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Carol Kleyn


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The summer of ‘69, I headed to college to the University of California Santa Barbara seeking the longed-for land of blue skies, sunshine, bare feet and homework on the beach. I]d grown up in Seattle, pale of skin, with a closet full of raincoats and boots that never fit. Though I always loved music and played the oboe in the school orchestra, and the All City Band, I’d quit my piano lessons early on, when it came time to hale the scales of Czerny and leave Peer Gynt behind. Researching colleges was a given, my senior year, and I’d hoped for an Ivy League acceptance. Part of my research of schools included studies of the news. The truth is: I had very little real understanding of what was going on in politics and the outside world, especially that war in Vietnam. It was not something we discussed at home and I knew of no one who had joined the military. I did know that news at UCSB included pictures of oil seepage on the beach, but it was a far cry from the pictures of protesting students at Berkley. Those pictures frightened me. I wasn’t sure where I stood, or if I stood at all. The previous fall, I’d marched along downtown Seattle streets yelling chants to pass the school levy but I was nowhere near ready to step into decisions regarding war. Santa Barbara would be an escape into a peaceful enclave, disconnected from the responsibilities of adulthood, or so I thought.

Fortunately, on Thanksgiving of my freshman year, I met a man named Bobby Brown

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