ROWAN PARK AND HAYMARKET SQUARE

 

Stationed at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, for my last year and a half in the Army, I tried to be as rebellious and radical as I could get away with. This wasn't difficult in 1970 and 1971. Radicals had a lot going for them. We still had the draft. So many were protesting that, along with the Vietnam War, and countless guys were in the Army who didn't want to be there. Angry G.I.'s were trying to start an illegal union, called G.I.'s United, and were holding clandestine meetings here and there. Fayetteville had a coffee shop hangout for radical G.I.'s, called Haymarket Square. And Rowan Park was "our park."

I lived in a one-room apartment off post, officially with three other guys, but about twenty-five lived there. Drugs were easily obtained mainly in Rowan Park, and our commune for awhile was open basically to anyone who hated the Army and didn't hate drugs. A few women lived with us, too---one the girlfriend of one of the guys, another a Tarot card reader, and another an encyclopedia saleswoman who decided to stay. We had whole keys (fifty ounces each) of marijuana in clear plastic bags on an open shelf in the apartment. Despite the harsh penalties for drugs then, we didn't do much to hide them.

Rowan Park was where we went to play Frisbee when we were stoned or tripping, and sometimes even when we were straight. One time I went there alone and ended up sleeping under a picnic table when night came. In the middle of the night, I was gently awakened by a pleasant, soothing voice. I opened my eyes and looked into a charming girl's face, not four inches from my own. She smiled and said, "Hi. I'm Tinkerbell. You wanna join us?" 

That was how I met my band of friends who weren't in the Army. They were hippies. I crawled out from under the picnic table to see about eight to ten other, long-haired people gathered in a circle, sitting on the grass, passing a joint. They accepted me as one of them, and soon I was very high with them. One of our theme songs was the Three Dog Night's "Celebrate." We became frequenters of Rowan Park. I never knew where any of them lived. As far as we were concerned, we lived at the park.

In May of 1970, some superstars of the anti-army movement came to hold a massive rally at Rowan Park, including Jane Fonda and Rennie Davis. About three thousand people attended. Police lined the perimeter. I sat on the ground next to a friend, and we had only one tab of LSD between us, so I broke it in half and as we partook of the hallucinogen, I glanced up and saw a reporter with a big camera aimed at us. Putting the half tab in my mouth with one hand, I gave the peace sign with the other, and smiled; and that photo got into the newspaper and the clipping onto the bulletin board of the Army's Criminal Investigation Department (CID).

After the protest show, groups gathered to go onto post to find G.I.'s to talk with, but the demonstration's ringleaders, including Jane Fonda, were arrested before they left the park. While watching Jane Fonda being arrested, a big cop came by and forcefully shoved me back, much to my disapproval.

Word had it that there was to be a big G.I.'s United meeting at the Quaker House in Fayetteville that evening, and so I went. The meeting was quite boring and I was tripping on acid, so I stepped out a back door to walk around. As I came into the front yard, a car pulled right up onto the lawn in front of me, and out stepped Jane Fonda. I was the only one around for her to talk to, and so she told me how ironic it was: Here she was arrested for demonstrating against the Army; her efficient lawyer got her released quickly; and on the way back they stopped at Kentucky Fried Chicken and got their food free because she's a movie actress. Through my dilated eyes I then watched her shake her confused head and sigh.

Not long after that, while at work on post, someone came and said that the post commander wanted to see me! Unheard of! I was missing some patch or something and so was "out of uniform" when I went to the post headquarters and reported to him. He didn't mention anything about the uniform. Instead he told me that there was a G.I.'s United meeting planned at some baseball diamond on post, which was illegal, and that all who attend would be arrested. He strongly advised me not to attend. Apparently there had been spies at that meeting in town, but why he picked me to try to keep me from arrest is unknown. Anyway, I didn't go to the on-post meeting, nor did I know about it in the first place. 

After that rally, Rowan Park was even more on the policemen's "shit list." One night our group, including Tinkerbell, was sitting in a circle, passing a joint. I was the one holding the joint when we saw in amazement a police car driving into the park, right over the lawn, speedily coming towards us. I quickly pounded the joint two inches into the ground with my thumb, while another guy pulled a baggie out of his pocket with ten tabs of LSD in it. He said, "I wonder how good _____'s acid is, and he gulped down all ten hits. The police told us that some neighbors had complained about noise in the park, and that we needed to be quiet. Then they drove off, without searching us. Afterwards several spotlights shown on us from around the park's perimeter, apparently to intimidate us. We weren't intimidated, but just sat there in our circle, quietly waiting. After the lights went out and the police drove away, we left for the night. The next weekend, the guy who took the ten hits of LSD was there in Rowan Park, walking around aimlessly, still tripping.

One particular guy in the group became more of a friend to me. He was a big, long-haired, bearded fellow. One day, after hearing that my favorite drug was synthetic THC, he told me that he could get me five hundred hits, if I were interested in selling it. This drug was like smoking marijuana without any of the side effects (smell, sore throat, munchies, etc.), simply popping a pill, and everything seemed like a good dream. Why wouldn't I want to share this nice experience? So I agreed to meet him at the park at such-and-such a time, to get the five hundred hits and to pay him. Well, I was there, but he wasn't. Then came a young guy running across the park to tell me that our friend was arrested trying to buy the THC and was in jail. My heart fell. About two months later, I was coming into Rowan Park and saw my bearded friend from a distance, standing by the stage, and I yelled out Three Dog Night's "Celebrate! Celebrate! Dance to the music..." And from beside the stage he heard me and joined in, and we greeted each other as though no misfortune had occurred at all. Maybe he was used to it, but of course that episode convinced me never to deal drugs.

Downtown I hung out at Haymarket Square. The management of this coffee house made a business out of being as radical as they could on behalf of discontented soldiers. The large room was full of little tables surrounded by chairs, and there was a counter for ordering coffee house fare. Along the counter were also little piles of literature, as controversial as could be found, from G.I.'s United material to communist pamphlets about Mao Tse-tung. Pete Seeger came there once to sing for us and talk to us. Then, in April of 1971, Jane Fonda returned, along with Donald Sutherland, Peter Boyle, Dick Gregory, etc., to put on the "F*** the Army" Show right there in Haymarket Square. Elliot Gould was scheduled to come to the performance also, but then declined due to "personal reasons." 

I sat about ten feet from Fonda, Sutherland, Boyle, etc. as they acted out little, protest skits. The only one I really remember enough to tell is when they pretended they were sitting in an audience when it came time to stand for the flag and sing the Star Spangled Banner. All stood and sang except for Donald Sutherland, who sat quietly. The standing singers became more and more perturbed, trying to goad the obvious protester into standing, but he refused, and they ended up beating him off the chair and onto the floor. Then with him lying there, beat up, they stood and finished the song: "O'er the land of the free..." The room rocked with applause. Later, outside, I noticed Jane Fonda, off by herself and leaning against the building. Occasionally a G.I. would pass by and talk with her, but she mainly stood there alone. No swarming fans, no bodyguard(s) that I could tell. She may be the bane of proud vets, the scourge of patriots, hated by many, but I still remember her from "Barbarella," and I've got to say that she has one fine body.

During another day in Haymarket Square, a quiet day, Mark and I sat there, bored. A young man came up to us and said, "Would you like to go to a Buddhist meeting?" With nothing else to do, Mark and I looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders, and said, "Sure." The fellow drove us to some house in Fayetteville where a large room-full of Buddhists and guests were gathered. A man there talked to us about Buddhism, helped us memorize their chant, "Nam-myoho-renge-kyo," and told us what it means. He, and most all the Buddhists present, then took out their beads, like a rosary but beads only. They held it between fingers and just rubbed it as they then repeated the chant. His explanation of why the beads was, "Because it feels good." Well, it all did make for an interesting afternoon, but when Mark and I stepped out to discuss the experience, we both shared a deeper conviction in Christianity. It was inspiring to see the Buddhists so faithfully and enthusiastically talk about their faith and perform their ritual, but deep down both Mark and I knew it was a bit "out there," and instead it made us get homesick for the Christianity we had grown up with and had not been so faithfully practicing. And so we left feeling happy and inspired and enthusiastic, but not in the way the Buddhists had hoped.

And so Rowan Park, and Haymarket Square, and the little commune, and Fort Bragg, and the Army, soon drifted into only memories. I went home.

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