Page 53 of And Still Her Voice
“Are you kidding? They loved it.” Wherever we went, everyone loved River. “Do you think you might have upstaged John?”
“Nah, he likes it when everybody lets loose. We were just diggin’ the beat.”
“It really was pretty groovy. I wonder what he’ll will come up with next.”
“Cowboys and cowgirls on horseback.”
“Or, you and John could come out in chaps with those cheek cut-outs.” I laughed. “They loved you and your gyrating around, all glistening bare-chested. Upstaging John until he stormed off.”
“Truthfully, I don’t think he minded. Anyway, I wasn’t gyrating.”
“Whatever, it was all pretty far out.”
“You know, I’ve written some songs, I’m thinking about asking John if I might perform one.”
“Honey, that’s fantastic!”
Ever since the girls joined, I started thinking I had something they didn’t. Turns out I was a little competitive, after all.
“Bravo!” Grandma said, “It’s time you take control of your music.”
“Control? Are you serious? You know you can’t wait to grab the music baton.”
She ignored my response. “The drumbeats are reminiscent of music I performed with Charles Wakefield Cadman during his American Indian song phase.”
“Who?” River asked.
“Land of the Sky Blue Waters,” Grandma responded.
“Never heard of it, Grandma,” he said, sitting up now.
“You know, that Hamm’s beer commercial,” I added.
“Oh, right. Of course.”
***
Grandma and River loved to talk. Besides her interfering now in my friendship and my new career, she would be getting in the way of my love life, such as it wasn’t. Every time I’d get close to hitching up with someone, she’d be right there to tell me to respect myself and to get back on the bus where it seemed everyone had hooked up, including River, I’d find out.
CHAPTER 20
My Love Story
February 14, 1968: Sweet seventeen and still I’d never been kissed, except for whatever that sloppy mess was that I’d instigated with River back at Steinway’s. John, who probably thought River and I were an item, and even the band members treated me like a little sister which I did appreciate. It was definitely about time to find love and write my own love story. I’d been on the pill already a few months, thanks to the free clinic back in the Haight, so I was prepared for amour.
Sadly, every night on the news was all about hate. I remained alone in my hotel room most of the time, respecting myself like Grandma admonished, while the others went out partying. If River came to my room at all, he’d get all nervous and return to the bus because of the “segregation laws,” he said. “I don’t wanna get lynched.”
The nation reckoned with changes that would make it a fateful year. But pathetically, all I cared about was finding love. Missing home in a crazy world, loneliness clutched at my insides and I grew even more heartsick. I didn’t want to die before I found love. And so far, I wasn’t sure about either sex. I’d fallen in love with River when I thought he was a girl, so what did that tell me? And now he didn’t even want me, making any excuse tokeep away. I was desperate, but why should I have to feel pain, suffer and cry, before I could feel love?
There’s nothing sexy about a reign of terror, but in January 1968, as the news reported that the North Vietnamese communists had launched something called the Tet Offensive, I couldn’t help but notice young couples in Seattle holding hands, dodging the bullets of rain, like they were Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds singing,The sun’s in my heart and I’m readyfor love.
February, the month of love, came filled with hate. In Memphis, the death of a couple of African-American sanitation workers would lead to acivil rights movement. But, what did that have to do with me?
I picked up a newspaper before boarding the bus. In Vietnam there was the “justified” destruction of another village full of innocents. At the South Carolina State campus, three protesters died and twenty-seven more were wounded when police opened fire on students protesting segregation at Orangeburg’s only bowling alley. I put down the paper. I felt sorry, but even guiltier because selfishly, all I could think about was not having a Valentine in my life. I wanted to choose love over violence and vengeance.
Talk about rose-colored glasses: when we got to Albuquerque, I bought River a silly Valentine’s card, two little bears on the cover holding paws, and presented it to him after the concert one night. Isn’t that what you do when you like someone?
“Honey, this is so sweet,” he said, moving in for a hug. “Which bear am I? I’m sorry I didn’t get you . . .”
