Barbara Curtis was one of the original radicals, it seems. She was a hippie before it was cool to be one. She was a second-tier feminist (I think that's the term she used). Pro-women's right, pro-abortion, anti-government. She was about as leftist as they come, from her account.
Fast forward many years and many experiences later and the former liberal is now a conservative, Christian mother of 12 (9 biologically hers, 3 adopted). Her very inspiring account of attending the 9/12/09 Tea Party protest in Washington, DC is posted at Pajamas Media. Be sure to go there and read the comments:
A Former Radical Goes Back to the Future at the 9/12 March
September 15, 2009 - by Barbara Curtis
In
1967, I was the radical Alinsky wrote the rules for. On the political
cutting edge, I’d been arguing with fellow students and coworkers for
years about Vietnam, and my growing disgust with my country led me down
many winding roads of anti-American thought. I was counterculture
before there was a name for it, skipping my prom and graduation as
“bourgeois,” going barefoot, braless, and unshaven, and collecting
tattoos at the only place in town those days — a crummy
hole-in-the-wall next to downtown D.C.’s Greyhound station.
Everything about me was about making a statement. And while it was
pretty exciting for me as a young woman to create a new identity based
on rejection of the status quo, for years I’d felt like I was alone.
Then suddenly I discovered I wasn’t.
On October 21, a crisp, clear D.C. day, I arrived with my boyfriend
at my first anti-war protest and felt a thrill of belonging and hope.
The Pentagon grounds were churning with 50,000 or so people like us — a
curious conglomeration of serious anti-American academic types (like
me) and sha-la-la-la-la-live-for-today potheads (like him). But the
differences didn’t matter to us that day, which celebrated everything
from putting flowers in National Guard rifles to taunting police until
we were tear-gassed. The counterculture had a big umbrella, and we were
all hippies at heart — eager to create a new world, whatever that might
turn out to be. This day gave us a sense of unity, strength, and
purpose.
I went on to help organize events — from the whimsical Ring Around
the Capitol (sponsored by Another Mother for Peace) to the
ultra-violent May Day, where we used our bodies to stop traffic on the
bridges into D.C. Rallying cry: “If the government won’t stop the war,
we’ll stop the government.”
Through it all, to be honest, I felt a little ashamed that I wasn’t
completely living up to my political ideals, which involved destroying
the status quo. I was always a secret admirer of the most radical —
people like Bernadine Dohrn and William Ayers. But while they were busy
blowing things up, I’d gotten married and had a baby — Samantha
Sunshine. Still barefoot and braless, I kept up my counterculture
credentials by dropping her in the college daycare center during the
week and carrying her on my back for weekend demonstrations. While my
heart yearned for solidarity with my most radical leftist comrades, my
mother’s instinct to stay alive and out of jail prevailed.
I was also among the original second-wave feminists — fed up with
the machismo of our political comrades — who made abortion the next
battleground. As a mother, I became a sought-after spokeswoman for the
right to “choice.” After all, an unwanted pregnancy at this point would
interfere with my education; didn’t I have the right to get rid of a
parasite growing in my body?
Flash forward forty years to find this mother of 12 (nine by birth,
three by adoption) once again a political activist — but now for the
conservative cause.
What happened? Life happened. A 1972 permanent pilgrimage to San
Francisco, another baby (Jasmine Moondance), divorce,
promiscuity/experimentation, abortion, drug addiction, welfare — all in
accord with my proud leftist political banner. A 1980 move to Marin
County, Alcoholics Anonymous, a second marriage, New Age spirituality,
birth control failures, building a business, owning a home.
A 1987 born-again experience, homeschooling, a son with Down
syndrome, a writing career, three adoptions, and finally in 2002 a
cross country move with 24 native Californians (my husband, children,
sons-in-law and grandchildren) to come back to the traditional values
I’d rejected before.
Not much about my current life looks like anything like the me I
used to be — other than a lingering weakness for retro hippie fashion.
Oh, and the skin art now lumping me with tattoo-come-lately Baby
Boomers rather than communicating my colorful past.
But the hopeful giddiness I felt last Saturday at the 9/12 Freedom
March took me back 40 years. And what I observed — no matter how
ignored or spun by the increasingly irrelevant dinosaur media — tells
me that this spontaneous and improbable gathering of conservatives is
just the beginning of a movement that in the end will be as culturally
revolutionary as the Woodstock generation.
I’m not coming at this like some dry academic — tsk-tsking
conservatives and pushing moderation — but as a proud and passionate
veteran of the personal-is-the-political generation. My agenda here is
to encourage conservatives of all stripes who gathered to speak truth
to power in Washington and across the country last Saturday, last
month, and last summer. My message is to keep up the good work. Don’t
listen to what they say. Keep informed. Keep showing up. And watch our
numbers grow.
This is just the beginning.
On the morning of September 12, I left for the march with my camera.
Since every picture’s worth a thousand words, I thought that would be
the easiest and fastest way to communicate what really took place.
But what was going to take place? How many people would show? Though
in my gut — with the latest victories of the new media over the old
(Van Jones, ACORN) — I felt momentum building, I was really just one
person going without a group, a strategy, or a plan.
At the Dunn-Loring (VA) Metro station, I noted the nearly-full
parking lot — unlikely on a Saturday — with many out-of-state cars,
many sporting conservative bumper stickers. My hopes began to rise. I
was not alone. The platform was filled with people of all ages, some
carrying signs. No one quite knew how to ask each other: “Are you going
to the march?” But as a reporter, I could and I did.
There was a young couple with three children from Centerville, VA, a
middle-aged woman and her mother from Harrisonburg, PA, a couple from
Texas — and many more.
No one I talked to — on that platform or throughout the day — had
ever been to a protest, march, or demonstration of any kind. No one
knew what to expect. All had sacrificed time, energy, and money to come
to Washington. All had undertaken this adventure independently with the
assumption that they might indeed be the only one showing up.
“But with everything that’s going on, I felt like I had no choice but to come,” was a theme I heard echoed throughout the day.
All seemed informed and concerned, but cheerful and optimistic. I
knew this feeling from before — it begins when you move from concern to
action. It’s a beautiful thing to behold, and as I discovered on
September 12, particularly beautiful in people whose orientation toward
their country is not revolution but recovery.
Not much about my current life looks like anything like the me I
used to be — other than a lingering weakness for retro hippie fashion.
Oh, and the skin art now lumping me with tattoo-come-lately Baby
Boomers rather than communicating my colorful past.
But the hopeful giddiness I felt last Saturday at the 9/12 Freedom
March took me back 40 years. And what I observed — no matter how
ignored or spun by the increasingly irrelevant dinosaur media — tells
me that this spontaneous and improbable gathering of conservatives is
just the beginning of a movement that in the end will be as culturally
revolutionary as the Woodstock generation.
I’m not coming at this like some dry academic — tsk-tsking
conservatives and pushing moderation — but as a proud and passionate
veteran of the personal-is-the-political generation. My agenda here is
to encourage conservatives of all stripes who gathered to speak truth
to power in Washington and across the country last Saturday, last
month, and last summer. My message is to keep up the good work. Don’t
listen to what they say. Keep informed. Keep showing up. And watch our
numbers grow.
This is just the beginning.
On the morning of September 12, I left for the march with my camera.
Since every picture’s worth a thousand words, I thought that would be
the easiest and fastest way to communicate what really took place.
But what was going to take place? How many people would show? Though
in my gut — with the latest victories of the new media over the old
(Van Jones, ACORN) — I felt momentum building, I was really just one
person going without a group, a strategy, or a plan.
At the Dunn-Loring (VA) Metro station, I noted the nearly-full
parking lot — unlikely on a Saturday — with many out-of-state cars,
many sporting conservative bumper stickers. My hopes began to rise. I
was not alone. The platform was filled with people of all ages, some
carrying signs. No one quite knew how to ask each other: “Are you going
to the march?” But as a reporter, I could and I did.
There was a young couple with three children from Centerville, VA, a
middle-aged woman and her mother from Harrisonburg, PA, a couple from
Texas — and many more.
No one I talked to — on that platform or throughout the day — had
ever been to a protest, march, or demonstration of any kind. No one
knew what to expect. All had sacrificed time, energy, and money to come
to Washington. All had undertaken this adventure independently with the
assumption that they might indeed be the only one showing up.
“But with everything that’s going on, I felt like I had no choice but to come,” was a theme I heard echoed throughout the day.
All seemed informed and concerned, but cheerful and optimistic. I
knew this feeling from before — it begins when you move from concern to
action. It’s a beautiful thing to behold, and as I discovered on
September 12, particularly beautiful in people whose orientation toward
their country is not revolution but recovery.
Barbara Curtis is a wife, mother of 12, and author of nine books, including Reaching the Left from the Right: Talking About Social Issues with People Who Don't Think Like You. Visit her at www.barbaracurtis.com or at her blog www.MommyLife.net.
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