Retrospect – I Survived The 1970s
By Kevin J. W. Driscoll (c) 2025
Part 1: October 1970
The other day, I swear, I could still smell the tear gas clinging to my denim jacket. It’s like a stubborn ex-girlfriend, that stuff – refuses to let go. And, of course, the ever-present aroma of patchouli, courtesy of my roommate, Brenda, who believes showering is a capitalist conspiracy and that scent honored the peoples of Vietnam. Honestly, sometimes I think the only thing holding the Boston anti-war movement together is the sheer volume of patchouli oil in the air.
Today’s protest was… well, let’s just say it was “spirited.” We marched from the Common to the State House, chanting slogans that were probably written by someone with a thesaurus and a serious caffeine addiction. “Hell no, we won’t go!” is catchy, but “End the imperialist aggression in Southeast Asia!”? A bit of a mouthful, especially when you’re trying to avoid a police baton.
Speaking of which, I swear one of those cops looked like my old high school gym teacher, Mr. Henderson. I half expected him to yell, “Ten laps, you peaceniks!” and blow his whistle. Maybe that’s the problem with revolutions – everyone involved went to high school together?
Brenda, naturally, was in her element. She’s got this knack for finding the most photogenic spot in any demonstration, usually right in front of the cops, yelling something about “the patriarchal oppression of the military-industrial complex.” I, on the other hand, spent most of the time trying to avoid stepping in a puddle of… well, let’s just say someone’s revolutionary fervor got the better of them there police horses.
Later, we ended up at a coffee shop in Harvard Square, debating the merits of the Chicago Seven trial over lukewarm lattes. Everyone had an opinion, of course. “Conspiracy to incite a riot!” someone declared. “More like a conspiracy to make Abbie Hoffman look good in a newsreel,” I muttered. Which, let’s be honest, he did.
The energy crisis is starting to bite, too. Gas lines are longer than the wait for a Grateful Dead concert ticket, and everyone’s suddenly an expert on fuel efficiency. My ’68 Beetle, bless its little German heart, is starting to feel like a luxury yacht. And don’t even get me started on the price of vinyl records. How am I supposed to protest the system when I can’t even afford the latest Dylan album?
Tonight, I’m listening to “Ohio” by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, and trying to ignore the fact that my jeans smell vaguely of tear gas and defeat. Maybe tomorrow will be different. Or maybe we’ll just march again, inhale more patchouli, and argue about the finer points of revolutionary theory. Either way, it’s the 70’s.
Part 2: August 1974 Watergate, Women and Wonder Bread
The news crackled through the tiny black and white television, Nixon’s face a mask of strained resignation. “I shall resign the Presidency effective at noon tomorrow.” Well, I’ll be darned. It finally happened. Watergate, that sprawling, messy drama, had reached its inevitable conclusion. It felt less like a triumphant moment and more like watching a particularly long and convoluted family based soap opera finally wrap up its season finale. (No, not “Who shot JR” – that was 1980).
Brenda, of course, was ecstatic. She immediately declared a “victory dance” in our living room, which mostly involved her spinning around to Carole King’s “It’s Too Late” while I tried to keep my beer from spilling. The air was thick with a strange mix of relief and… well, confusion. What now? The war was winding down, Nixon was gone, and yet, there was this lingering sense of unease. Like we’d won the battle, but the war was still being fought in the background.
The women’s liberation movement was in full swing, and it was fascinating to watch the world shift. Brenda, naturally, was at the forefront, organizing consciousness-raising groups and burning her bra (metaphorically, of course – she needed it for her patchouli-soaked wardrobe). I found myself caught in the middle, trying to figure out where I fit in this new landscape. One night, I found myself at a “women’s only” meeting, handing out flyers for Brenda. I was quickly told that my presence was “oppressive” and was asked to leave. I went to the local pub.
The energy crisis was still a daily reality. Gas lines were shorter, but the prices were astronomical. I started riding my bike everywhere, which, in Boston traffic, was a death-defying feat. I also discovered the joys of baking my own bread. Turns out, Wonder Bread is a lie. Real bread is dense and chewy, and it takes hours to make. It’s also a great way to work out your frustrations with the government.
Musically, things were changing. Disco was starting to creep in, and while I initially resisted, I have to admit, there’s something undeniably catchy about “Stayin’ Alive.” I still clung to my vinyl collection of Dylan, Neil Young, and Joni Mitchell, but I found myself occasionally tapping my foot to the Bee Gees. Don’t tell Brenda.
The lingering effects of the Chicago 7 trial were still being debated. It’s funny how a trial can become a cultural touchstone. I remember arguing with a guy in a bar about the meaning of it all. He called it a “kangaroo court,” I called it a “necessary spectacle.” We ended up agreeing to disagree, over a shared pitcher of Sam Adams.
Life in the 70s was a strange mix of idealism and cynicism, protest and disco, patchouli and tear gas. It was a time of questioning everything, of trying to find our place in a world that was constantly shifting. And while I wouldn’t trade those years for anything, I have to admit, I was looking forward to a time when I can afford gas and listen to my music without feeling guilty. And maybe, just maybe, a time when my jeans don’t smell like a riot.
–30–
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Kevin Driscoll(Mostly) Vegetarian, Politically Progressive, Daily Runner, Spiritual, Helpful, Friendly, Kind, Warm Hearted and Forgiving. Resident of Braintree MA.
Wonderful personal reflections that are immediately recognizable. The rapid changes, contradictions, time of life, hope and distress somehow wound together into a tapestry (nod to Carole King) that were the 1970’s. Bravo.