What Can I Say? I'm a Product of the 60's.

What Can I Say? I'm a Product of the 60's.

A must read for the first of the Baby Boomers born in 1946 and how the influences of living and maturing in this, the greatest decade in the world, changed the attitudes of the entire world. What Can I Say? I'm A Product of the 60's is a statement of fact, a way of life, a state of mind and the identity of a generation. We also began the major movements of the sexual and social revoloutions of the last century..Us Boomers challenged the establishment, marched for the rights of all people, defied an unnecessary war and and lead the way for the open minded thinking for future generations. . What Can I Say? I'm A Product of the 60's A Memoir By Anne Stuart Welch AuthorHouse Copyright © 2011 Anne Stuart Welch All right reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4567-6723-5 Chapter One In the fall of 1960, I entered my first year of high school in a small town in North Carolina called Salisbury. If you are from the South, or know anything about the South, the most important day of the week is Friday. This is the day of The Football Game! On this night, everyone possesses school spirit. We could not wait until classes were over to get ready for the game. In the South, high school stadiums are revered as cathedrals. Memories are made there that will last forever, whether you are the student, the fan, or especially if you are the player. In the South, entire towns show their support on this night. The dress at the time for the gals was Villager blouses with skirts or Villager dresses, madras blouse, monogrammed jackets and, of course, Weejuns. (You always had to have Weejuns of every different style and color.) Pappagallo shoes were worn for more dressy occasions. For the guys, dress was blue jeans or khakis, madras dress shirts or cotton shirts in the many colors and, of course, Weejuns—never with socks. The tennis shoes were Converse and in all styles and colors. (As my Dad was the authorized dealer for both Weejuns and Converse, my family was happy.) Remember the 60s was the beginning of both the preppie and yuppie generations. How could I forget the hairdos? The Beehive—the more the tease the better. The Flip—of course we had to roll the bottom with beer cans. Ok, now the guys—mainly crew cuts, but some guy's hair was long enough to part. In my hometown, after the football game, students went to the largest church for after-the-game-hotdogs and to shag. Of course, most girls had to be home by 11:00PM, the boys whenever they wanted. Isn't it something how time restraints are always placed on the females and not on the males? Some things never change, even now. The above was repeated after every home game. As we all know, high school was hell for many people and probably still is. As usual, I am getting ahead of myself. When I started first grade, my mother would walk me to school and there I would meet with my best friend, Wills. He and I had been great friends since we were born and had always played together, taken family vacations and referred to each other as cousins. We called each other's parents aunt (In the South, aunt is not pronounced ant.) and uncle. Naturally, when we started to first grade, we ate lunch together, sat beside each other in class and were loved by our teacher. After Christmas came, the worst possible thing that could have happened did. Wills' family had bought a house that was not in our current school district. I cried every day until he left. I will never forget our last meeting in school. We were in the lunchroom sharing our lunch as usual. We hugged, I cried and we said our good byes. Now, I saw Wills every weekend, but it just was not the same. When I entered the second grade, I was assigned to the most horrible teacher that was ever created. She hated children, and most of all she hated five girls in her class. I was one of the five. No matter how many times our mother's complained, it did not seem to matter. Evidently, some time from first to second grade, I had begun to gain weight. (A problem I still struggle with to this day.) My teacher made fun of me because I was overweight. She made fat jokes about me in class and weighed me separately so everyone could see. She would state, "Ok, let's see who the fattest is." (Remember, this was the South, and every child was taught to respect their elders, say, "Yes M'AM and No M'AM, Yes Sir and No Sir," and never talk back to their elders.) The teacher, and I use this term loosely, kept on and on. If I made a bad grade, she announced it to the class. But, she was really caught up on the weight issue. If there were any loud noises, she would always ask if I fell. I sprained my ankle once, and had to practically hop around the room. She told me that she would not be surprised if the floor gave in, and since the principal's office was beneath the classroom, I would probably go through the floor and land in his office. Since I spent most of my time there anyway, it would be easier than walking down the stairs to get ther