice and explore the gothic buildings around the quadrangle, we started at the far end and soon got lost in the labyrinth of the Art Department. Around every corner, oil paintings and unfinished clay sculptures shared spaces with draped and spattered cloth hangings. Paintings on wooden easels balanced haphazardly on the stained cement floor, as James said, an art piece of its own.

I can see why Rob got lost in here, quipped Gretchen. Do you think he might still be hanging around? She ran her hand over a thin, dusty sculpture of somewhat human shape poised on a pedestal and eyed me coquettishly.

You found him! I laughed.

We left the colorful art building for the more staid and formal library. Students took no notice of us as they hunkered down on pillowed sofas with stacks of books at their feet, or hunched over oak desks where green-shaded lamps spilled light on their open tomes.

I love this place, whispered Gretchen as I nodded in agreement.

No one would notice Rob in here, I whispered as Gretchen suppressed a giggle.

Countless stairs and walkways later we found the Student Union. Soon mugs of hot soup and buttery slices of toast absorbed our attention as the sun lowered in the summer sky turning the snowcap on Mount Rainier to a coppery beacon in the distance.

Gretchen, I said as we finished eating. Have you been to the World’s Fair, yet?

No, she answered, I was hoping you hadn’t either. I wanted my folks to take me when they dropped me off this morning, but we didn’t have time. I can’t wait to see those push-button phones and take a ride to the top of the Space Needle.

Let’s go. I want to ride the monorail and see the Space Center with the model of that satellite circling around up there. My eagerness matched Gretchen’s.

Hey, Elvis might have a show tonight. Think we could afford it? Gretchen read my thoughts. Seeing Elvis would be a real bonus.

Let’s check the newspaper. I saw some on the stand right outside the front door. They must have a schedule for his shows. Maybe they’ll even list the prices. I turned toward the door, Gretchen at my heels.

Follow That Dream *

* See appendix.

CHAPTER 5

Here We Come

Surf City *

They wanted to beat the traffic. Randall stood on the curb, early morning sunshine seeping through his shirt and warming his shoulders. Brad pulled the woody up next to him.

Hey, Brad, did you hear the surf report this morning? Randal asked as he opened the door and slid into the front seat.

Yeah, looks like we’re gonna have some fun. Where’s your sister, I thought she wanted to come with us?

Randall often brought his sister surfing. Emily, only fourteen, but a skilled surfer, never slowed them down.

Randall shook his head. She’s got a dance recital tomorrow night. Wants to practice. Hey, you want to go? I hate those things, but if you came along it would be okay. Randall grinned as he spoke, coaxing Brad. It’ll be her last recital for a while.

Brad looked at the traffic ahead. Like to help you out, Randy old buddy, but I’ve got a date with Carolann—maybe our last one until Christmas. Did I tell you, she got accepted at Stanford?

No kidding? Wow, that’s great! She really wanted to go there. When does she leave?

Randall thought about the blue-eyed girl with the long, dark ponytail whom he’d secretly admired for years in elementary school. She’d chosen Brad in high school, but it worked out well. Randall dated a variety of girls, but Brad stuck with Carolann. They were well suited for each other.

Next Saturday. I’m going with her to the airport. Her mom wants me to take her, because the family is sending her off with a big farewell party. We’ll be leaving right after that. Brad grinned, but Randall knew the separation from Carolann weighed heavily on him.

Brad guided the woody into the L.A. traffic. Big cars pulled up alongside, revving their engines, their drivers giving a thumbs-up to Brad as they admired the well-polished woody. It happened so often, Brad was used to it. He and Randall just waved as the woody moved along in the slow lane, their waxed boards sticking out through the open rear window.

Jaime’s house in Huntington Beach was set back from the street with a curved driveway leading up to the front door. A modest, two-story ranch house, the front door stood shaded by an arbor of pink bougainvillea. Borders of jasmine lined the walkway, and pots of blooming petunias scented the air.

Randal whistled softly. Someone here has a green thumb!

Nice, huh? Brad replied as he started to reach for the doorbell.

The door opened, revealing Jaime smiling broadly. Knew you guys would get here early. Come on in and meet my mom.

Jaime’s mother stood in the kitchen rolling scrambled eggs and frijoles into soft flour tortillas.

Hello, boys, she greeted them, dusting her fingers on her apron and reaching across the counter to shake hands. Her dark hair mirrored Jaime’s own, and it was easy to see where he got his handsome face. I’m making some burritos for you to take along. I thought you might need something to eat with those big waves pushing you around.

Just then a voice called from the second story, Mom, I can’t find my skate key. Do you know where it is? Jaime’s younger sister came bouncing down the stairs, her skates slung over her shoulder and dark braids swinging across her chest.

Oh, hello. She stopped abruptly as she saw Brad and Randall in the kitchen.

Gabriella, Jaime smiled at her, these are my friends Randall Anderson and Brad Barrows.

Nice to meet you. Gabriella smiled, her dimples deepening in each cheek as she shook hands with them.

Nice to meet you, too, Gabriella. Brad and Randall said in unison, laughing.

Randall noticed those golden-hazel eyes again, not her mother’s dark brown, but they had the same long, black lashes. Gabriella looked down at her shoes, shyly scuffing the thick soles.

Your skate key is right here in the drawer, Gabriella. Her mother passed the key over the counter as Gabriella stood on her toes to reach for it.

Bye, Mom. Have a good time surfing, you guys. She was out the door before anyone could say another word.

My daughter, sighed her mother, always in a hurry. I think it’s turning fifteen. I can hardly keep up with her. She finished placing the burritos in a paper bag. There you go. The savory, mouthwatering scent wafted from the bag as she handed it over the counter.

Randall reached across. Thanks, Mrs. Otero. These may not make it to the beach, they smell so good. He opened the bag for another whiff. Brad leaned in and sucked up the scents as Jaime laughed.

Randall looked back at Mrs. Otero. "I know what you mean about fifteen-year-olds. My sister is the same age, fifteen in two months. She sometimes wears me out! I stay out of her way when she’s surfing. She’s better than I am—just don’t tell her I said that if you meet her."

Mrs. Otero grinned and nodded.

Jaime was impatient to leave. Surf’s up, guys. Let’s get out of here. I’ll show you the studio when we get back. Bye, Mom.

He kissed her on the cheek and headed down the front hall to the door as Randall and Brad followed. Family pictures lined the hallway.

Hey, hey, wait a minute, Amigo. Who’s this? Randall stopped to look at a picture of a handsome man in a uniform.

That’s my dad . . . career Marine. He’s down in San Diego. In fact, the family might be moving there. He’s gone so much, and now that I may get accepted at San Diego State, and my little sister will be starting high school, well, it seems like the right time.

Wow, my dad was a Marine, and Brad’s, too. They were in the big one, in France.

Randall and Brad looked closer at the picture. The man was fair skinned, with light hazel eyes, just like Jaime’s and his sister’s. Jaime pointed at the photo.

See the Roman arch in the background? My dad was in Italy during the war. He remembered fighting in this area; so, last time he was there, he had someone take his picture. Randall and Brad looked more closely.

Jaime went on, His family is mostly Spanish, from Madrid, but he was born in America. Spent a lot of time in Europe, though. Speaks a bunch of languages—Spanish, Italian, French, some German. He met my mother in France when they were on a student-exchange trip. They stayed in touch and married right after the war. She’s from Puerto Vallarta. The wedding picture of the handsome couple graced the opposite wall.

Jaime glanced down the hallway toward the kitchen where the clatter of dishwashing assured him his mother could not hear.

He lowered his voice, My mom’s worried they’ll be sending my dad to Viet Nam next. He’s all for it, but she’s not. He does have other choices. They’re having some trouble communicating about it right now. They’ll work it out. But I’ve never seen my mom stand up to him like this. She doesn’t think the U.S. should meddle in Viet Nam. She’s dead-set against my volunteering to be an advisor.

Randal put his hand on Jaime’s shoulder, There’s a lot of that going around, Amigo. My dad’s buddies were arguing about it just the other day.

Brad shrugged his shoulders, Yeah, and my mom won’t even talk about it. You sure have an interesting family, Jaime. He cocked his head. Do you speak other languages, too?

Oh, my mom makes me speak Spanish with her, but she finds a lot of mistakes in my Spanish homework. It’s hard, you know. The kids make fun of you if your Spanish is too good. Brad and Randall looked at each other and nodded.

Yeah, but they’re just jealous, Brad grinned. "Vámonos, amigos! I wish I knew how to say ‘surf’s up,’ but I don’t."

Don’t worry about it, Brad, I don’t either. Jaime pulled open the front door.

He grabbed his surfboard from where it rested against the side of the garage. Quickly, they shoved it into the woody and headed toward the beach, singing along with the radio, their spirits as high as the big surf breaking onto warm sand.

The next few days passed quickly. Randall spoke to Brad on the phone, and they both heard from Jaime who received an acceptance from San Diego State, making his family’s move to that city even more likely.

Saturday morning, Randall was on his way to the airport, his sister Emily sitting next to him in the backseat of their dad’s Buick. The family rode along, awkwardly quiet as Randall’s father maneuvered through the airport traffic.

Inside the terminal, they made their way to the boarding gate. Randall’s mother gave him a kiss on the cheek, as his dad clapped him affectionately on the shoulder, his voice belying the emotion he felt.

You made the right choice, Randy, UW is a fine school. The Music Department awarded you a great scholarship. Good football team too. Eugene winked at his son. No regrets, Randy, you stick to music and get on up there and show ’em how it’s done.

Randall grinned at his father. Sure, Dad, those ol’ professors can hardly teach me a thing, right?

You know what I mean, Randy, his father chuckled. We have a whole case of your trophies to prove it.

Let us know if you get into the jazz band, Randy, his mother spoke as she reached into her purse for her handkerchief.

Don’t worry, Mom, you’ll be the first to know.

Randall hugged his mother once again, ignoring the tiny tears brimming on her bottom eyelids, and turned to follow the line of passengers getting ready to board the plane for Seattle. His sister Emily pulled away from her mother to grab him around the waist.

You didn’t hug me yet, Randy. Emily’s voice broke as Randall wrapped his arms around her, and then lifting her in the air, swung her in a half circle.

Emily laughed as she looked down into Randall’s eyes. Put me down, you big cowabunga bully!

Oh, ‘cowabunga,’ is it? . . . And just who is going to teach you surfing while I’m gone? Randall set his sister down gently.

I’ll find someone—someone who’ll give me more competition than you! Emily put her hands on her hips defiantly as Randall leaned down to kiss her cheek.

"You just do that, Em, hey—and practice those ballet steps, too. I expect to see your performance in the Nutcracker at Christmas."

Randy? Emily stood back from her brother, a beguiling look on her face.

Randall tilted his head in her direction, Oh, oh, here it comes. What, Em?

Could you bring me some pictures from the World’s Fair, like the Space Needle or Elvis, if you see him?

Sure, Em. I’ll just walk right up to ol’ Elvis and ask him to pose for a picture—in front of the Space Needle. Is that about right? Randall put his hand on his sister’s blond bangs as she scowled up at him. Okay, little sis, I’ll do my best, really, but you may have to settle for postcards.

Oh, that would be fine, as long as there’s one of the Space Needle and one of Elvis. Emily grinned, then reached out to give him a last hug.

Randall disentangled himself from his sister, kissed the top of her head, and joined the end of the line heading through the boarding hallway. He gave a last wave, his heart sinking at the thought of not seeing his family for months. At the same time, the excitement of heading off to a big university buoyed his spirits and tweaked his curiosity.

The Loco-Motion *

Unheeded by a majority of the American public, in 1962, U.S. helicopter troops landed in South Viet Nam, ostensibly as advisors. Navy Seals were deployed to clear villages in the endangered (Agent Orange sprayed) areas, although some villagers resisted, or returned to their homes a short while later. The number of U.S. military advisors exceeded sixteen thousand.

* See appendix.

CHAPTER 6

Reasons, Rights, and Races

What’d I Say? *

Prejudice. Gretchen and I hadn’t talked about it much, mainly because we never thought of it unless the idea popped up in the news. We knew President Kennedy alluded to it in his speeches, and we heard some discussion about the downtown jazz clubs where mixed crowds of Negroes and white people congregated to listen to music. That seemed unusual, possibly dangerous. We were certain we would never go there, except with escorts—maybe.

Gretchen and I heard words like race relations and social equality in our sociology classes. But the big news in our English class was that John Steinbeck received the 1962 Pulitzer Prize for literature. His words and images sounded and looked like something familiar, despite the twenty-year gap since the publication of his book, Grapes of Wrath. That’s when we started to talk.

Almost overnight, the ideas of racial difference, inequality, and prejudice bubbled to the surface of our thinking. Our English professor, Dr. Pierce, assigned Michael Harrington’s book, The Other America, corroborating Steinbeck’s view of the working poor, and it spurred some new conversation both in our English classes and in our dorm. Several of our dorm sisters were in Dr. Pierce’s class.

I knew about prejudice in my own community.

You know, Gretchen, I said as we sat on our beds discussing the idea, in my town the railroad tracks separate the white folks from the Mexican side of town where the farm workers live. I thought for a minute. I never questioned it. But those people on the east side have their own elementary school and most would never shop or have dinner on the west side. They even have their own Catholic Church. Of course, there are a few of the wealthier Mexican families on the west side. I had Mexican friends and classmates from kindergarten all through high school. And my mom always bought tortillas on the east side.

Gretchen replied slowly, I can’t think of the name of one Mexican or colored family in Bellingham. Of course there are colored servants who live in the wealthier households. I don’t know if they have families living out in the country. Their kids never came to my schools.

Gretchen and I were just beginning to understand that there was a perspective we hadn’t considered.

"Remember reading Grapes of Wrath in high school? I asked. Back then, it just seemed like a normal view of farmers and the people who worked for them, even though it was sad that the workers had to live like that. I’m so used to seeing it, I didn’t think it could be different. That sort of thing still goes on, at least in my town. How about in Bellingham?"

Gretchen flipped over on her back, staring at the ceiling.

"I don’t really know. I mean—well, I’ve always lived in town. I never thought about it much. Geez, Dianna, it’s been twenty years since John Steinbeck published that book. Why does Dr. Pierce talk like it’s our issue? I mean, our parents’ generation had plenty of time to do something."

I crossed my legs and hugged my pillow before I answered, Yeah, well I do think it’s our issue. I think it’s already happening—you know, all the colored people getting up on stage and on TV. I love listening to Sam Cooke and Ray Charles and Harry Bellafonte and the Supremes and all the other Motown groups, but when I see them on TV, I can’t help wondering if they get to use the same bathroom as white performers.

Gretchen giggled. Probably not, now that I think about it. Gretchen turned on her side to look at me. Would you ever date a Negro guy? Her face was more puzzled than judgmental.

I don’t think so. It would sure send my folks into a tizzy. They didn’t let me date the Mexican boys I grew up with. I couldn’t believe it. The guys got their feelings hurt, and I got really furious. I even yelled at my parents. They didn’t back down, though—same thing with my sister. It was pretty awful. My parents said they were ‘poor choices,’ but those same guys are in college now. They got scholarships, too.

I looked over at Gretchen. "Would you date a Negro guy? I mean, what if Sam Cooke came