The End of Innocence
The political thing became more focused for me on November 22, 1963, when the loudspeaker in Brother Carmine Diodati’s religion class crackled and on came a radio report of President Kennedy’s assassination in Dallas. By then, I was a freshman at Chaminade High School and this was big Kennedy territory. The following days featured a number of sorrowful Masses and lectures about the slain President and the tragedy that had befallen America.
At home, my parents never said much about the murder itself but were glued to Walter Cronkite for information. I remember that my father didn’t much care for Lyndon Johnson, who was distant to him in many ways. My mother was mostly worried about Jackie Kennedy and her two young children.
But, all in all, politics and the issues of the day did not intrude very much on the O’Reilly family situation. We soldiered on, so to speak, without much partisan activity. It was the same thing on the street; I can never remember my friends discussing politics at all. Why would you? We had the Yankees, Mets, Giants, Jets, Rangers, and Knicks. It was exhausting.
Then came the summer of 1967, the Summer of Love in San Francisco. For us teenagers in my Levittown neighborhood, love was often demonstrated in cars on dark lanes. But as Bob Dylan sang, the times were a-changin’. Vietnam began heating up, and a few of the older guys came home injured from Southeast Asia. Some others showed up with completely altered personalities. For the first time in my life, I saw close up what war could do. Curious, I talked with some of the returning vets, and they all said the same thing: Vietnam was chaos; there was nothing good about it.
That fall, I entered Marist College in Poughkeepsie, New York, exempt from the draft on a student deferment. Most of the neighborhood guys who did not have that advantage were called up, and many shipped out to Southeast Asia. One neighborhood guy came home from Vietnam and killed himself. Another became a hard-core drug addict. Like everyone else, I saw the fighting on television and heard the intense debates. So I decided to ask my father about it. He said the war was a disaster, nothing like World War II, when the country was united against enemies that had directly attacked us. He didn’t further explain his opinion, but his blunt words overrode everything else on the subject, as far as I was concerned. My father was a tough guy, sometimes irrational in his anger over petty stuff. But he never lied to me and he was not uninformed. If he thought the Vietnam situation was screwed up, it was screwed up.
As opposition to the war mounted throughout the country, I paid more attention, but typically, I was essentially detached from most of it. Playing football for Marist College, socializing, and occasionally studying occupied most of my time. Even though not pro-war, my father and many other Levittowners were rapidly becoming appalled by the often outlandish behavior displayed by hard-core antiwar activists. Abbie Hoffman, Jerry Rubin, and the rest of the militant protesters brought a few choice words from 2nd Lt. William O’Reilly Sr. As a former naval officer, he didn’t like drugs, he didn’t like sloppy appearances, and he didn’t like the pounding music from Iron Butterfly. He wasn’t overly angry with the yippies and hippies; he was more confused by them. What had happened to America?
I rarely discussed the state of the country with my father during my summers at home, because we were both working long hours. He was still a low-level bean counter, and I made money as a swimming instructor for the Town of Babylon on Long Island. One night, however, I did play him a cut from the new Doors album. I can’t remember why I did such an inexplicable thing, but I do clearly recall his terse response: “Stick with Elvis.”
Okay.
At the same time, my father recoiled from the “America right or wrong” crowd. He wanted effective leadership in Washington, not fatuous propaganda. As the war foundered, his opinion of President Johnson and the Democratic establishment cratered, and, without viable options in the campaign of 1968, my father was forced again to support Richard Nixon for President. As they say in MAD magazine: yeeesh.
Meanwhile, my college career was going the way that most college careers go: I did my work, tried and failed to beguile young ladies, and had a load of mindless fun without getting loaded. Well, I might be a bit unusual in that last category. You’ll get a more thorough explanation later.
Also, because I had begun writing for the college newspaper, I started paying closer attention to world events, which were growing more chaotic by the week, both at home and abroad. Still, at Marist College, the antiwar movement was rather placid, because most of the students there were sons and daughters of working people: cops, firemen, salesmen, and the like. Those folks were not real enthusiastic about chanting, “Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?” Trust me, few were burning flags and/or bras in Levittown.
Till It’s Over—Over There
In the spring of 1969, a life-altering thing happened. Some of my college friends were accepted to the Third Year Abroad program and suggested I apply as well. I didn’t jump at the prospect right away. Because I was playing football, writing for the paper, and had figured out how to get relatively good grades for the least amount of work, I was not all that intrigued with the prospect of going to a foreign country, where I might actually have to bust my butt academically and give up football. But, finally, I decided to apply.
I was turned down!
Outrage gripped me. Turned down? Are you kidding me? My grades were better than most of those accepted, and I even spent more than an hour writing the damn Third Year Abroad essay explaining my desire to “accelerate my knowledge.” It was complete BS, but so were all the other essays. What the heck was going on?
The answer to that question takes us back to my experience in grammar school: remember when I was labeled a “bold, fresh piece of humanity”? The problem, according to some Marist teachers, was that I was still simply that. In the eyes of my instructors, I had not evolved very much from the little wise guy that Sister Lurana had accurately branded. In short, I was a Philistine who could not be trusted to represent the college in a sophisticated foreign country—or any other destination, for that matter.
Oh, yeah?
Now, I’m the type of guy who does not readily accept the word no. I’ve succeeded in my career because the more negative things said about me, the harder I work to disprove them. Living well is not the best revenge. Succeeding in your career and humiliating your critics is.
Anyway, I demanded that the professors running the abroad program explain themselves or I would write an article accusing them of anti-Irish bias. Or anti-Levittown bias. Or whatever bias I could conjure up. In a tense meeting, I explained to those pinheads that I studied hard, had achieved a high grade point average, had avoided any misdemeanor or felony convictions, and actually attended church most every Sunday.
On my way to England in 1969.
So what say you, Professors?
They folded. I was accepted into the program. The problem was, I didn’t actually want to go abroad. But I had caused such a ruckus that, in September 1969, I found myself on an ocean liner sailing from New York City to Southampton, England. Accompanying me were hundreds of other students, many of whom were long-haired, pot-fueled male maniacs who did far better with the female passengers than I did.
Plus, I got seasick. Not good at all.
When I arrived in London to begin my courses at Queen Mary College, a satellite of the University of London, I immediately ran into a lot of anti-American feeling. The Vietnam War, of course, was just as unpopular in Great Britain as it was in the USA, but there was also an undercurrent of hostility toward the American system in general. In my student dormitory, Commonwealth Hall, some of the “blokes” actually disliked me solely because of my citizenship!
Certainly we all can understand loathing me because of personality issues, but embracing hate simply because I was born in the USA? Completely unacceptable.
One guy named Derek consistently gave me a hard time about my New Yawk accent. It was clear to him that everything in British culture was fa
r superior to anything America had to offer. I found this kind of amusing, since the highest-rated TV program in England in 1969 was Top of the Pops, a rip-off of American Bandstand. And, for much of the year, the highest-rated song on that program was a ditty by a group called Edison Lighthouse that featured this perceptive chorus:
Love grows where my Rosemary goes,
and nobody knows like me.
As the British are fond of saying: indeed.
Anyway, I annoyed Derek by mocking the Pops, and he continued on about my speech patterns until I let loose with this bit of intellectual wisdom: “Hey, bud, you’d have a German accent if it wasn’t for my father and thousands of other New Yorkers like him. So blank you, fish and chips, and the Beatles. Get me?”
Make friends everywhere; that’s always been my motto. Somewhere in Poughkeepsie, the head of the abroad program was weeping.
The anti-Americanism I witnessed in the dorm, during antiwar demonstrations in Trafalgar Square, in the British classrooms, and on the BBC, did not go down real well with me. I was no fan of the Vietnam War, but even at nineteen years old, I loved my country and understood its essential nobility. America is not a perfect place, but the good heavily outweighs the bad, and those who despise us around the world are misguided and often tee me off. So the origin of my intense feelings for the USA can be charted back to those intense days in London. Throughout my year over there, I gave it to the America haters good, often using a very loud New Yawk accent to do my debating. Blimey.
To this day, I believe much of the anti-Americanism in Europe is driven by simple jealousy. America is a big, loud dog that generally struts its stuff. Many folks, even in the United States, do not like that kind of presentation. Overseas, some people form shallow, negative judgments about the USA without understanding or even looking at the overall picture. Throughout our history, Americans have freed hundreds of millions of people all over the world, yet a 2007 Pew Research poll, to use one example, found that the majority of British subjects have an unfavorable view of America. Even fueled by Guinness, that’s a tough one to swallow.
About two months into my first semester in London, I got a bit bored with the rain and decided to see the rest of Europe. I bought a small motorcycle and set off. Before I was through, I had cut scores of classes but visited Ireland, Spain, Portugal, Morocco, France, Italy, Switzerland, Germany, Belgium, Holland, Denmark, Norway, Sweden, and Austria. Not to mention Andorra, Liechtenstein, Luxembourg, and San Marino. What an education!
Back then, the only continental country where I sensed a strong anti-American feeling was France. But I quickly learned the French don’t like anyone. There’s a story about President Johnson being so fed up with the anti-Americanism of Charles de Gaulle that he called the French president and threatened to exhume every American body buried in Normandy and ship the corpses back to the USA. I believe the story is true.
But some attitudes notwithstanding, traveling around Europe was a blast. As a history major, I couldn’t get enough of it. From the Rhine castles to the Swiss Alps to the French Riviera, each destination was thrilling to a hometown guy like me, whose family vacation history was spelled V-E-R-M-O-N-T.
However, I did compare all the places I visited with home, and guess what? Home always won. Some will call it chauvinism, but for me the USA simply worked better. The socialism I saw in northern Europe sapped initiative and limited achievement. The fascism I saw in Franco’s Spain was downright nasty. One of Franco’s Guardia Civil goons actually awakened me on a train in the middle of the night by tapping my leg with a machine gun. My infraction: my foot was resting on the empty seat across from me.
Arriving in Germany, I found the communist wall dividing that country to be offensive and depressing. From my safe haven across the divide, I actually gave an East German guard the finger, something I rarely do.
So I got to see a lot of overseas stuff up close and personal, and all of it confirmed that the land of the free and the home of the brave was the perfect place for a working-class kid like me. When I visited Vatican City, I lit a candle in St. Peter’s, thanking God I was born an American. And I believe many Italians would echo the sentiment.
Since my first adventure abroad, I have traveled extensively, visiting more than seventy countries. And always upon my return, when the U.S. customs agent says, “Welcome home,” I get a chill. Every time.
Get Back Home, Loretta
Coming back to the USA to finish college in the fall of 1970 was something of a shock. The killing of four Kent State students by National Guardsmen in May of that year had radicalized millions more Americans against the war and the government. To my amazement, even the atmosphere at traditionalist Marist College had completely changed.
When I left for England, Marist was primarily a beer-drinking school. But in one year that image had evaporated. Pot, hashish, and LSD had replaced the kegs. Some of my friends who had haircuts like Dennis the Menace when I left now looked like one of the Kinks (British rock group, grooming challenged). Pampered white kids from Scarsdale were quoting Huey Newton, the “minister of defense” for the Black Panthers. As they said back then: “Far out.”
For me, a budding independent thinker, most of this stuff was nonsense. Huey Newton? Please. “Power to the people”? Sure. Jane Fonda for secretary of state and Jimi Hendrix for president! The only thing I found fundamentally interesting about the Age of Aquarius was the change in attitude among many young women. See, sexual politics had hit Marist College hard. In the space of a year, sleeping with someone had gone from a fairly serious decision to “if it feels good, do it.”
Of course, that philosophy, when it comes to substances, can easily lead to rehab or to the morgue, as Joplin, Hendrix, Morrison, and scores of others would amply demonstrate. But back in the fall of 1970, drug and dating protocols were “evolving,” and it was fascinating to watch. Scrawny, unkempt guys who were lepers to the opposite sex just twelve months prior were now making out very well, especially if they spouted radical rubbish and had a stash of weed. To me, it was madness. To the nebbishes, it was heaven on earth.
Very simply, I was able to keep rather than “feed” my head, because I did not do drugs (again, we’ll explore that later). I refused to join “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” I lost out on some, uh, social gratification for my stance, but I’m very glad I held the line. Also, I was busy enough with writing and football to avoid most “heavy” conversations (that’s BS in today’s lexicon). But I couldn’t avoid the loud, pulsating Cream and Vanilla Fudge music, or the clouds of pot smoke on my dormitory floor. That was really annoying.
So although the mood on campus had turned far left, I couldn’t “dig it.” I wasn’t conservative, but I wasn’t grooving to the SDS (Students for a Democratic Society) either. Basically, I stayed out of the fray. I was back on the football team, writing for the paper, and counting the days until graduation. Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young were asking me: “What if you knew her and found her dead on the ground?” But, perhaps selfishly, I was holding back on any answer.
In fact, the entire antiwar thing was numbing. Every day the same chant, the same rant. The only entertaining political thing that happened was Elvis visiting Nixon at the White House. On December 21, 1970, the King showed up on Pennsylvania Avenue looking like he had just partied with Willie Nelson. Nixon posed for a picture with the E-man, seemingly oblivious to the King’s “state of mind.”
I have that famous picture hanging on my office wall to this day.
But the gruesome hits just kept on coming. In the spring of 1971, Lt. William Calley was convicted of premeditated murder in the killings of twenty-two Vietnamese civilians at My Lai, effectively removing any semblance of the moral high ground from the American military effort. The world was seething at the United States, and things at Marist were getting out of control as well, with boycotts and demonstrations and sit-ins. Remember, this was regular-people Poughkeepsie, New York, not pseudointellectual Cambridge, Massachusetts. I
couldn’t keep up with the outrage du jour and didn’t even try. I felt terrible for our troops in Vietnam because some of them were my friends and I knew they were good people. I understood that Calley was a criminal; I also knew he did not represent the vast majority of the American military. But my point of view was drowned out by the fierce antiwar frenzy on display everywhere. Slowly, I grew to detest the excess and arrogance displayed by some of those antiwar people.
I speak from direct experience. One fine spring day, I was walking across campus heading for my French Hegemony class. Now, this course was not exactly a blast, but the professor, Peter O’Keefe, was a smart guy and aimed to present the material in a relevant way. So I showed up twice a week and tried to learn something about European history.
As I approached the classroom building, a long-haired guy, badly in need of shampoo and conditioner, blocked my way.
“Nobody’s going to class today,” he said. “We’re having a ‘solidarity’ meeting.”
“Enjoy it, bud,” I shot back. “I’ll see you over there.”
“You can’t go to class,” the student insisted.
“I can’t?”
“That’s right, man, you can’t.”
I hate to admit this, because I don’t relish physical confrontation, but I grabbed the guy, tossed him into some bushes, and proceeded along to my class. He weighed about eighty pounds, so it wasn’t exactly World Wrestling Entertainment under way. However, the altercation left me more than a little steamed. There’s a line you don’t cross with me, and this minimilitant had crossed that line. It was my first brush with left-wing totalitarianism. There would be many more to come.
That day only four students showed up for class; the rest knew they had a valid excuse for cutting. Professor O’Keefe discussed the situation with us, putting forth the view that the dissenters, the antiwar “movement,” brooked no dissent themselves. They had morphed into bitter, anti-American automatons whose actions were far more destructive than constructive.
A Bold Fresh Piece of Humanity Page 2
