Maureen Dowd, NYT Opinion Columnist
June 20, 2020
I never told my father I was proud of him.
I grew up in the ’60s, another era filled with tears and tear gas and violent clashes about race and class.
I didn’t want to be a hippie, but I certainly didn’t want to be a fascist. I was sheltered in my demure blue school uniform and saddle shoes, watching the world burn.
The National Guard slaughtering students at Kent State. The Chicago police billy-clubbing yippies at the ’68 Democratic convention. Soldiers in Vietnam getting denounced as “baby killers,” and radicals vowing to “barbecue some pork” and spill the blood of “pigs.”