Retrospect – I Was At Woodstock in 1969

By Kevin J. W. Driscoll (c) 2025

*

The backseat of Bill’s beat-up Volkswagen Wagon was a symphony of chaos and anticipation. My brother, Bill, navigated the winding roads of upstate New York with the intensity of a concert pianist, while his wife, Mary Anne, regaled us with tales of the festival’s legendary status.

“They say Jimi Hendrix is gonna play his guitar while it is on fire,” she declared, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “And Janis Joplin is gonna belt out ‘Piece of My Heart’ until the cows come home!”

I leaned forward, my heart pounding in my chest. “And what about the food? Is it true they’re serving organic granola with a side of peace-loving vibes?”

Mary Anne chuckled. “Don’t worry, kiddo. There’ll be enough food to feed an army, and the vibes are guaranteed to be peace-loving.”

As we neared the festival grounds, the cacophony of sound grew louder – guitars wailing, drums pounding, and a sea of voices chanting in unison. The air crackled with an electric energy, a palpable sense of anticipation hanging heavy in the air.

“Hold on tight!” Bill yelled over the din, his foot firmly planted on the gas pedal.

We lurched forward, the Bug bouncing along the muddy road like a bucking bronco. Finally, we reached our destination – a sprawling field teeming with humanity, a kaleidoscope of colors and textures.

“Welcome to Woodstock!” Mary Anne announced, her voice barely audible above the din.

We clambered out of the car, blinking in the sudden sunlight. The scene before us was nothing short of breathtaking. A sea of humanity stretched as far as the eye could see, a patchwork quilt of tie-dyed shirts, flowing dresses, and peace signs. Music pulsed through the air, a vibrant tapestry of sound that seemed to envelop us completely.

We found a spot on a grassy knoll, staking our claim with a patchwork blanket and a cooler overflowing with provisions. As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the field, the music reached a fever pitch. Jimi Hendrix took the stage, his guitar a fiery serpent in his hands. The crowd roared as he launched into his iconic rendition of “Foxy Lady” a musical masterpiece that redefined sexual attraction.

As the night wore on, the music continued to flow, a river of sound that carried us away on a wave of euphoria. We danced, we sang, we laughed, and we lost ourselves in the magic of the moment. Woodstock was more than just a music festival; it was a communal experience, a shared journey into the heart of the human spirit.

 

*

 

As the sun rose the next morning, casting a golden glow over the sea of humanity, we emerged from our makeshift tent, our bodies sore but our spirits soaring. The music had continued throughout the night, a relentless wave of sound that had washed over us, carrying us away on a tide of euphoria.

We stumbled towards the main stage, our senses still reeling from the previous night’s revelry. The crowd was already thick, a sea of faces turned towards the stage, anticipation building as the first notes of music began to filter through the air.

“It’s Sly and the Family Stone!” someone yelled, and the crowd erupted in a cheer.

We pushed our way to the front, eager to catch a glimpse of the legendary band. Sly Stone, a whirlwind of energy, commanded the stage, his music a potent mix of funk, soul, and rock and roll. The crowd danced and swayed, their bodies moving in unison to the infectious rhythm.

As the day wore on, we were treated to a succession of legendary performances. Janis Joplin, her voice raw and powerful, delivered a soul-stirring rendition of “Piece of My Heart” that brought the crowd to its feet. The Who, their music a raw and powerful testament to the spirit of rock and roll, tore through their set with ferocious energy.

But it was Jimi Hendrix’s closing performance that truly stole the show. As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the field, Hendrix took the stage, his guitar a fiery serpent in his hands. He launched into a psychedelic rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” his guitar wailing and moaning like a wounded animal. The crowd was mesmerized, their eyes fixed on the stage as Hendrix wove his magic, transforming the national anthem into a powerful anti-war anthem.

As the final notes of Hendrix’s performance faded away, a sense of peace and tranquility descended upon the crowd. We had witnessed history in the making, a moment that would forever be etched in our memories.

 

–30–

 

 

 

Retrospect – My Caucasian Response To Affirmative Action
By Kevin J. W. Driscoll (c) 2025

Now, let me tell you, back in my day, the world was… simpler. Or at least, that’s what we told ourselves. You see, I was born in ’50s, which meant the ’60s hit me like a double shot of espresso. One minute, it’s ‘Leave It to Beaver,’ the next, everyone’s talking about ‘equal opportunity.’ Equal opportunity? I thought that’s what we already had!

See, in my little corner of the world, everyone looked like me. Everyone went to the same church, the same school, and, frankly, the same barber. Change was something you found in your pocket, not something you discussed at the dinner table. So, when the news started talking about ‘affirmative action,’ well, let’s just say it caused a bit of a stir at the Dorchester Yacht Club.

‘They’re gonna give them jobs just because… because of their skin color?’ Old Man Fitzwilliam sputtered, his face turning a shade of purple usually reserved for overripe plums. ‘Where’s the fairness in that?’

And, honestly, I kind of saw his point. I mean, I’d worked hard! I’d pulled myself up by my bootstraps, or at least, I’d watched my dad do it. The idea that someone might get a leg up based on anything other than sheer, unadulterated grit seemed… well, un-American.
We’d sit around the barbershop, the smell of talcum powder mixing with the faint scent of Brylcreem, and debate the finer points of this ‘affirmative action’ business. ‘It’s reverse discrimination!’ someone would declare, like it was a winning hand in a poker game. ‘They’re taking our jobs!’

Of course, no one could actually name a job they’d lost. It was more of a general feeling, a sense that the world was shifting under our feet, and not in a way we particularly liked. We used phrases like “those people” and “special treatment” often. It was a time of many catch phrases.

The college campuses were in an uproar, and we watched it on the nightly news, shaking our heads. The long hair, the protests, the whole ‘question authority’ thing—it was all very confusing. We were told to respect authority, and to get a job, and to buy a house, and to have 2.5 kids. And now the rules were changing?

And to be honest, I was a little nervous. I was just trying to get by, and now it looked like I had to learn a whole new set of rules. I was worried that “those people” were going to get all the jobs. It was a strange time. A time of change, and a time of worry. And a time of a lot of misinformation.”

Now, I’m not gonna lie, it took a while for the dust to settle. Old habits die hard, especially when they’re etched in the grooves of your upbringing like a favorite record. But life, like a good DJ, has a way of switching up the tracks.

Now, even though people were spouting off about ‘reverse discrimination’ and all that, deep down, something felt off. Like a radio station that wasn’t quite tuned in. I was still a kid, after all, and even kids can sense when something doesn’t add up.

See, my world was changing, whether I liked it or not. The schools started to integrate, and suddenly, there were kids in my class who looked different, talked different. And, yeah, at first, it was weird. I’d catch myself staring, or repeating some dumb joke I’d heard at the barbershop.

But kids are kids. We played kickball, we traded baseball cards, we argued about who was faster. And, slowly, those differences started to fade into the background. It wasn’t ‘the black kid’ or ‘the Mexican kid’ anymore. It was Tony, who could hit a curveball like nobody’s business, or Maria, who was the fastest runner in our grade.

Then there was the summer I worked at my uncle’s construction site. It was hot, sweaty work, and the guys on the crew were a mix of all sorts. There was Joe, a big, burly black guy who could lift a stack of lumber like it was nothing, and Miguel, a wiry dude from Puerto Rico who could fix anything with a roll of duct tape and a wink.

I learned more from those guys than I ever did from any textbook. I learned about hard work, about camaraderie, about respect. And I learned that skin color didn’t mean a damn thing when you were trying to get a job done.

One day, Joe pulls me aside, a serious look on his face. “Kid,” he says, “you got a good work ethic. But you gotta lose that attitude.”
Attitude? Me? I thought I was just being honest. But Joe explained how some of the things I said, the offhand comments, were hurtful. He wasn’t yelling, he wasn’t angry. He was just telling me straight. And for the first time, I really listened.

It wasn’t an overnight transformation. I still had my moments, still caught myself thinking old thoughts. But those moments were becoming fewer and farther between. The world was showing me that my old ways were wrong. And even though change was hard, it was also… necessary.

I started to see that ‘equal opportunity’ wasn’t about taking something away from me. It was about giving everyone a fair chance, a chance to prove themselves. And maybe, just maybe, that was something worth fighting for.

Now, growing up in the ’60s and ’70s wasn’t all about protests and anxieties. It was also about bell bottoms, platform shoes, and some pretty groovy TV shows. And those shows, well, they played their own small part in shaping my worldview.

Take “I Spy,” for instance. I mean, who didn’t love watching Robert Culp and Bill Cosby gallivanting around the globe, solving mysteries and trading witty banter? But what really struck me was the easy camaraderie between those two guys, a white guy and a black guy, working together as equals. It was subtle, but it was powerful.

Then there was “Roots.” I remember watching that miniseries with my family, the raw emotion of it all hitting me like a punch to the gut. It wasn’t just a story about slavery; it was a story about family, about resilience, about the shared humanity that connected us all, regardless of skin color.

And let’s not forget “Julia.” Now, I’ll admit, my main reason for watching that show was Diahann Carroll. I mean, she was stunning, with a smile that could melt glaciers. But the show itself was groundbreaking. Here was a black woman, a single mother, working as a nurse, living a normal life. It was a far cry from the stereotypes I’d been exposed to.

These shows, along with countless others, chipped away at my preconceived notions. They showed me that black people weren’t just maids, or criminals, or athletes. They were doctors, lawyers, teachers, mothers, fathers. They were just… people.

And as I got older, I started to see those same people in my own life. There was Mr. Johnson, the black principal at my high school, a man of quiet dignity and fierce intelligence. There was Mrs. Rodriguez, the latina woman who ran the local bakery, her pastries as sweet as her smile.

I realized that the world wasn’t as black and white as I’d once thought. It was a kaleidoscope of colors, each one beautiful and unique. And that diversity, well, it wasn’t something to be feared. It was something to be celebrated.

So, yeah, I grew up in a time of change, a time of uncertainty. But I also grew up in a time of incredible progress. And those TV shows, those subtle but powerful messages, they played their own part in helping me see the world in a whole new light.

–30–

 

Retrospect – The UU and Me
By Kevin J. W. Driscoll (c) 2025

My journey to the Unitarian Universalist church wasn’t exactly a pilgrimage. More like a reluctant trudge, propelled by equal parts metaphysical dread and my mother’s nagging. She always said I needed “spiritual enrichment,” a phrase that conjured images of beige casseroles and earnest conversations about the meaning of life, none of which sounded particularly enriching.

So, there I was, a bright-eyed (read: cynical) thirty-something, navigating the minefield of downtown Quincy on a Sunday morning while on my way to Starbucks. The church, a stately edifice across from City Hall, looked less like a sanctuary and more like a fortress of respectability. And then I saw them.

The protesters.

Not your garden-variety “honk if you love Jesus” types. These folks were serious. Armed with Old Testament verses and megaphones the size of small children, they were laying down the law, or rather, the fire and brimstone. Their target? The rainbow flag fluttering proudly beside the American flag, a beacon of inclusivity in a world that often seemed determined to exclude.

Now, I wasn’t particularly invested in the whole gay marriage debate at the time. My own love life consisted mostly of awkward encounters and unrequited crushes on women of my own age. But something about the sheer vitriol of the protesters struck me as…off. Like a really badly tuned instrument in a symphony of human existence.

Their pronouncements boomed across the street, a cacophony of condemnation. “Sodom and Gomorrah!” they bellowed, as if Quincy was about to be smited by a vengeful deity for the crime of…well, I wasn’t entirely sure what the crime was. Loving someone? Being yourself? Wearing colorful socks?

I paused, a strange mix of amusement and unease swirling within me. It was like witnessing a divine comedy, complete with its own chorus of judgmental angels (or at least, people who thought they were). And then, a thought occurred to me: if these were the gatekeepers of righteousness, then maybe righteousness needed a serious software update.

**

I slipped into the church, slightly late and feeling like I’d just crossed a border into a parallel universe. Inside, the atmosphere was…well, it was nice. Pleasantly bland, like a decaffeinated latte. The service was underway, and the minister, a woman with a warm smile and a surprisingly good sense of humor, was talking about the importance of…wait for it…critical thinking.

Critical thinking! In church! It was like discovering that your dentist also offered stand-up comedy on Tuesdays. Intrigued, I listened. She spoke about questioning assumptions, about seeking truth beyond dogma, about the inherent worth and dignity of every human being. No fire and brimstone, no threats of eternal damnation. Just…reason. And compassion.

It was a revelation. Not a blinding flash of spiritual enlightenment, but a slow dawning, like finally understanding a complex math problem. The protesters outside, with their rigid interpretations and their pronouncements of hate, suddenly seemed less like agents of divine wrath and more like…well, like people who hadn’t yet discovered the joys of Google.

Because let’s face it, in the age of information, blind faith is just lazy thinking and blind ignorance. It’s choosing to remain in the dark when the light switch is right there. And the UU church, I realized, wasn’t offering me a pre-packaged answer to all of life’s questions. They were offering me something far more valuable: the tools to ask my own questions.

So, I joined. Not because I suddenly became a devout believer in…anything, really. But because I found a community of people who were willing to wrestle with the big questions, who valued reason and compassion, and who understood that sometimes, the most spiritual thing you can do is laugh at the absurdity of it all. And maybe, just maybe, fly a rainbow flag while you’re at it.

–30–