JUST A RICHIE HAVENS SONG

Take a half a second and look back. Now, look around and then try to imagine what you can of the future. Got it? Now, ask yourself, “Was there or will there be any time during this perusal of life when you knew or will know the taste of absolute freedom?” The answer is, “Well, of course not. Don't be silly.” When we are born, as free as we may feel, by virtue of knowing no better, we are living in diapers with the need to be changed by someone else. We have to be fed, cleaned and clothed by others. Our hands are too small and uneducated in the ways of these things and we need help. So, we lay in a dirty diaper, whining because we are uncomfortable in a pile of poop while longing for the day we are self-sufficient and can take care of the problem for ourselves as well as the feeding and clothing issues. We have to rely on others for every aspect of our journey to this point. Of course, as we get older and wiser to the ways of the world, we also become more nimble and are able to tackle such dilemmas as using a toilet and it's accompanying paper, zipping and buttoning up our clothing and shoving a spoon or fork full of food into our mouths. But, we still need guidance from those more experienced, like parents or guardians, to lead us to our teen years where we tend to get even more awkward. We are still at the mercy of those helping us to negotiate the years that will get us to adulthood and, ideally, real freedom. I had a Bar Mitzvah when I reached the ripe old age of 13. This is a ritual that is meant to usher the young boy into manhood and, with manhood comes what, boys and girls? That's right – freedom. I quickly learned that this was not the case when, after the ceremony, I decided to take the car and a girl I thought was pretty hot on a weekend getaway. I believe the response was something like, “Boy, have you lost you ever lovin' mind? You're 13.” As the back of my fathers hand entered the space occupied by my head, I could feel my new found adult status disappearing before my very being. That's when I realized that this “Manhood” claim that was associated with the rite itself was a no more than a lie that was designed to get me into the building in the first place. There would be no “freedom” that day. It was during my early teens that Nina Simone released a wonderful song called, "I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel to Be Free." As soon as I heard it, I decided to write a response song called, “No Shit....Tell Me About It,” but, that became a moot point when I realized that I didn't play an instrument. Nor could I read or write music. I knew two things about music – I liked it and I owned a transistor radio so I could listen to it and enjoy it while in school, bed, dinner or on the playground because it came with an earplug. My song writing career had come to a screeching halt before it ever had a chance to get underway. Even with the consolation of being entertained through a little cord running to my ear, as yet, I had no clue what “freedom” was. I still had to be in the house by the time the street lights came on. I got into enough trouble in high school that I spent most of my time in detention thus negating even the few hours of after school freedom that my friends used for pick up baseball games and Setback card tournaments on the picnic table at the school playground. The trouble was enough to get me sent off to a boarding school in my sophomore year where I became a prisoner of a dormitory existence for the ensuing 2 and ½ years. The only way out was down the wall of the old Victorian building that provided dormitory space for our wayward asses. And there was a time frame for that. About 11pm to 4 or 5 am. The six months or so that I spent in college seemed to have been no more than a slightly advanced version of the boarding school with most of my time and activities ….... OK, classes.......being dictated by authority figures. As usual, I had no say or interest in the matter. I left college and thought, “Now, finally, some freedom to do some of the things I want to do.” That's when the letter came. If you are old enough, you'll remember that letter. It began with the word, “greetings.” I had just been drafted into the military. Not only do we lose our freedom when we “muster in,” we also give up all of our constitutional rights for, in my case, four years. After the war, I came home and became inundated with adult stuff. Things like working at a steady job so as to provide for any subsequent families, in my case, two over the course of nearly 40 years. Families filled with people who seemed to come with needs. Changing their diapers, feeding them, making sure they are educated and, over all, preparing them for the same myth of freedom that I had been lied to about for all of those years. In the end, the jokes on them. Recently, I became an “empty nester.” All of the kids are gone and I have been looking forward to FINALLY experiencing the type of freedom that had eluded me to this point. Not a day goes by where there isn't some sort of drama coming from one or more of the kids who are now trying to negotiate their adult lives only to one day be as confounded by the real meaning of freedom as I am. Aside from all of the issues with the kids and their lives, we have grown up and aging concerns that divert us from freedom like never before. The kids are gone. I'm tired and parts of my body ache as they begin their slow descent into the residue of our lives known as senior citizenhood. We know full well that, in due time, we will be, once again, living in diapers with the need to be changed by someone else. We will again have to be fed and cleaned and clothed by others. So, we will lay in a dirty diaper, whining because we are uncomfortable in a pile of poop. As for that freedom that seems to have outwitted us for all these years of yearning? We come to a final conclusion that Kris Kristoffersen knew the answer all along - “Freedom's just another word for nuthin' left to lose.”