481 CHRONICLESnby written law, parents must teach theirnchildren to be absolutely loyal to thenstate, or the government may removenthe child from the family?”nHe got catcalls and vulgar noises fornthat one. I saw Phil Ochs standing at thenedge of the stage, grinning into a paperncup.n”This war in Southeast Asia is part ofnthe grand strategy of communist worldndomination. They make no secret of it.nThe communists are not gentle humanists,nthey do not share your desire fornpeace and love; they have declared anwar against freedom and democracy,nand, whether you know it or not, yournactivities here today are playing directlyninto their hands.”nThis was too much. We hooted,nbooed, and shook our posters at him. Atnleast, most of us did. I was getting anstrange kick out of the little old mannfacing everybody off; I hoped they’d letnhim go till he ran down.nBut he was about done. “Most ofnyou are intelligent young people,” hensaid. “I challenge you, as thinkers, asnintellectuals, as free people with opennminds.” He pointed at the professorsnwho’d spoken before. “Read! Listen!nStudy history! Both sides, not just thendressed-up party line my quisling colleaguesnthere would feed you! Takenresponsibility for your own education innthese matters! If you do, you will discovernin short order that the communistnmodus operandi is to offer a man with anbird in the hand two more birds in thenbush. Those birds may be called equality,njustice, peace—but as soon as thencommunist can convince a man to letngo of his freedom, his bird in the hand,nhe rewards that man by enslaving himnand devouring all three birds. Thisnstrategy has worked all too well in anshort time over a large part of the globe.nIt will work here if you let it. God helpnyou if you do.”nThe audience howled like a zoo.nSome were booing and shaking theirnfists; some were laughing, chanting, ornfake-cheering. The old man shuffled offnstage. I saw John Newton had workednhis way through the crowd to Phil Ochs;nhe was gesticulating at the professor’snback and was obviously upset, almostncrying. Ochs shook his head, smilednreassuringly, and with a grimace, killednwhatever was in his cup.nStoney Andy was passed out under antree, snoring and smiling in his sleep.nDave Barber and his friends started tondance around the quad; then theynworked into the snake, a sort of conganline where everyone put their hands onnthe hips of the person in front andnundulated through the scene. I didn’tnfeel like joining them. On the way out Insaw Sue on the back of a motorcycle.nThe guy driving was a huge biker with an”Straight Satans” stenciled on the backnof his cut-off jean jacket and swastikantattoos covering his arms.nIt’s been 17 years, and I’m back atncollege. The little hippie babies I sawnrunning through the booths and tramplingnthe posters are older now than Inwas then. Some of them may be mynclassmates. Phil Ochs committed suicidenin the early 70’s, a victim, likenUncle Don, of the disease of alcoholism.nAndy is married with two kids andnworks in a muffler factory; he goes tonDodger games and drinks a lot of beer.nSue hung out with bikers for a fewnyears, then married a lawyer. She livesnin a beautiful home with a nice view ofnthe valley. Dave Barber went to collegenfor a while, played in bands, drove a cab,ngot married, divorced, then went toncomputer school. He’s a programmernnow and visits his son on weekends. Henstill likes Abbie Hoffman and got as farnas Death Valley in the big peace marchnlast year. Frank Ortiz graduated fromnNorthridge State and got a middlenmanagement civil service job throughnaffirmative action. I lost track of JohnnNewton. Maybe he’s a college professornor an underground terrorist, or a volunteernin Nicaragua. Maybe he’s a gurunlike Rennie Davis, a born-again Christiannlike Eldridge Cleaver, a talk-shownhost like Bobby Scale, or a stockbrokernlike Jerry Rubin. All I know is thatnnothing would surprise me.nIt would make a neat ending to saynthat old Prof. Summers’ talk changednmy life instantly and led me to becomena proud young American, but it didn’tnwork out quite that way. I did begin tonread beyond the underground press, butnI remained a conforming nonconformistnfor the most part; I went with thenflow, grew my hair past my shoulders,ndropped in and out of junior college,nregistered Peace and Freedom party thenyear 18-year-olds got the vote. In ’72 Inpassed petitions to limit then-governornReagan’s veto power over the board ofnregents. I remember feeling strangelynembarrassed to discover that I didn’tnnnhave to explain my petition; all I had tondo was say it was anti-Reagan to get ansignature from 95 percent of the studentsnat the colleges I canvassed.nI maintained a counterculture lifestylenfor years, but more reading — andnsome firsthand experience—left mendisillusioned with leftist politics andn”Politically Correct” ideas. Self-stylednrevolutionaries began to seem hypocriticalnin their defensiveness about corruptionnin the movement and their determinationnto blame communist atrocitiesnin Cambodia, Vietnam, and Africa onnthe ubiquitous “Imperialist WesternnWar Mongers.” Since when did ournfreedom-or-death counterculture havento make excuses for totalitarians?nThe more I looked into the horrorsnbeing perpetrated in the name of socialismnand revolution, the less I believed Inwould ever sit around a “WoodstocknNation” grokking with my Russian soulnbrothers while wooden ships sailed freenand easy. But the alternative was justntoo weird—how could I align myselfnwith old enemies, with Nixon, Ford,nCarter, or (horrors!) Reagan? My solutionnwas to hide out, to give up politics.nThey were all crooks, so to hell withnthem! I quit going back to junior college,nquit listening to the mainstreamnnews, quit reading the radical press. Inworked as a manual laborer for severalnyears and was pretty snobbish about it,nbut I never could kick the public librarynand typewriter habit. Reading, writing,nand finally hay fever decided me againstna permanent career as a self-educatednlawnmower operator; at 28 I determinednto go back to school and donit right this time, get my educationnwithout worrying about all the damnnpolitics.nBut my first day at UC Santa Cruz inn1984 shattered my apolitical stance andnshowed me that the idea of John Newtonnbecoming a college professor for thenestablishment wasn’t so farfetched. Innhis opening speech to a large audiencenof wide-eyed, mostly 18-year-olds, thensenior professor of the education departmentn(the program responsible fornhanding out elementary and secondarynschool teaching credentials) comparednthe US government to Nazi Germany,nswore allegiance to the Sandinistas, andnwarned that if Reagan were reelected,n”we will probably never see anothernelection in this country.” The kids ate itnup; it was like a tent revival, completen