M. Evan Wolkenstein

p When I was in high-school, I fancied myself a bit of a hippie. I had long hair and listened to the Beatles and the Grateful Dead. I was opposed to the Gulf War and I wore paint-splattered Levi’s that had once been my father’s work-pants. I read The Autobiography of Malcolm X  and carried a suitcase with my schoolbooks on which I’d written: “The Mighty Quinn.” One wet, winter day, hanging out with some fellow hippie neophytes, I posed a dilemma: what was truer to the hippie