A Bad Trip

by Sara K.

I walk into the room. Smoke fills my eyes and crawls into my mouth and nose, and I can barely see anything. There is only one light on in the room, and the light bulb flickers on and off, as if it is gasping for air. I know my brother’s in here, but where I do not know. I move my hands across the wall, looking for the light switch I have turned on every morning for the last three years to wake up my brother. I finally find it. The second the lights turn on, I see my brother on the bed, gasping for air. I have only been home for five minutes, and he has been here, alone, for about two hours now. I know he is on some drug, or on a “trip” as my health teacher calls it. He is alive, I know is he alive, he has to be alive. I need to help him, but I do not know how to help him, so I run to him, sit him up and stare into his eyes. He will be fine, I try to reassure myself, but I do not know what to do next. Then things take a turn for the worse, and he starts choking, and I reach my hands up to shake him and--

A poster for Woodstock

It is the same dream every night that I wake up to in a cold sweat, crying in my pitch black room. Most of the time my parents do not realize that this happens; they are sound asleep in the bedroom next to me, both after a long day of work and comparing me to my brother. But the truth is it’s not a dream. It truly happened one night. I came home two minutes after my nine o’clock curfew two summers ago. All I was worried about was my parents freaking out on me, but they were not even home. When I got in the house, though, I knew something was different, so when I went to ask my brother, I found him on a “bad acid trip.” My brother, Mr. Perfect, tripped out on drugs. After that night, I swore I would never do drugs. And after that night, my brother never looked at me the same. I saved his life, and he knew it. He has never said thank you, never even talks about it, and he still needs everyone including my parents to know that he is better than I am.

My brother is gone now, out at Harvard starting on the football team. And my parents are still comparing me to him, even when I get an A- on a test. “Why can’t you be more like your brother William? He would have gotten an A.” Sorry I’m not perfect, parents. Sorry I am the disgrace in the family. I hate being compared to him, but I know I can never be better than he is.

Woodstock is all anyone can talk about. In the neighborhood, all the teens talk about how their parents are letting them go, and how fun it will be. These are usually the kids my mom refers to as trouble makers, but I want to be their friends. My nextdoor neighbor and really my only friend, Grace, is a trouble maker. She told me a few days ago that she’s going to run away to Woodstock with some of her friends. She invited me to go with them, but I declined because I would never do something so crazy like run away from home just to go to some hippie music festival. But I would want to go. I listen to the songs that are going to be played there. And my life is as interesting as a brick, so why not do something fun for once? It can be interesting, and a new experience for me. So maybe I’ll ask my parents, but anyone can tell that they will say no.

I, Virginia Ann Walker, am completely furious and fed up with my parents. Unlike other girls who are going to Woodstock and who are running away to go, I thought I would be responsible and ask my parents about going, only a few days after Grace asked if I wanted to go. Yes, I realize how stupid that was because they get mad at me when I get home seven minutes past my nine o’clock curfew, but I have been good all summer and next year I will be a senior. I just want to experience life like the rest of the youth is these days. But of course, they said no, and continued to compare me to my brother. Really, why do they have to go so low? I get it, I will never be as good as he is, but he’s not even that good. Sure, he plays football and has the highest grade point average in his class at Harvard, but if my parents knew about what he did two summers ago when I walked in on him doing drugs, they would think he is anything but perfect. Drugs! So maybe I will run away like everyone else. My parents deserve it, and if they want me to be more like my brother, then I will be. I am going to Woodstock.

I realize how easy it is to sneak out of my house. By nine o’clock, my parents are dead asleep. I knock on the door, no answer. Then, out of nowhere, I scream, the ultimate test to see if they really are asleep. Not even a kick of the sheets comes from inside their room. I am good to go. I walk down the stairs, not even tiptoeing, for I do not even care anymore. I am done with them. I open the door, look down the road and see Grace doing the same thing, and without saying “I love you” or “goodbye.” I leave my parents without any idea of what I am doing or where I am going.

The freedom, the rush of air coming into the car, the loud highway noises, and the ten mile long traffic jam. Woodstock has made us go haywire, and we have not even arrived yet. In a day, we will be a part of the “three days of peace and music,” but my parents keep crossing my mind. I left them not knowing what is happening to me or where I am. Running away is one of the most exciting yet scariest things I have ever done. I cannot believe I ran away from them. My parents, who raised me for all seventeen years of my life. Although I hated them sometimes, I always loved them and cared about them, but I have moved on to better things, Woodstock. I cannot contain my excitement, and no one else can contain theirs either. This is the biggest thing any of us has done, and no one expects what will happen next.

There are at least 200,000 people here, so many more than anyone had expected. The first day of the festival has barely started, and it is already booming. We decide to leave our car in the middle of the road, like many others, and just walk the rest of the way to the farm. All of us are exhausted from the long, hot car ride, but we have a long day ahead of us. People are coming from everywhere to experience the “three days of peace and music… and love.” When we are about four miles from the farm where Woodstock is being held, we can smell the illegal drugs and alcohol, kind of how my brother’s room smelled when I walked in on him. To be honest, I am a little scared. I seem to be the only person at Woodstock that does not plan to do drugs, or is not already on them. I know I have to stay true to my promise I made to never do drugs, but looking at it now before the festival has even started, I know I will be surrounded by them and people using them.

Tickets to Woodstock

I also seem to be one of the only people actually paying for tickets. Since the creators of Woodstock did not expect the number of people that are here, people are getting in from all areas. I feel bad, mostly for sneaking away, and my guilty conscious can only take so much, so I stand in line and buy a $24 ticket. The second I walk into the fields, I am surrounded by music, peace, and love. The festival goers are already setting up tents in one of the fields, and others are crowding the concession stands, wanting food after the long car rides everyone had to go through. Ohh, the smell of the food, how I will never forget the scent. The whole field has a unique scent of LSD, whiskey, and hot dogs. People are everywhere, doing everything: bathing in the nearby lake, crowding the stage, waiting for the music to start, sleeping in their tents, and tripping out on drugs. I cannot wrap my brain around how many drugs are here, everywhere.

The music has started, and everything is in full rush now. There are so many people, obviously more than anyone had expected, around 500,000 in total. So many people that I lose the people I came with in the crowd. I am with them one second, then they are gone the next. I feel lost in the chaotic crowd, like I do not belong with the people around me. Other than that, it is the most hectic thing I had ever seen, but then again I have not seen much. And I thought my life was thrilling before Woodstock. I do not need drugs to experience the euphoria everyone is in. There is also so much more than music. Woodstock includes art and pottery, places to rest, and even protests against major companies wanting to do something, but I cannot hear what they are saying over the music. There is something at every corner of the farm, and although it is held in the small town of Bethel, New York, it seems that everyone knows everyone and no one is fighting, as if it’s one big community. That is the most shocking part. Not one person throughout the whole crowd is fighting. The conditions are terrible, and I can hear the people working there saying they are running out of food, and to add on to that, everyone is psyched out on drugs.

Tonight, Friday, August 15, 1969, the rain begins to pour. And when I say pour I mean it feels like buckets of water are being thrown on the crowd, but no one seems to really mind. In fact, everyone seems to love it. Some people begin harnessing some of the water for drinking because no one wants to pay for water, and others, who are obviously on something, embrace the rain and play in it. Since I lost everyone I had come with within the first two hours of being there, I stumble into someone’s tent, and to my surprise, the stranger embraces me immediately and asks if I need anything, as if we have been friends for years. I end up falling asleep in the tent of a stranger, a drifter I have never met. What is happening to me? Woodstock has made me into a new person. I am no longer afraid of new experiences, for I am able to grasp them and hold on for the ride they put me through. I like the new me. And from now on I will no longer be Virginia Ann, my old self. I am now Ginny, the Woodstock peace loving hippie.

It has been the first night in two years I have not had the dream of my brother, sitting in his room, tripping out on drugs. I have woken up a new person, someone I have not been in years. I can not wait for the music to continue today, and I never want this feeling of pure happiness and change to end. But I swear I will never do drugs, and I plan on sticking to my promise no matter what. When I open my eyes, I can tell it is early in the morning by the color of the sky, but everyone is already up preparing for the long day ahead. It seems that the stands have run out of food and water, and gracious people are making “chow lines” so festival goers will not be starving. By twelve o’clock, the music begins, and everyone is ready for it. Still there is no violence happening throughout the festival and everything is going well, other than the condition people are living in. The music plays throughout the day, and no one seems to mind anything; even the rain and lack of food do not bother anyone.

When the Grateful Dead comes on, the mood changes. Everyone seems to relate to the music being performed and the drug trafficking begins to pick up even more. I am offered more times than I can count, but I refuse every offer, trying to keep true to my promise.

It is LSD this time. A peace-loving hippie comes out of nowhere and offers, and she will not take no for an answer. I obviously do not want it, but she continues offering, and when her eyes meet mine, I can see the love and sadness in her eyes, as if she has lost someone in her life, or someone has run away from her. I see my parents in her eyes, and I cannot refuse. I also remind myself that I am Ginny now, and I try new things and am interesting. I cautiously take it from her and drop the small square of colorful paper into my mouth. Within minutes, everything is changing, the music begins booming in my ear, I see things and people change color, shape, everything. My mind goes to nothing, like I cannot catch the thoughts I am looking for. The little people crowding the stage turn into ants crawling all over a picnic. Some kind man leads me over to a rock and sits me down, but for how long, I do not know. All sense of time is gone and I cannot tell what is happening.

A crow swoops down and perches itself on the rock next to me and picks at some leftover bun from yesterday. It looks lost, as if it has nowhere to go after being thrown away by its parents. “Doo you know where you’re g-ggoing in your life, because I... I sure do not.” I have to force the words out of my mouth, and even then the crow does not look at me. “I’mm talking to you. Loook at me! Why doess no one love me?” The confusion and apprehension in the bird’s eyes remind me of, well, me, and how I felt when I ran away. “Go-go far away and find someone who loves y--” Before I can finish, two armed, frightening policemen march up to me, stepping on the bird and crushing its wing. They spin me around and hand-cuff me.

I'm the Gypsy - the acid queen.

Pay before we start.

“W-what do you thinkk you’re doing to me?”

“You’re under arrest for--”

“WHAT?” My perfect, hallucinative world shatters right then and there. “That’ss impossible, I have never done aanythingg w-wrong!!”

“You’re under arrest for the use of the drug LSD, which is illegal.”

“BBut I’vee never even t-touched a drug in my liffe, I swear!!”

I'm the Gypsy - The acid queen.

I'll tear your soul apart.

“Save it for the judge.”

As the policemen guide me through the crowd, everyone stares at me, like I am a foreigner, or an alien. I look into the faces staring at me, most of them had blank stares, like they have been brainwashed with the “Woodstock effect” of music and drugs. As I take my finally look into the crowd before being pushed into the cop car, I see William, my straight-A student brother, standing around a bunch of guys, smoking marijuana and drinking alcohol. That is the last image I have of outside life before being locked up in prison for seven years for use and possession of LSD, the drug, the one thing I had promised myself I would never do. I hate Woodstock.