The Silver Standard

Finally! News you can use for seniors!

By Joan Hunt

Without knowing it, I became an activist at the age of seven. A kid in my school whose name was Junior Johnson used to sit at the end of the slide and watch the girls slide down. In those days, we all wore dresses to school, so Junior was getting an eyeful of assorted pairs of underpants. Our playground was gravel, and on my way back up the ladder I grabbed the biggest stone I could see. On my next trip down, I landed it right in the middle of his forehead. It felt great! He chased me home, where the story came out, and Junior’s career as a voyeur ended abruptly.

I never burned my bra for women’s liberation, because frankly I needed it to have any semblance of a figure, but I have always stuck up for what I believed in. In the sixties, it was de rigueur. We protested the Vietnam War, civil injustice, corrupt government, and parents. We went to bat for the underdog—and, of course, we went overboard. We demanded students’ rights—and surprisingly, we got them.

There was plenty of fodder for the fuel at my college, which still gave demerits for answering the hall telephone in your bare feet. Boys were never allowed above stairs, and we had a particularly sour dorm mother who instituted the nightly lockdown at curfew with the grimness of a prison warden. A political science professor at my school was reprimanded, and then sacked, for showing a film that the administration believed to be “anti-American.” Students were up in arms. We lost that one. More

Advertisements