In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

88 Chapter Twenty-eight Apricot Pits, Love Beads, and Jesus “Your hippies ain’t what you think. You think they love babies and poor people, but it ain’t true. They take too many drugs to know how to love. I’ll tell you what they do. They stuff their babies into roaster pans and cook them just like a person cooks a pot roast because they’re too high to notice what they’re doing. You think that’s love?” “Ma, do you think all the hippies are killing their babies?” “I ain’t sure, but I don’t have any friends who roast their babies in the oven.” “At least the hippies are protesting Vietnam,” I say in their defense. “Well, that’s the only good thing they’re doing. It’s a good thing, too. Those hippies are too high to fight.” Then we go on with our towel folding. In our silence, Mom worries about me running off to Berkeley and I worry I’ll never leave Holland and do anything important. Mom thinks I’ll be a beautician and Dad thinks I’ll get a job at General Motors. But I have bigger plans for myself, plans to be protester, a hippie, a person who does something. Things started to change after a group of Jesus Freaks came to town and posted signs for a David Wilkerson Crusade. These Jesus Freaks were more like the hippies I had heard about. They were always singing some folksy Jesus tune, wore CPO Jackets plastered with “One Way” and “Jesus Saves” pins, and acted like peace-loving hippies. I was in the Eighth Grade and ready to link up with a group that fought for a cause. “Hey, Ma,” I shout after entering the house, trying to figure out where she is. “I’m in the basement. Come on down here and give me a hand with the laundry.” “Guess what? There’s going to be a David Wilkerson Crusade in the Civic Center this weekend.” “What’s that mean?” “It’s church stuff, Ma. Like Billy Graham but for young people.” “What’s wrong with Billy Graham?” Diane Payne 89 Mom doesn’t go to church often but she watches church on TV. She doesn’t think it looks good to go to church without our Dad, but Dad spends most Sundays sleeping off a drunken stupor while Mom cooks our Sunday dinner watching TV evangelists with expensive organs and all-glass cathedrals ask people for more money. “Ma, there ain’t nothing wrong with Billy Graham. He’s just boring. Remember those books I read for English, The Cross and the Switchblade and Twelve Angels from Hell?” “Those books! I don’t know what’s wrong with your English teacher.” “Ma, those are good books about growing up! Well, some of the people from those books are going to give testimonies during the crusade.” “I remember when Alice Cooper came to town. A bunch of hoodlums went in on wheelchairs so they could sneak in booze and drugs.Then Alice Cooper goes on stage and chops off a chicken’s head.” “Ma, David Wilkerson ain’t Alice Cooper. You should be glad I’m going to this crusade. It’s like church except less phony.” “Ah, you and your phony talk. I know you ain’t asking for my permission to go so I won’t bother telling you what I think about this kind of religion.” To get her point across she starts singing, “Give me that old time religion. Give me that old time religion,” and I walk upstairs with the laundry basket, feeling more distant from my mother. On Thursday night, I walk to the Civic Center with my friends and we sit on the floor next to the stage, not on the chairs with the rest of the audience. It’s packed. I had no idea there were so many young people in Holland. Just about everyone looks like a hippie and I feel like I’m in Berkeley. A long-haired handsome guy from the Switchblade book starts screaming about how he used to want to shove knives in throats but now that he has found Jesus, he gave up drugs and lives to help people. After he finishes with his testimony, most of the people in the audience begin to cry, and David Wilkerson asks if there is anyone in the audience with drugs, and if they have them to...

Share