Summer of '67 was one of those
special once in a lifetime
experiences. It was the '60's now famous, “Summer of Love,” before the race
rebellions, before the Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy murders. Lyndon
Johnson was president and the war in Viet Nam was taking an ugly and deadly
turn for the worse. It was years before the “light at the end of the tunnel.”
We were, “groovy,”
and “far out.” My friends and I all believed
the world was going to turn into a Socialist Utopia if we just loved hard enough,
protested against war long enough, and mellowed out. We saw ourselves as
changing the world. It was the “We Care
Generation.”
My friend Nick and I decided we were going to go to San Francisco
to catch a look at the happening Hippie/Love Generation scene. It was to be a
great adventure. My grandmother Burla took us to the bus station late one night
for the overnight bus to San Francisco. Trying her best to induce us to stay
home was not good enough. Like my father before me I was ready for a teen adventure
out in America. Unlike my father who crossed the U.S. in the late 1930's at 16,
I was going only four hundred miles north and also had family in the Bay Area
in case something bad happened to us. Faster than I could say “Stop,” Burla was
stuffing money in our hands and pockets, talking nonstop with no small sense of
panic. “Be careful, don't talk to strangers, call me when you get there,” she
repeated again and again and again. We were barely 16 years old.
Nick and I climbed on board the bus picking seats towards the
back. We pulled out of the station with Burla waving with her pink scarf at us
and pulling at the scarf around her neck; she was very nervous. Nick and I talked most of the night but finally fell
asleep. We pulled into San Francisco around 8:00 AM, weary but very excited as
to what was ahead of us. As planned we checked into the Bellevue Hotel, but not
with out the hotel calling the police department first. A burly San Francisco
policeman walked into the hotel lobby. “Where
are you boys from, why are you here?” I pulled out a piece of paper with my
Aunt and Uncle's name, address and phone number on it. “We are visiting my Aunt
and Uncle, here,” I thrust the paper into his face. He looked at it and said to
the deskman “It's OK, let them register.” My uncle was a well-known banker and
owner of Columbia Bank in San Francisco.
Nick pretty much took off on his own after two days of general
sight seeing together. We had money for two weeks only and we both had a
personal agenda to fulfill. We would meet back at the hotel room every night or
early morning and make sure we kept in contact, but other than that we were to
create our own adventure in The Summer
of Love.
I went to Golden Gate Park the following day, a misty Saturday
afternoon. There was a “Be-In,”
taking place and I wanted to be
a part of it. I had on my
bell-bottoms and a headband; I attempted to look the part. There were thousands
of people. They were dancing and looked very Hip and cool. People were openly
smoking pot, dancing and making love. I couldn't believe my eyes, I had never
before seen anything like this, and it was wild. People were real friendly and
talking about love and peace and the death of the Old Order. I felt a wonderful
sense of belonging. I was like a little mascot to the event.
Late in the afternoon a tall guy came up and starting talking to
me. Stan was his name; he was a junior at San Francisco State University. He
had shoulder length dark blonde hair. He was talking a lot about the peace
movement and student protests and things like that. I was very impressed. He
asked about me and was surprised to find out how young I was. He said he could
get me a fake ID so I could get into the after hours clubs. I agreed to meet
him later that night. He gave me the name and the address of a club in San
Francisco’s notorious Tenderloin district.
It was 10 PM and I was waiting outside of this really freaky hippy
club. Up came Stan, “Here” he said handing me someone's draft card; the
description was mine, the age was 18. I just looked at him. “Don't ask.”
He said softly. “Show it to the door man when you walk in.”
I did.
Inside the club the walls were all black and there were spinning
lights and very loud music. Most people were just sitting at tables talking,
looking very hip and cool to me. I was easily impressed at 16.
It was the first time in my life I really had a sense of being
adult. I was grooving. Across the room was a redheaded girl with her hair all
tied up above her head with ribbons and she had two flowers painted on her
face. We caught each other's eye and she moved over to our table. “I'm Casey.
What's your name?” I was stunned; she had to be at least 18 or 19. “My God, she
came over to me!” What was I supposed to say or do? Casey took over. She
started talking and holding on to me, and pushed Stan out of the conversation.
Stan stood up and said, “Come on let's get out of here.” Casey spoke up. “Hey
why don't you stay? We'll do stuff together.” She held my arm. “I'll meet you
later”, I said to her. She wrote down an address to a club. “Be there at 1AM
OK?” And off Stan and I went into the foggy streets of San Francisco's
tenderloin. After walking around for a while Stan stopped and said, “Why don't
you come over to my place and
we'll drink some wine and make it together.” His words did not catch me by
surprise. I figured he was interested in me. “Naw,” I interrupted him. “I'm
going to meet Casey. It would be uncool to stand her up.” Stan was visibly
upset. I was on a date with an older guy and never fully understood all the
implications or expectations. I had been openly Gay with my family since I was
13. But I wanted an adventure not a romp in bed. The last I saw of Stan he was
walking in the fog with his big Navy Pea coat, collar turned up. He yelled out,
“See ya' later.” He looked pretty upset. I was numb to caring. I was a kid on a
mission and my mission did not include Stan.
I asked a street drunk how to get to the address on the piece of
paper Casey gave me. After an hour of searching I found the club. It was a club
on the second floor of an old building. Out in front of the club there was a
line of women waiting to get in.
I got to the door and the doorwoman just looked at me. “What
do you want junior?” “To get in?” I said as a question. The
doorkeeper had on leather pants, had short-cropped hair and tattoos on both her
hands, and did not look pleased. I felt a tug at my coat; it was Casey. “He's with me.” She barked at the
woman. “OK, go in.” As I passed the doorkeeper
she said to me, “Watch yourself!” We
walked in and everywhere I looked there were women standing around talking and
dancing. "Casey, what's all this?"
I asked in total bewilderment. “It's a
woman's club.” “A woman's club?”
I asked back. “They're lesbians,” she
answered matter-of-factly. “No one will
ever believe this!” I was thinking to myself. I never even knew places like
this existed. I never would have believed I would be in a place like this. “I'm bi-sexual Donnie,” Casey
said
holding onto my arm. I could not believe my ears. I got a big smile on my face,
put my arm around her and said, “me too!”
Sounded good.