Once upon a time, I lived in a houseful of nerdy grad students who wanted to be randy hippies. We smoked banana peels on our front porch and orated about free love.
One day “Zack,” the next-door preppie who posed as a folkie guitarist to “get chicks,” apparently got one. After his class in Enlightenment Ethics, he crept into our kitchen and told us his girlfriend had tested positive.
That wasn’t the language, of course. She had “V.D.,” and those of us who’d been “close” to Zack needed to “get tested.” Some of us were on his “contact list.”
Sound familiar?
Except that it was a different time and a different disease. We got tested and treated, calmed down and lost our edge – mostly.
But one alum just published a ferocious, righteous rant about anti-vaxxers, calling them “moronic murderers” who had no idea what personal freedom meant.
“In my day,” the alum wrote, “we shared everything, but we knew when to stop.”
I hadn’t seen the letter writer in decades, but I knew his style.
All power to you. Zack.
Go Zack!