Peer pressure has existed as long as humanity and it was a powerful force on college campuses in 1969.
The majority of students protested the Vietnam War in one way or another. My frat brothers and I would predictably join whatever anti-war demonstration we could find, not out of our deep commitment to stop the war, but out of our commitment to skip classes and party. It wasn't surprising that our less than sincere attendance would cause the truly dedicated considerable distress.
Becky was one of the dedicated.
On the day we met, I carried a protest sign that shouted in red, dripping letters, "Fight for Peace" -- an oxymoron that, right from the start, made Becky suspicious about my sincerity.
She turned and gave me the evil eye when we started chanting, "Fight for Peace! Fight for Peace," and then laughing at our own juvenile brilliance.
"Why don't you boys go home and read your comic books? I can't hear the man speak."
A comment like that only encouraged us, because now we had someone specific to annoy, which was always more fun than shouting at no one in particular.
Becky had a white peace sign sewn to the ass of her faded, hip-hugger, bell-bottoms. It caught Roger Miller's attention, and he started the ball rolling.
"Give me a piece like that and I'd stay home -- in bed."
Others jumped on board, and she immediately became the target of every imaginable sexual reference for the peace/piece homonym -- piece of ass, nice piece, I want a piece now, and so on. At first Becky ignored us, but it must've gotten under her skin.
She reached the breaking point when we started singing, "All we are asking is give peace a chance. All we are asking is give me some ass--"
She turned around and kicked Roger in the soprano section, and then stormed off into the crowd.
I wasn't raised to be disrespectful to women. Somehow, through my chemical haze, I regretted our repulsive behavior. So, I chased after her to apologize for being part of the frat pack, finally catching up with her on the science building steps, where she sat down and cried.
I put down my moronic sign and, totally out of character, tried to be sincere. "Hi... Hey, I'm really sorry about those idiots. We were way out of line."
"JUST SHUT UP!"
She wouldn't look at me.
I sat down a few feet away, so as not to give her the impression I was there to harass her, and for my own safety.
After a few minutes, she calmed down and said, "My brother is in Vietnam... somewhere." She pulled her knees against her chest, and rocked. "I haven't heard from him in over a month." Her head dropped to her knees, the long chestnut hair hiding her face. "Please God, don't let him die."
That was the first time I felt moved by compassion for a stranger. I quietly asked questions and she eventually opened up, appearing glad to have the release. It was a moment that crystallized my life, and remains forever burned in my memory.
I found out her brother, Jeremy, was a West Point graduate and a lieutenant in the Army. He was a platoon leader and had already seen plenty of action.
"When he writes, he doesn't comment on the politics of the war. He just worries about his men. He said drugs are everywhere. Morale is low." She wiped her cheeks with the heels of her palms, and said, "How can you lead men into battle when they're stoned?"
"I'm sure it's not as bad as you think."
"Jeremy hardly ever says anything negative that would make me worry. So, if he told me that much, then it must be a lot worse."
As we got up to leave, I pulled a book of matches from my pocket and ignited the 'Fight For Peace' sign.
"NO!" Becky yanked it from my hand and stomped out the flames. "I want you to keep it. Hang it on your wall to remind you."
I wasn't sure what it was suppose to remind me of. Man's insensitivity to his fellow man?
I walked Becky to the cafeteria. She let me sit and eat with her. All the while, she talked about the war and the peace talks. Her anti-war sentiment was more about getting her brother home safe than any political ideology. Kissinger, a brilliant man, would stop the war, she was sure.
Afterwards, we walked back to her dorm room and watched the evening news on her portable television. The small, black and white images of the wounded and dead gave the war a surreal horror.
When the broadcast ended she turned off the TV, saying, "Don, I have to study. Time for you to go."
I didn't want to. "Can I help?"
Suddenly, a girl and a guy burst into the small room -- kissing and laughing, until they spotted us.
The girl wore rose-colored granny glasses and had a blue bandana tied over her blond hair. The paisley skirt and filthy bare feet announced, 'I'm a hippie chick'.
Her words slurred together when she said, "Hey, Becky. Who's this guy? You finally gonna get laid?"
The guy behind the hippie chick snorted while groping her breast through the peasant blouse.
"No, Cindy. We were just watching the news. He's leaving now."
"Too bad. You're so fucking uptight. A little buzz and an orgasm would do your head good."
Becky's face turned red, but she ignored the comment.
Hippie chick held out her hand to me. "Hi, I'm Becky's roommate, Cindy Litsky."
Her male companion snorted again, and said, "Lit-sky, good one."
Out of politeness, I shook her hand. "Hi, nice to meet you. I'm Don Carter."
Cindy's companion introduced himself with, "Hey man, you wanna drop some acid?"
"Uh, no thanks."
Cindy watched Becky gather her books, and said, "Well, D. C., you must be a special man to meet Becky's standards. It's been a month and you're the first guy she's ever brought home. But don't get your hopes up." She rolled her eyes, and said, "She's saving herself for marriage."
"Excuse me." Becky pushed out of the room, carrying an armload of books and papers.
Cindy shouted after her, "Better plan on spending all night in the library, because Craig is spending the night here." Then she shook her head, turned around in her boyfriend's arms, and said, "What an uptight prude."
"Make love not war," said Craig, as his hands slipped down to her ass.
She giggled and turned to smile at me, while he sucked on her neck.
My heart rate accelerated, but I walked out.
In the matter of a few hours, I'd developed a conscience. For the second time that day, I found myself chasing Becky.
By the time I caught up she was halfway to the library. "Are you okay?"
"What do you care?"
I didn't know why. "Why shouldn't I?"
"Because, I'm Becky-the-bummer. Just leave me alone." She walked faster.
I stopped and watched her all the way to the Library front door. That peace sign had a hypnotizing sway. When she was gone from sight, I shrugged it off and went home.
It was seven-thirty on a Friday night, and the frat house already reeked of booze and dope. People wandered from room to room. These were my brothers. I'd sworn an oath to uphold our traditions and values, which seemed completely self-centered in the light of what was happening in the world.
Roger spotted me.
"Where you been, Man? You missed it!"
He put his arm drunkenly around my neck and his acrid breath stung my nose.
"The National Guard showed up and crashed our fuckin' protest. Man, you should've seen Harry." Roger laughed at remembering. "He nailed a commando right in the head with a rock, and that started a riot. It was classic!"
"Wow, I'm sorry I missed that."
Too blitzed to detect my sarcasm, Roger dragged me toward the keg.
"Have a beer, buddy. This is going to be a weekend to remember." He drained his cup, and added, "But we'll drink too much and won't."
Dutifully, I filled a plastic cup, put my protest sign behind the couch, and sipped as I scanned the room. Recent events had tickled my libido and these parties were designed to loosen inhibitions. The halter-topped coeds in particular caught my eye. Their jiggling boobs marked time with the beat of Hendrix and I spotted several sorority sisters I knew to be especially entertaining. The sexual revolution was the only war I wanted to participate in at the moment.
Trying to attain the party spirit, I downed two brews and danced with the breasts I liked the best. Patty Conway had a shapely pair, and she loved to flaunt them. As usual, they were prominently on display -- barely confined inside a thin, white halter. Somehow, the left one had gotten wet, and the outline of its areola was clearly visible. Guys around us were staring and whispering. She acted oblivious.
After my initial titillation, her lewd behavior began to turn me off. She'd shake those melons for anyone. I found myself craving fresh, inexperienced melons, like the ones in the library. I wondered about the taste of melons that were not freely offered for mass consumption.
In a rush, I understood the ideology my father had always preached -- You only value what you earn.
When the song ended, I worked my way to the door and then out into the warm night air. My ears thrummed for a few blocks, and then the distant sounds of campus life came to me like a whisper, infusing me with a melancholy mind-set. In a couple of years, this experience would be over. What would I have to show for it? Was I really learning anything of value?
After wandering inside the library for ten minutes, I spotted Becky on the third floor -- books open, papers scattered over the desk, but her eyes were glued to a small pamphlet in her hand.
Thinking about the best way to approach her, I decided to play it straight. I was tired of bullshit, and she didn't seem the type to play games.
"Hi, Becky."
She quickly closed the pamphlet and slipped it under a textbook. "What are you doing here?"
Pulling out the chair across from her, I sat down and said, "I was looking for you."
Becky flipped a couple of pages in the book, obviously disconcerted. "Why?"
"I like you."
"You don't know me," she said, while rapidly scribbling notes.
"I want to."
"Why?"
"Because you're different, you're interesting."
Without looking at me once, she said, "Your breath stinks. Why don't you go back to the party? I'm sure you can find some wasted chick to screw."
A little put out, I sat back and stared at her a while. "You think you know me? You don't know me at all."
Becky looked me straight in the eye, and said, "And I don't want to." Then, she appeared to be deep into her notes again.
"Fair enough. But at least give me a good reason you don't want to. What did I do in such a short time that made you dislike me so much?"
Her pen flew across the page a few seconds longer, and then she put it down to meet my gaze. "I don't like your fraternity. If you belong to that group of pigs, then you're like the rest of them. You're right. Maybe I don't know you, but I know them."
"Guilt by association, then?"
