One generation got old.

I slid into my political awareness in 1970, as I was plotting to leave home the day after I was 18 — which I did — but there were four months in between my official political stirrings and my eventual break for higher ground.

That spring, I was drowning in the white-breadroom community I’d grown up in, jammed up next to the same students since elementary school who were scattering like marbles on our upper-middle-class foyer tile floors, unconsciously deciding whether or not to embrace our parents’ socio-political sensibilities.

It was safe and predictable to wrap our scrawny teenage arms around those; however, for me, it was a progression picking up speed when I got to university a few years later.

I remember we wore black armbands to senior classes the day after Cambodia was bombed in March of 69. Our teachers had no clue why we wore them. Our relative solidarity began then, I think; it was not students who looked like us being mowed down for nothing. And, it was far, far away. But it was a start. Like a tickle in the back of your that you know will turn into something there is no vaccine for, no matter what the grownups say.

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