It was late Spring of 1971. Mom and Dad, also known as Virginia and John, were up front and I had the back of the Chrysler to myself. The songs of June 1971 still resonate on the radio today, but the Rolling Stones will no longer play “Brown Sugar'“ live in the 21st Century. PC has come for that song.
Scattered around me, alone in the back seat, would be pads of writing paper for games and thoughts; maybe “The Lord Of The Rings” or “The Doors Of Perception” or the recent Rolling Stone to keep me entertained. There was always the radio with these songs (pictured) playing over and over again. There was a conversation about the scenery, cars, the upcoming graduation and the sound of the wheels on the highway.
New Haven.Hartford. Worcester. Approaching the outskirts of the home of the hated Red Sox, one of my parents would mention lunch or, at the least, a toilet break. We might stop for something on I-95 or we would venture off and find a HOJO or a Friendly’s where I would enjoy one of the 100’s of coffee thickshakes I had in my life.
Radio news stations spoke of Nixon, Vietnam, POW’s, and the body count. The War had divided the nation and had taken too many lives. May 1971 saw huge protests in Washington, D.C., and that same month, we will never forget the killings of US students by the National Guard at Kent State. 4 Dead In Ohio.
We arrived in Biddeford, Maine. We checked into a motel and then found my brother Jay somewhere on the campus of St. Francis. I cannot recall if he chose this college based on his SAT scores, the distance from home or if he still had some deep-seated Roman Catholic stuff to work through. It was a small college of about 800 students.
Biddeford was a classic old New England Mill Town on the Saco River. There were miles of river frontage with the falls punctuating it with charm. My parents wanted some time alone after the drive up, which meant cocktails, dinner, and whatever adults get up to. I am not sure how they persuaded my brother to look after me until the next day, but I was pleased as punch. I liked nothing more than hanging out with my elder siblings and their friends.
Off we went to Bonnie’s apartment with Tom and some others. Beers were shared around and with a nod of my brother’s head, one was given to this youngster. John Fogarty sang about being in the bayou, and we all found a place to sit around the lounge room table.
The soon-to-be graduates and others were laughing and talking but my eyes were glued to the gallon wine bottle on the table. Inserted into the top was a funnel with a homemade screen of sorts and coming out of the bottle in some fashion were 4 rubber hoses. This was the closest I had been to a homemade water pipe and to the ounce of weed lying next to it. There was a level of excitement in my bones.
The contents of the bag were ceremoniously dumped into the funnel and fire sticks were found. My brother and his mates had covertly decided that they were going to turn me on for the first time. Music was played, the hoses were passed around, and I waited to feel something. And waited. Who knows how long it took, but soon I was laughing at everything.
As the sun began to sink, the college crowd wanted to go out to the local bars to celebrate their last weekend as college students. Tom and my brother bought me a six-pack of Bud, and in my happily stoned state, I spent the evening enjoying the music and the beer and my first illegal smile.
Life had changed for me. A door to something had opened. It was an initiation. Biddeford was a town I thought I would never hear of with anything but joy.
This one fine memory of this little town was shattered on the 13th of July 2026.
Johan Sebastián Durán Guerrero was gunned down by ICE Idiots in Biddeford on that date. Turns out Joan was not the individual wanted. He had legal status to work in America. He had a Social Security number. He has left a partner and a young daughter due to the thuggery and criminal activity of the Trump Regime.
My youthful memory of the happiness of Biddeford is now overshadowed by the killing of another person for being targeted because they are not white. Targeted by mistake. Five shots.
Look at how many people came out to protest the Vietnam War.
There should be millions of Americans on the streets as often as possible showing their utter disgust at the President and his fellow criminals. People, citizens, are being shot dead by masked men in America.
Citizens are being shot dead in the streets of America by masked men. Does that make you sick to your stomach? Or cry?
When will America stand up?
What happens when they come for you?
Karolina Rojas Alvarez, Johan’s partner, had this to say:
"He gave me more than I ever dreamed of. I will never have the words to express what a marvelous, loving man God gave me," Rojas said.
