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They say that if you remember 1967 you weren’t there.

Trust me, I was there. I met my husband Tom there, had six kids with him – five of them adopted including three post-polio kids, two of whom came out of the Vietnam War. Thirteen years of me studying Indian music and dance with Balasaraswati, and an MA in South Asian Studies from Cal, before he left me behind. But before he did, we started a music venue called 1750 Arch Street and produced concerts and made records with some of the best Bay Area musicians, and we marched against the war and gave money to anti-war causes, which earned us the honor of being put on President Nixon’s enemies list. I half-toned the list, and used it as my personal stationery, on which I wrote my application to Boalt Law School, which I graduated from 12 years later with a JD degree to join my BA in Anthropology from Michigan, and my MA in Indian Studies and MPH in Maternal Child Health from Berkeley.

The years at Cal were memorable for, among other things, fire-bombings, bomb scares, helicopters circling overhead, and tear gas on the way to class. Ah! There is nothing like the smell of tear gas in the morning. We went from driving a drive-away car to San Francisco, wearing flowers in our hair, to planting flowers in People’s Park, and the Park became a symbol of peace and flowers and no war and music, free food, and kindness.  

I took the kids down on many an afternoon to listen to Tom Fogarty of Credence, and Country Joe, and guys with no shirts beating on Conga drums, and people dancing. Free. Everything free. When my oldest son, Paul, was only three Tom and I took him to the park where he used his little shovel to plant our living Christmas tree, which was hardly taller than he was. When I last checked on our tree, just before COVID, it was easily forty feet tall.  

Bad stuff happened, too. In one of the demonstrations, a friend who was an Indian drummer had his arm broken by a police baton. Another friend, who suffered from schizophrenia ended up living in the park sometimes. After Cody’s closed it was no longer a place I went at night.  

But here is something. Once I was on Telegraph Avenue and I blacked out, in the road just up from the Med. I had done it once before, while driving on the freeway. This time an ambulance came, along with a big fire-engine, while I was lying in the street. I do not remember much about how I got to the hospital, but the doctors there said I needed less stress (they had heard about the seven kids I now had), and in a more medical diagnosis I was diagnosed with a cardiac condition that caused my blood pressure to plummet, which they have since fixed with pills.  

But while I was lying in the street, I remember one thing. A street- woman came and sat with me and put my head in her lap as she sat on the curb. The ambulance people questioned her, and she said, “I hope she is okay. She is not from the street. Here is her purse. I kept it for her so it would be safe.” I remember feeling very happy there on the pavement. And very safe.  

I had an office in the old Daily Cal building where from my window I could see folks who were apparently homeless sometimes. One young man went through the garbage can every noontime looking for food. Next day I bought two sandwiches instead of one and went down and offered the second one to him. He bolted. I had apparently scared him with this gesture. After that I put the second sandwich in its little bag, into the garbage can for him to find, which worked well – and he was almost always there to grab it.  

Now that I work on the border I know Shura Wallin, who is one of our heroes on the border. I have gone out into the desert with her many times, looking for folks who need help – food or water or medical care. Shura is the woman, who when she lived in Berkeley, started the program that provides free meals in People’s Park. So, there is that.  

Down on the border, where Shura and I work, some genius decided that a good way to keep migrants out of the US would be to stack up railroad cars along the border, and for a while there was a horrible eye-sore that blocked migration of not only people, but of wild animals. The court’s stopped it, and a lot of money got spent in taking the railcars back out again. A documentary called “American Scar” talks about the hidden impact of those unfortunate walls.  

And now we have the same thing in Berkeley. And to make sure that no one can sneak in and actually spend time in People’s Park, they have added razor wire to you can’t surreptitiously jump into the park from the roof of a nearby building.  

I have only one thing to say.  

Are you fucking kidding me?  

Couple things here: 

1) This park has been here for more than fifty years now. 2) It is symbolic of many things to many people (opposition to the terrible Vietnam war, kindness to people who need help, art, music, green space, happiness) 3) The fact that there is crime, or danger of crime, is the responsibility of those who prevent crime. It is not the responsibility of the park for existing. 4) Shame on the university, who truly should definitely provide housing for its students, for making their tuitions (so many now of high paying overseas students) a priority over the city that generously houses them. 5) Since Cal students are generally low income, and because they make up a large percentage of the Berkeley population, Berkeley (where home values are high) looks on paper like a very poor city. This, I’ve been told, enables Berkeley developers to get federal housing loans available to poor cities, to build and build and build, as long as a few spaces are guaranteed to be rented to low income persons. This is a gift to developers, but less of a solution for the unhoused, who continue to pitch their tents beside the parking meters of Berkeley. 6) What to do? I would suggest that CAL build its dorm somewhere else (the racetrack comes to mind). I would also suggest that UC contribute more funds to Berkeley to help with the increased costs that its presence engenders. And thirdly, I would suggest that UC open its doors even more widely to the city to share arts and education programs broadly. The ghettoization of part of the city for students serves no-one.  

As for the little grassy plot that has recently been massacred by bulldozers, and surrounded by men with guns, I would suggest a complete re-evaluation of what this park means to the people of Berkeley, and frankly to the world.  

The meaning of People’s Park is not what is assigned, by this or that committee or commission or legal document. People’s Park is bigger than that, and better than that. If UC wants to do something there, they can create rational and friendly security, they can provide social service advice and transport for people who need a place to sleep. They can keep the tradition of food and music and sitting in the sunshine in the grass. They can teach classes outdoors in the park, in the tradition of Rabindranath Tagore and his peace school in Shantiniketan in India. They can let people come for Tai Chi and yoga and chess.  

What happened to creativity and what happened to empathy and kindness? People’s Park stands for Berkeley, and for the history of Berkeley that sprouted during the summer of love.  

You weren’t there? Look it up!  

And put some goddamned flowers in your hair!