The Revolution Will Not Be Televised *

San Francisco California - early in 1970 and the magic was gone. Two years had passed since the “Death of the Hippy” ceremony in Haight-Ashbury. The rise of hard drugs and the violence of the Altamont Free Concert had left a bitter taste. The flower children of the ‘60s had matured in the heat of the Long Hot Summer and the jungles of Vietnam. The March on the Pentagon, the Students for a Democratic Society, Peoples Park, the occupation of Alcatraz Island and in a couple of months four students would be killed by National Guard Troops at Kent State. The country was fractured along countless political-ideological lines.

But that’s not the context against which I write this remembrance. The setting on this occasion was the old San Francisco Embarcadero Freeway (State Route 480).

I no longer remember what had C.J. and I walking North along the Embarcadero but the roar of the traffic above and beside us filled our ears even while the view of the San Francisco Bay and the Ferry Building filled our eyes with splendor.
Our discussion ran deep (well deep for this 19 year old) – we were discussing politics. LBJ had been out of office for a year and it was good riddance as far as I was concerned his legacy was the blood of thousands of American boys – boys my age – and I had no desire to follow them off to Vietnam. The new President had given us some pause for hope when he was inaugurated and some of the troops had been called home but recently the draft had been extended two more years and when the president confirmed he had ordered incursions into Cambodia many a college campus ground to a halt under protests and student strikes.

The years of war were beginning to weigh on the economy too and though I was too naive to fully grasp it beyond the Socialist rhetoric of the day; things had become really tough for the working class.

So in the middle of this conversation I asked C.J. to answer the most important question I knew to ask, “When was the revolution going to happen?” (You know; the counterculture/social revolution we all dreamed of in the 1960s.) C.J. looked at me and summoned his great wisdom of some 25 years and said, “It’s already happened and it’s already over” and in an instant I was crushed as all the buoyancy of hope was drained from my being.

“What do you mean?” I challenged as we strode towards the terminus of Market Street. “Nothing has changed! This country still sucks!” He looked at me and said, “The thing about this society is, movement’s are no longer a spring board to change [revolution], given time, they are simply assimilated.” The sound of the cars on the Embarcadero freeway above began to drone louder. I no longer recall the exact words that followed but they were in effect, The ’60s counter culture will be absorbed, commercialized and exploited but hopefully some bits will be adapted and used to improve our lives.

The commercialization was already happening but it has taken the passage of time to see how those heady times improved our lives - particularly socio-economically. We would eventually withdraw from Vietnam, The Clean Air and Water Acts would be adopted, the EPA and OSHA were established, Title IX, the Equal Employment Opportunity Act and the Comprehensive Child Development Act were all enacted (under a Republican administration). And while the ERA was not ratified in time to become a constitutional amendment the right of a women to privacy under due process in how she chooses to best protect her health was codified in Roe v. Wade.

So I jump to my footnote-
Nineteen years later, the 1989 Loma Prieta Quake seriously damaged the Embarcadero Freeway. Caltrans and many merchants and politicians wanted a rebuild of the two-level structure, and the mayor proposed a boulevard and a tunnel option. The state refused to finance the tunnel option so the major scrapped his tunnel plan and almost two years passed; opposition waned the demolition went forward, and the unexpected happened. San Franciscans had rediscovered their waterfront and found other ways to get to where they needed to go. The Embarcadero has become a grand boulevard with beautiful squares and plazas, lined with trees and public art, and has had its historic streetcar brought back. The call for change often seems like an earthquake is shaking us to the core but the act of rebuilding afterwards rarely produces anything as drastic as we anticipated. Conservatives, liberals and all other pundits, do you hear what I’m saying?

The greatest revolution in our generation is that of human beings, who by changing the inner attitudes of their minds can change the outer aspects of their lives. – William James

* Song title by Gil Scott Heron which first appeared on his 1970 album “Small Talk at 125th and Lenox”

An August day in 1963

I no longer remember how the day started nor do I remember what it was that convinced me that I should grab all my pocket money and head off to the bus stop and take the long ride into Washington DC. I had taken the bus into the city a few times with my dad to spend a day at his work, go to museums and once we went to the National Archives. I also used this same bus to get to the local shopping strip and buy candy from Mr. Ayers’ five and dime.

So with all this change and perhaps a few mangled dollars in my pocket and I set out to catch the bus. I had several blocks to consider the complete unknown that I was heading off towards; like the length of the trip and whether I would need a transfer but I was resolved to witness an event unlike any I had ever seen. I was on my way to see the Great March on Washington DC. I was on my way to see Dr. King and stand with thousands of other folks in front of the Lincoln Memorial to listen to music and hear great speeches.

I now know that the trip from my home in Arlington VA to the Lincoln Memorial is barely eight miles but at that young age it seemed more like fifty. As I walked to the bus I thought about the long ride and the thousands of strange people. I had no idea what such a gathering would look like or if I would be afraid in such a crowd. I got to the stop and watched the bus climb the small hill where once, before Route 66 changed the landscape, N. Sycamore St. met Fairfax Drive.

My heart was racing; this was going to be a day of days - I thought about my mom at work, I hadn’t told her of my plans - as a matter of fact nobody knew what I was planning. The bus door opened, I ascended the first step, my knees buckled and I turned and ran home as fast as my 12 year old legs would carry me.

Today is January 17, Martin Luther King Day and almost 48 years have passed since that day in August but I still remember that turning to get off the bus before the door could close like it just happened. I was just twelve and about to embark on an adventure for which I had no permission and perhaps, in hindsight should have had a chaperone (I don’t know). But it has always haunted me that I didn’t allow that bus door to close behind me.