Cultural change, civil rights and fear of the Vietnam War

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Last week, in one of those periodic “let’s get rid of our junk” fits, I went through a file of old letters written to me in the late 1960s and early and mid-1970s. With a few notable exceptions, such as recent reports from my mother and a nearly perfect letter written by my paternal grandmother, who was in eighth grade and spending the winter in Harlingen, Texas, they were from friends, girlfriends, and ex-girlfriends-turned-friends—all in their early to late 20s, my age at the time.

As I reread the letters, my first thought was what a treasure technology has taken from us. Back then, phone calls outside of a local area network were considered “long distance” and were charged at a horrific rate, especially after three minutes. Emails, texts, and cell phone calls existed only in the crazy minds of techies and a few far-sighted investors. Unlike these almost instantaneous and quickly deleted messages, writing down thoughts gave writers more time and space to recall memories, organize thoughts, and express fears and hopes, and for recipients to read them first and then save them for rereading another day.

Confusion about life goals was a common theme among my chroniclers. I suppose that’s to be expected in any era of under-20s. They’ve only recently broken away from their parents and academic institutions, are often not in a committed relationship, and are working their first full-time job.

For my letter writers from the 1970s, there was also the impulse to change the world that was omnipresent at the time due to the protests against the Vietnam War and various civil rights and anti-poverty movements. The result was an almost universal sentiment in the letters that “I have to do something” about the chaos the world is in.

For example, in 1972, a law school classmate who was working in a Louisville law firm during the summer wrote to me saying she found law school too restrictive and wanted to work for the McGovern campaign. (Instead, she finished law school and, according to Google, is still practicing public policy in Kentucky at age 76.) Two others, both teachers, got tired of the slow pace of learning and wanted to follow me to law school. (Fortunately, they didn’t. One went on to be named North Carolina Teacher of the Year and the other became a superintendent of schools and a respected consultant to school boards across the country.)

The letters also reflected many upheavals on both a social and personal level.

One set reminded me of FBI agents questioning my mother because a friend was suspected of being responsible for the August 1970 bombing of the old federal building in Minneapolis (now the Paul Wellstone Federal Building), which was then used as a military draft and enlistment site. When I told my friend about the FBI’s suspicions, he denied any involvement, pointing out that he had recently cut his hair and shaved for a new job and now “looked like a Republican.” I doubt that my friend, a terrible klutz, could have successfully set off a firecracker, let alone a bomb. Incidentally, no one was arrested for the bombing, although KSTP-TV offered a $25,000 reward.

A friend, then 26, was lamenting his married life. From a previous relationship, his beloved new wife had a four-year-old child with special needs who required a lot of attention, and my friend said the effort of caring for the child was like a “long, painful strangulation” for him. He asked, “How can I preserve my freedom and not harm someone I love very much?” (The couple divorced a few years later.)

On the other side of parenthood, a friend I knew from my time in Washington, DC, wrote to me from Tennessee, extolling both the Lamaze method of childbirth and the joys of breastfeeding for both mother and child. Unlike my male friend, she believed that life with her musician husband and child was exactly what she wanted. (Within five years of this writing, she too was divorced.)

Finally, a letter from a childhood friend stationed in Vietnam in the summer of 1969 reminded me that this terrible war seemed to be everywhere.

Two of my brothers and I – both in our twenties and both having avoided military service – spoke on a tape his mother had sent him about how, while we opposed further U.S. involvement there, we appreciated his sacrifices and those of other soldiers in Vietnam. In his letter, my friend thanked us for these thoughts and said he had played the tape several times to his sergeant and other soldiers. The sergeant instructed him to tell us, “Personally, he was very glad that there were some (expletive) draft dodgers who appreciated us,” and that our opinions reflected the feelings he and most of his fellow soldiers had about being there.

My friend ended his letter with the words: “But in war, everything is meaningless. I guess that’s the way it has to be.”

Ken Peterson of St. Paul is a retired attorney who served as the state’s labor and industry commissioner under governors Rudy Perpich and Mark Dayton. He loved his 20s but doesn’t miss them one bit.

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