Back in 1979 I first saw the musical “Hair” about a farm boy named Claude Bukowski on his way to New York City for his army induction, only to bump into a hippie “happening”.
He falls in love with the beautiful Sheila, befriends the pacifist George and his band of pranksters and takes a walk on the wild side. The story ends in a shocking twist of fate when George makes a last effort to rescue Claude from going to Vietnam.
The movie version has some distinct changes from the original play.
But whatever revisions it has undergone it is still a wonderful comment on the generation of love.
I am proud to say I was one of them.
I was of the time period.
I sang in Central Park and did Tai Chi when the spirit moved me.
I traveled overseas.
I sought out God to match my love.
I escaped convention.
I awoke to love the sun shining on a foreign city. I loved a bearded boy seeking wisdom of his own in ancient texts.
I grew children, lived poorly and romantically.
I bought food in open air markets accepting handouts from strangers who saw my tattered clothes and my distended belly.
We gathered with friends and played music by candlelight.
I was happy.
“Hair” defined our generation. It was the way we lived.
30 years have passed me by and we are still living for love.
China, my daughter born in those days. The flower child now a mother herself of little Li.
“How has being a mother changed you? ” I ask her.
“I never needed a child. No burning urges for a child. But now that she is here, I would do anything for her. Every breath I take is for her, every thought is for her.”
…and she kisses the baby over and over.
“I knew you would say that.” (I say)
“Then why did you ask?” (says China)
“I wanted to hear you say it.” (I answer)
Because It all started in 1979, or thereabout.
In an apartment overlooking a foreign Old City.
With a band of pranksters who we ran with, and danced with every Saturday night.
We grew babies in love under the beaming sun and God’s love.
Me and my bearded boy, now 30 years together.
Today on the eve of my 50 birthday, I remember a generation of flower children like us.
See the grown children we raised wearing peace sign t-shirts and tie dyed skirts.
China sings innocently to Li, “Good morning star-shine, The earth says hello.
You sparkle above us. We sparkle below.”
…and they do,
oh but they do.
This is gmom,