My Place On the Island of Misfit Toys

I cringe when I’m called a hippie. Nothing against hippies, but I don’t include myself among their numbers.

It’s true that I go months between haircuts and that I give less thought to my clothes than to the moon cycle. I’m indifferent to the material possessions that many people prize, unless it’s a new Bob Dylan CD or a draft beer at a baseball game. And while I’m not an especially noble person, my sporadic acts of true Christian spirit scare people who are afraid of getting their hands dirty.

On the other hand, I’m not much for the Grateful Dead, tie-dye or patchouli. I’ve never been interested in illicit drugs. My politics are unconventional, but that doesn’t mean I voted for John Kerry.

In Berkeley I’d be tagged as a hopeless square. Yet friends and family regularly hit me with the hippie tag. Just because my surroundings are dominated by cupcakes doesn’t mean I’m a flag burning freak.