Monday, June 30, 2008
Suddenly, a new, beautiful day
From the RoundTable blog
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Amelia Roberson
Roberson is a writer with a master of fine arts in screenwriting and film and a master of arts in teaching from Hollins. She lives in Roanoke.
I knew had surpassed my husband's taste for random '60s acts of sporadic expression when I asked him to pull over my new Toyota Celica ST on a deserted Chicago beach. He watched, clearly uncomfortably, while I set the volume to high and danced on the sand to Iggy Pop's "Wild One." It was then I realized with sobering finality that being creative had its limits in society. I had come to this place as a child dropped from an alien vehicle.
I should have seen it coming -- "Mony Mony" by Tommy James and the Shondells, not to mention "Spinning Wheel," "Little Green Bag" and "Run Through the Jungle," had already ignited my dancing extrovertism. Don't forget: Freud still reigned in the '60s. Clearly, my actions were not my fault, and I still should be given behavioral excuses.
My parents still drove a Rambler and my "wild aunt" drove the new Buick Skylark. Not to forget the invention of the radial tire in 1965 -- we wondered what "radial" meant. Perhaps it was powered by the sun. No wonder we new boomers were confused.
And then there was the Beatles' infamous "White Album" in '68, which I remember dancing to with my girlfriend Elizabeth at her aunt's condo (she would not let us touch the vinyl). We had tried to go swimming in her condo pool, but because I was too chunky to fit into any of her aunt's bathing suits, we decided to listen to the rest of the album. And then it came on: "Back in the U.S.S.R." I finally understood political satire. I had arrived from my "Bullwinkle" roots.
From that day on, we roller-skated on the cement floor of my basement with metal skates with keys, swinging around water pipes, leaping over the drain grate, to both sides of my 45 of "American Pie." (We flipped the record as quickly as we could on my Sears box record player).
There were many "Batman" and "Monkees" trade cards over the next few years, but those years ended far too fast and the injustices of teenhood set in: the Manson murders; Vietnam; Watergate; smog; erosion; cheesy-looking cars like the Gremlin, Pinto and Toyota Cressida. What happened?
I tried to teach high school, but soon learned administrators didn't like the 1970 approach to free-thinking existentionalism that I'd been bred to wear as a badge.
Luckily, I can die happy now. The tide is turned, so it seems. Recently I looked at my list of hopes for the future, and most of them are coming true:
n Teens appreciate classic rock.
n Classic car designs are coming back.
n The backyard fish pond has come back.
n Long hair and excessive eyeliner.
n Beagles!
n Maxwell Smart.
n Rehabbing.
n Neighborhood produce.
n And my fondest dreams: the beginning of the end to urban sprawl, the widespread use of electric cars, mass communication via cellphones and Internet that lends to artistic and humanitarian expression.
In only 20 seconds, I can download "Dizzy" by Tommy Roe. I can post a video of my cat sitting on my horse while he stomps his feet to Creedence's "Lookin' Out My Back Door."
Never have we had more opportunities to be connected with society and the world. No other time have we had so many ways to exercise our uniqueness to the world.
While naysayers warn of Armageddon and cosmic retribution, I'll delight in our progress to a more beautiful and compassionate future.
