Born To Be Wild

I grew up in time when Mick Jagger, Steely Dan, and Three Dog Night ruled the airways. Along with Paul McCartney and Wings and the Bee Gees. I was also a huge fan of Linda Ronstadt and anything Mowtown. It replaced the world of Peter, Paul and Mary, Jan and Dean, and Elvis and certainly Sinatra, Martin, and the Rat Pack. At least for most under the age of 30.

The class of 1972 was born to be wild ... we swooned over films like The Graduate, Love Story, and The Godfather. Every skirt was way too short, our burgers way too unhealthly, our values and ideals ... way over the top. We were like the landscape. We thought life would go on forever.

I was there, on the outskirts of town ... when the Kent State shootings took place. I saw the smoke. Little did I know history was being made. I was in high school ... we heard students were protesting the war at the university up the road. A couple of us skipped class and went to take a look. Can you imagine? How could we know that years later, Four Dead In Ohio would be a hit song? But we were young, wild, carefree, and yearning for excitement.

Most of the girls in my class were married before the 80's reared it's ugly head. Most of us had our first child in the 70's ... leaving them with babysitters as we were still in our early 20s learning to disco at the nearest club. Saturday Night Fever caused most of us to stray off the beaten path of motherhood a little for a night out on the dance floor ... forgetting, if only for a moment, about our ready-made families at home.

Of course for me, it was all done in hush-hush. I was a church girl. We didn't dance. It was forbidden. Ha. Little did they know, this wild woman could let her hair down when nobody was looking. No Pentecostal woman in her right mind would be caught dead in a disco. She could shake and shimmy in church, but only to Look What The Lord Has Done, NOT to Disco Inferno.

Amazing ... but then the world thought nothing about screaming and acting a fool at football games ... but when it came to the emotional world of Pentecost - "shoutin' in church" - that was foolish.

Hypocrisy on both sides, if you ask me.

When the Oak Ridge Boys sang Gospel, I was a groupie. If only in my mind. They represented both sides of the coin to me. They had long hair, a cool beat, and sang about God. They were rebels, the beginnings of contemporary Christian music. And I still loved Elvis ... I don't think my square peg ever fit into anyone's round hole of normalcy.

Either way ... both worlds had me born on the wrong side of the tracks. I questioned everything and rebelled against anything or anybody that attempted to put me in my place. Told me how I should act, or look, or be. And though my rebellion didn't always show outwardly, my wildness brewed inside and showed itself, usually at the wrong time ... getting me into trouble.

Women like me, who rubbed against the grain, were considered annoying. I never broke any laws, never carried a sign in protest, never participated in a sit-in, never burned my bra. What I did do was refuse to swallow every religious word shoved down my throat, quit jobs that paid me far less than a man doing the same or lesser job, opened my heart to any human different than me regardless of color, race, or religion. I told my daughter to never depend on a man to take care of her, instead of the opposite thoughts of generations before me. I refused to believe that working 9 to 5 was a way to make a living.

My dad has documentation of a great, great (how many greats-I'm not sure) but the woman was my grandmother from down the line, and a Cherokee. She escaped the trail of tears and settled in West Virginia, marrying one of my great grandfathers. Sometimes I think about her, wondering if that long stream of DNA rebellious blood had somehow found its way to me.

Even through years of feeling trapped and held-back, I was wild enough to carve out my own path. I think about Jesus, and how wild and crazy he seemed to the Jews and the Romans of that day. Wildly charasmatic, handsome, and full of life like those people had never experienced. He was wild, wasn't He? You see, I've never lost my faith, I just wouldn't let it be defined by any man in the pulpit.

I've "kicked against a few pricks," in my day. My subtle wildness is the best kind. And the most dangerous.

Blessings to you and yours.