In class, one of the younger grad students — who is, on the whole, smart, kind and hardworking — was giving feedback that seemed off (circa 1972, a father wouldn’t change a diaper, because they were so locked into traditional roles). So I chimed in: San Francisco’s hippie scene was huge in 1967, a half million people showed up for a rock show in Woodstock in 1969, thousands had marched on Washington for civil rights and against the Vietnam War. Every week Life Magazine had some new feature on protests, communes, hippies — exposing the mainstream audience to (often photogenic) flower children. “By 1969,” I said, “the cultural revolution was well under way.”
“Not in my house!” Our professor exclaimed. “Not in Indiana!”*
“Your parents didn’t get Life?” I asked. “They didn’t watch Walter Cronkite?”
No, I was told. No no no.
That’s right. Indiana. Still waiting for the news that the sixties happened.
* The story we were discussing was not set in the professor’s house or Indiana.
