My college boyfriend told me he considered me pretty much perfect, except for one thing: he thought I was too much of a hippie. Clearly, our relationship didn’t make it through third quarter (like my ambitions to learn acoustic guitar).
True, I did wear only earth tones, rock out to Bob Marley and Sublime, have radically leftist political views, and associate only with similar folks in my college days, but I never really thought of myself as a full-blown hippie. Compared with everyone else in Northern California, I was pretty darn traditional. For whatever reason, the words of my ex stuck with me (unlike my favorite hoodie, which he still has), and I’ve since prided myself on being a free spirit—I know in my heart that I am one of the flower children.
If I had been born in 1953 instead of 1983, I would have spent my evenings sprawled out on John and Yoko’s floor with uncut hair, wearing flowy floral dresses. I’d have been front and center at Woodstock. I’d have vied to be a contestant on The Price Is Right’s premiere episode. I’d have burned my bra and stopped shaving my armpits. I would have imagined all the people living life in peace.
Maybe it’s the lure of feminism, the righteousness of antiwar protests, or the nobility of the civil-rights movement, but something in me longs to have been born just a few decades earlier. While I’m grateful for the freedoms my generation’s parents fought for, I would’ve loved to fight right alongside them.
Hey, you might say I’m a dreamer, but clearly, I’m not the only one.
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