My Summer of 1968

1968. What a time to be 21 years old! Assassinations, demonstrations, civil rights, the war, Humanae Vitae and the outbreak of the Great Cold Catholic Civil War; a culture and a Church exploding in conflict, confusion, and breakneck change. With my friends, I was blessed to absorb it all from the safety of a college seminary: no drugs, sex or demonstrations; rather, wholesome semi-monastic routines of study, prayer, manual labor, silence and recreational sports. Lots of reading, thinking, conversation and arguments. Decisive for my intellectual development were two philosophy courses with Fr. McGinn MM: Medieval Culture and 19th Century Philosophy. McGinn convinced me that 20th century philosophy was just a series of footnotes on the brilliant 19th century thinkers: Communism and Liberation Theology were already there in Marx, post-modernism in Nietzsche, Liberal Christianity in Schleiermacher, the Darwinian mega-myth in Charles himself, and the Catholic response in Newman.  Enchanted by the Great Catholic Synthesis of the 13th century, I wished I could have lived in that time, as a knight, an architect, a monk, a serf, or especially a disciple of Thomas himself. Reading his great interpreters, Gilson and Maritain, I marveled how his thought far surpassed his 19th century competitors in clarity, splendor, depth and inspiration. My core Catholic convictions were strengthened, and my immunity to the toxins of modern and post-modern thought enhanced.

My summer of 1968 is four short stories.

Cuernavaca. The best climate in the world: mild, dry, breezy, mountainous. At the time, an excellent Spanish language institute and think tank of Ivan Illich: bursting with intellectual energy, excitement, argument. I was fascinated by his ultra-radical (entirely utopian) critique of everything  modern and his deep, traditional if eccentric Catholicism. This nicely channeled my adolescent rebellion in a way that fortified my faith convictions, in an idiosyncratic manner. In Spanish class, in groups of three students for each instructor, we were directed to focus on the lips and emulate the pronunciation.  My teacher, Maria, must have just dropped down from heaven: soft, sweet, gentle, ravishingly feminine and lovely in every way. For three hours I was in a euphoric state; like I regressed to 6 months old and was enjoying the heavenly gaze of my mother. She was probably married and I was a conscientious seminarian so she was not, for me, a romantic option. She was simply a beatific vision. The male instructors were all expert Lotharios whose singular goal each season was to score with a North American beauty, preferably a blonde. When they heard how I loved to read they gathered around me and asked: "What do you like more: girls or books?" I considered seriously for a moment and then answered definitively: "Books." They laughed hilariously. One day, walking down a dark country road at a fast pace I walked right into a horse. The horse didn't mind. Every morning, in the Mexican home I stayed, I was awoken at 7 AM by a to-die-for-cute 5-year-old Juanito who wiggled my big toe, since my 6'3'' frame was bigger than the bed, and said softly "Levantate Mateo!" It was like waking up in heaven.

Yucatan.  I spent time wandering around Yucatan with Maryknoller Fr. Wincell, a charming, down-to-earth, light and lively, warm-hearted, humble and holy priest. Sometimes we would take a donkey over the mountains to Indian villages entirely untouched my "civilization." At mass, Father delivered a 3-minute homily in Spanish; a magnificent native catechist delivered a 45 minute translation in the dialect with a passion, intensity and focus that would have put Billy Graham to shame. At the Mexican towns, along the railroad or highway it was different: small group of Spanish-speaking families who share my generic middle class culture. While Father spoke to folks about marriages, baptisms and such, I noticed that I would be surrounded by 15 to 20 young women, actually all the young women. I clearly was a celebrity. I was terribly uncomfortable: very girl-shy, I spoke very little Spanish. Anything I said drew laughs from the girls. They got a huge kick out of me. I didn't know what to make of it. They would push one particular girl towards me. They were awfully attractive. Later, Fr. Winchell explained the sociology to me: with less than 100 families and almost no jobs in town, the boys all left for the city to find work, leaving behind a group of young women without potential mates. My arrival, with a priest at that, was a big event. Too bad I wasn't able to enjoy my celebrity status at the time!

Isla de Las Mujeres. The worst day of my life. On my way home, I stopped at this vacation island. I was alone and lonely. With no money  I couldn't get a decent meal or a few gin-and-tonics. The heat was unbearable and unavoidable. I wandered around desperate for company, or a diversion, or shade or a drink or a meal.. I could only think of The Stranger by Camus. What was I experiencing? Not sadness. Probably not clinical depression. No suicidal thoughts as I lacked the energy for such. I want to call it desolation. Empty...everything felt dry, hot, empty, meaningless, hopeless. Maybe I had been reading too much Camus and existential philosophy: dread onto death!  A nurse would probably say I was tired, homesick, hungry and dehydrated. I returned home to normality. I never returned to that hellish limbo, thank God!

Kansas Student Government Conference. Towards the end of the summer, I went with my friend Dan Maguire to the Student Government Conference in Kansas. Radical SDS (Students for a Democratic Society) Tom Hayden told us that they were going to tear down the city of Chicago and the Democratic Convention with protests. I remember thinking: "Who does this suave, cocky guy think he is that he can tear down a major city and a national convention?" Guess what: he did just that! Those were the times.

1968 was the defining year of our era. It was not the riots, the war, the turbulence. Wars, recessions and depressions, pandemics...they come and they go. Something different, far deeper happened then. A cultural, moral, spiritual inversion...or perversion. The Revolution:  a disconnect from tradition; the rejection of authority and really of the Fatherhood of God; the contraceptive sterilization of sexuality; the tearing of eros away from conjugal intimacy, fidelity, fecundity; the deconstruction of masculinity, femininity, filiality, paternity, maternity, spousality and chastity; and just three years later, with a logic of ironclad inevitability, the judicial declaration of a holocaust on the unborn. This Culture War shows no signs of abating: it will be fought by my children's children and their children. The sides are well matched: we traditionalists have the spiritual resources...sacramental efficacy, magisterial infallibility, charismatic energy and irrepressibility...of the Church; but our opponent, the liberal elite, has control of a previously inconceivable apparatus of technology, media, education, and political coercion. It is a mighty combat!

I credit my guardian angel with doing a terrific job in 1968 and especially that summer: keeping me under the influence of the likes of St. Thomas, Gilson, Maritain and Illich; and in the delightful company of precious Juanito, lovely Maria, charming Fr. Winchell and my good buddy Danny.