50 Years Later: Alexander Hamilton High School Class of 1969 Graduation — Wow, Did That Really Happen?

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. Truly, it was. We were the graduating class of ’69. We had The Beatles and The Rolling Stones. Our music had heart and soul and purpose. We were engaged and we were going to change the world. We lived through the assassinations of John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King, and Bobby Kennedy. We marched in the streets to protest the Vietnam War. We went to love-ins. We expanded our consciousness and we blew our minds.

We lived in the City of Angels, Los Angeles, California, where people came to make their dreams come true. It was La La Land before the movie. When I started 10th grade at Alexander Hamilton High School the dress code forbade girls from wearing pants. If a teacher thought our dresses looked too short we were sent to the office of the dreaded Mrs. Jimenez, Girl’s Vice Principal. I’d heard tales Mrs. Jimenez had a ruler which she used to measure how much above the knee your skirt was. Some said they had to kneel to see if their skirts touched the floor. You would be sent home to change your clothes if you didn’t pass the test. Then one day we held a sit-in protest. At the designated time, we all got up from our desks and made our way into the halls of Hami High, determinedly sat down, demanding the dress code be changed.

I don’t remember who was appointed to deliver our demands, but I do remember this. We won! Girls would now be allowed to wear pants to school. It was a great victory. We felt powerful. We had agency. What was such a victory for us then, is beyond imaginable for girls today. They probably don’t know about a time when girls were not allowed to wear pants to school. Too many girls are unaware of how many of the rights they enjoy today were hard fought for by women who called themselves suffragettes and feminists. I cringe when I hear young women proudly assert they are not feminists, as if is a dirty word. But…I digress.

I graduated from Hami High in the summer of ’69. Now, fifty years on, what happened at our graduation seems almost unbelievable. In fact, at my 40th class reunion, a close friend asked me to tell his wife the story because it seemed so fantastic he wanted to make sure he had not embellished it over the years. He wanted to confirm his version had not become fantastical, but was actual. While I recounted the story, he nodded along. Yes, his memory and mine were in agreement. Our graduation had been like a scene right out of a movie no one had yet made. We were the class of ’69, and our graduation was like a metaphor for the Sixties. It embodied not only the tumult of the times, but our conviction to speak truth to power. At least, that is how I think of the Sixties.

Here is the story as I remember it.

It was a beautiful, sunny June day in L. A. I lived in a small, three-bedroom apartment with my parents and my two siblings still living at home, both younger than I. A couple of hours before it was time to leave for the graduation, I hopped into my ’57 Oldsmobile, fondly referred to by my friends as the “patty wagon”, and drove over to my friend Jerri’s home. She had baked a batch of Alice B. Toklas brownies for our circle of friends, and all of us were going to partake as part of our preparation for our rite of passage. They were delicious.

The social scene at our school was divided into several factions or cliques. There were the soshes (short for social) whom I thought of as the girls who always had purses and shoes that matched and tended to be more conservative. There were the jocks, who were the male counterpart of the soshes. They were into sports and wore their lettermen jackets to school.

Then there were the flower children and the hippies. I make this distinction thinking hippies tended to be more heavily into drugs and skipping class. I was a flower child. I wore beads around my neck, sold the L. A. Free Press on the Sunset Strip, was passionately against the Vietnam War, interested in getting good grades and going to college. Yes, there were cliques, but we were not antagonistic. The lines were fluid and yielding. We were finding ourselves and we were influenced not only by our families but by the popular culture all around us. This was the class of ’69, as we gathered for our graduation.

I arrived on campus with my family. They made their way to the bleachers. I found my fellow Vyotokeans, lining up in alphabetical order, being distributed hats and gowns. We were excited and we were happy. Finally, we were graduating! We were ready to take our place in the world.

And some of us were just coming onto our brownie-induced “deeper level of consciousness”. Our gowns were a deep royal blue, beautiful and flowing. But something strange happened as we put them on. Suddenly, we all looked the same. We were going to march in line and stay in formation. We were becoming part of the dreaded establishment. I was concerned, but still excited. I looked up and down the line and said to one of my classmates, “We all look the same. We look like Blue Meanies,” a reference to The Beatles movie, Yellow Submarine. Had we somehow been tricked? Had we slipped into conformity without really noticing? This was all on my mind as I walked with my class onto the field, where we filed into rows of chairs and took our seats. I was still smiling on the outside, but I was becoming concerned.

We sat facing our parents who were in the bleachers opposite us. Then a young man walked to the podium. He began to speak. Up until this point, we had been listening casually if at all, our attention mostly on socializing with friends seated near us. But as he continued there was something in his tone that compelled us to listen. He drew our attention to him as he boldly carried on.

He was talking about the Vietnam War, criticizing our government and arguing with urgency for us to withdraw troops. Now my ears were on fire. I had marched in the streets protesting the war, a war I believed was about greed and oil. Now I was not bored. I sat on the edge of my seat. This courageous young man was using his opportunity to speak about something important! This was not just the usual, “As we look into our futures, opportunities abound” graduation speech.

Then there was a shout from the bleachers. “Communist! Communist! Sit down.” But the voice representing the voice of our generation would not be silenced. He pressed on.

More angry shouts from the bleachers, but now those shouts were answered with counter shouts from our graduating class. The tension grew and the voices on each side got louder. By the time the speech was over many in the audience and the graduating class were standing on their seats yelling at each other. It felt like a cataclysmic clash of the old guard and the incoming guard. We had had enough of our friends and fellow youth being maimed and dying for the misguided ambitions of the powers that be. We wanted change and we wanted it now.

The speech concluded and the young man took his seat. The battlefield that was our graduation ceremony, left metaphoric smoke in the air. The next speaker walked slowly to the podium. It was our exchange student. She was from Vietnam. She began to speak quietly into the microphone, but her voice began to shake with emotion. A few more words, then she broke into tears and sobs. My heart hurt for her. An administrator moved toward her and put an arm around her. She continued with her speech. She was grateful for her time at Hami High and in America. She told us about her beautiful country. The juxtaposition of the two speeches was uncanny.

This had not been the plan. The anti-war speech had been rejected when submitted and a different speech had been approved. But here we were, living the embodiment of contradictions and clashes of our time. It was thrilling and heartbreaking all at once, which is how I might describe growing up in the Sixties.

The next thing I remember about the graduation was my family walking toward me on the field. We took some photos and everyone acted like the whole thing had not happened. But it had! We were not Blue Meanies! We were courageous and we were determined. We would not go quietly to take our place as cogs in the machinery. We would not do what was expected. We would speak truth to power and we would fight for justice.

Now the class of ’69 is gathering for our 50th Class Reunion. I am so curious to find out who we have become and how being children of the Sixties has impacted our lives. Who are we now? What do we believe and what do we stand for? How did growing up in such a tumultuous time impact the rest of our lives?

I remember the credo of our generation, “Don’t trust anyone over thirty.” Perhaps it is the creed of all youth. I’m 67 now, and still burning brightly with the ideals I embraced in my youth. Still marching in the streets and caring deeply that justice prevail. And I’m still dancing to The Beatles and The Rolling Stones.

Hey Vyotokeans, can’t wait to see you all in September at our 50th Class Reunion.

Peace and Love, Pattie Ravitz