The chief has not distinguished among the many kinds of citizens who comprise the hippie culture. The Haight-Ashbury—to give it its San Francisco sound—had long been a favorite residential area for persons of liberal disposition in many occupations, in business, labor, the arts, the professions, and academic life. It was easier to see than understand: the visual was so discordant that tourists drove with their cars locked and an alarmed citizenrry beseeched the police to clean it out.
On the heights and on the level rich and poor were by and large secure, open, liberal, pro-civil-rights, and in high proportion anti-war.
Among the hippies of San Francisco, LSD precipitated suicide and other forms of self-destructive or antisocial behavior. In liquid it was odorless and colorless; in powder it was minute. If hippies were unable to make, of all scenes, the Haight-Ashbury scene, then there was something wrong with them.
To citizens inclined to alarm this was the thing most maddening, that these were not Negroes disaffected by color or immigrants by strangeness but boys and girls with white skins from the right side of the economy in all-American cities and towns from Honolulu to Baltimore. Hippies wore brilliant Mexican chalecosOriental robes, and red-Indian headdress. It valued the passions of the young, especially when the young were, as hippies were, nonviolent.
The visual scene was four blocks along on Haight Street. The hippies came, lured by availability, low rents, low prices, and the spirit of historic openness. As trouble increased between hippies and police, and as alarm increased elsewhere in the city, the Haight-Ashbury kept its head. What kind of community, upon what model? But it was also my suspicion that hippies would speak when they could; meanwhile, their muteness suggested doubt. Doubtful who they were, trying on new clothes, how could they know where they were going until they saw what fit? They dressed as Puritans.
Planted in pine, maple, redwood, and eucalyptus, its only serious resistance to natural things is a statue honoring William McKinley, but coned to the farthest extremity, for which, inTheodore Roosevelt broke the ground.
The most perceptive or advanced among the hippies then began to undertake the labor of community which could be accomplished only behind the scene, out of the eye of the camera, beyond the will of the quick reporter. They had been born, give or take a year or two, in the year of Hiroshima.
Praise The Pill. They dressed as cowboys. Journalists have skated the surface of hippie goings-on, but for real insight about the participants and their not altogether relaxed hosts, The Atlantic turned to Mark Harris, a resident of San Francisco and the talented author of The SouthpawBang the Drum Slowlyand Twenty-One Twiceamong other works.
The principle distinction between the hippies and every other endeavor in utopian community was LSD, which concentrated upon the liver, produced chemical change in the body, and thereby affected the brain. It was an item of hippie thought that speech was irrelevant. The prevailing weather was good in a city when weather varied with the contours of hills. No doubt, at least among liberals, it saw something of its own earlier life in the lives of hippies. One of the parks is the Panhandle of Golden Gate, thrusting itself into the district, preserving, eight blocks long, a green and lovely relief unimpaired by prohibitions against free play by children or the free promenade of adults along its mall.
With the threat of the freeway many families had moved away and many stores had become vacant, and when the threat had passed, a vacuum remained. Such clear proof of the failure of the law to meet the knowledge of the age presented itself to the querulous minds of hippies as sufficient grounds to condemn the law complete.
They wore military inia. Everybody loved a panacea. Haight Street itself was nineteen, extending east two miles from Golden Gate Park, through the visual scene, through a portion of the Negro district known as the Fillmore, past the former campus of San Francisco State College, and flowing at its terminus into Market Street, into the straight city, across the Bay Bridge, and into that wider United States whose values the hippies were testing, whose traditions were their own propulsion in spite of their denials, and whose future the hippies might yet affect in singular ways unimagined by either those States or those hippies.
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Among bracelets and bells they wore Nazi swastikas and the German Iron Cross, knowing, without knowing much more, that the swastika offended the Establishment, and no enemy of the Establishment could be all bad. The Panhandle is the symbolic and spiritual center of the district, its stay against confusion.
In one shop—the wall was dominated by an old movie advertisement—Ronald Reagan and June Travis in Love Is in the Air Warner Brotherstheir faces paper-white, blank, drained. We remember that regrettable history of officially condoned crusades against the Chinese population of San Francisco whose life style did not meet with the approval of the established community and whose lives and property were objects of terrorism and persecution.
They therefore attached to the mystique of LSD the conviction that by opening their minds to chemical visions they were gaining insights from which society soon should profit.
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Whether LSD produced physical harm remained an argument, but its most ardent advocates and users not always the same persons never denied its potentially dangerous emotional effects. Bless Our Pad. Girls who might have been in fashion were panhandling. It was easy to see that the young women who were hippies were draped, not dressed; that they, too, were dirty from toe to head; that they looked unwell, pale, sallow, hair hung down in strings unwashed. If any neighborhood in America was prepared to accomodate the hippies, it was the Haight-Ashbury.
Hippie girls gave flowers to strangers, and they encouraged their dirty young men to avoid the war in Vietnam. From the corner of Haight and Ashbury Streets it was three miles to Broadway and Columbus, heart of North Beach, where the Beats had gathered ten years before.
George F. Babbitt, forty years before in Zenith, U. When hippies first came to San Francisco they were an isolated minority, mistrustful, turned inward by drugs, lacking acquaintance beyond themselves. The ennobling idea of the hippies, forgotten or lost in the visual scene, diverted by chemistry, was their plan for community. There, too, students and young artists lived, and s of white families who had chosen the perils of integration above the loss of their proximity to the Panhandle.
For some hippies it produced little or nothing, and was Atlantic disappointment. It was easy to see that the young men who were hippies on Haight Street wore beards and long hair and sometimes earrings and weird-o granny eye-glasses, that they were barefoot or in sandals, and that they were generally dirty. Dialogue was confined among themselves, no light was shed upon the meaning of their visions, and their preoccupation became LSD itself—what it did to them last time, and what it might do next. But the people of the Haight-Ashbury failed of enthusiasm.
Here a hippie might live barefoot most of the months of the year, lounge in sunswept doorways slightly out of the wind, and be fairly certain that politic liberals, bedeviled Negroes, and propertyless whites were more likely than neighbors elsewhere to admit him to community. On March 28,after a struggle of several years—and by a single vote of the San Dating Supervisors—the residents of the Haight-Ashbury district were able to rescue the Panhandle from the bulldozer, which would have replaced it with a freeway assisting commuters to save six minutes between downtown and the Golden Gate Bridge.
Here they could prove to anyone who cared, and especially free their children, the possibilities of racial integration. In the low, flat streets near the Panhandle, where the hippies lived, the residents were poorer, darker, and more likely to be of foreign extraction. More far-reaching than liquor, quicker for insights than college or psychiatry, the pure and instant magic of LSD appeared for an interesting moment to capture the mind of the hippies.
Last March the Haight-Ashbury Neighborhood Council, formed in hippie meet a crisis similar to the Panhandle controversy, committed itself to a policy of extended patience. For community had come. Its U. Here the hippies might gain time to shape their message and translate to coherence the confusion of the visual scene.
It had been equally hospitable to avant-garde expression, to racial diversity, and to the Okies and Arkies who came after World War II. Its polyglot population estimated at 30, was predominantly white, but it included Negroes and Orientals in sizable s and general distribution, and immigrants of many nations. The principal cause of their conflict with the police was their smoking marijuana, probably harmless but definitely illegal. The Haight-Ashbury was the only neighborhood in the nation, as far as I know, to send its own delegation—one white man, one Negro woman—to the civil rights March in Washington in Wealth and comfort ascended with the hills, in the southern portion of the district.
The Haight-Ashbury district is a hundred square blocks of homes and parks. Here William Saroyan and Erskine Caldwell had lived. Even in arrest they found approval from their parents, who had taught them in years of civil rights and resistance to the war in Vietnam that authority was often questionable, sometimes despicable.
It could be manufactured in large quantities by simple processes, like gin in a bathtub, easily carried about, and easily retained without detection. A great many of the young men, by de or by accident, resembled Jesus Christ, whose name came up on campaign pins or lavatory walls or posters or bumper stickers.
One of the effects of the victory of the bulldozer would have been the obliteration of low-cost housing adjacent to the Panhandle, and therefore the disappearance of poorer people from the district. The mood of the Haight-Ashbury ranged from occasional opposition to the hippies to serene indifference, to tolerance, to interest, and to delight. Tool had become symbol, and symbol principle.
They dressed as frontiersmen. But they were spirited enough after all, to have fled from home, to have endured the discomforts of a cramped existence along Haight Street, proud enough to have endured the insults of the police, and alert enough to have identified the major calamities of their age. Hippies themselves might have profited, as anyone might, from LSD in a clinical environment, but the direction of their confidence lay elsewhere, and they placed themselves beneath the supervision mainly of other hippies.
Once the visual scene was ignored, almost the first point of interest about the hippies was that they were middle-class American children to the bone. When shoes were shoes the laces were missing or trailing, gowns were sacks, and sacks were gowns.
Many hippies lived with the help of remittances from home, whose parents, so straight, so square, so seeming compliant, rejected, in fact, a great portion of that official American program rejected by the hippies in psychedelic script. They slowly became, in the word that seemed to cover it, polarized, distinct in division among themselves between, on one hand, weekend or summertime hippies, and on the other, hippies for whom the visual scene was an insubstantial substitute for genuine community.