Ceremony of Innocence is the story of three young women in San Francisco at the dawn of the Gay Liberation Movement, the rise of the revolutionary underground and street rage against the Vietnam War. It is the story of their journey into the heart of individual morality and personal courage.

Ceremony of Innocence
Chapter 1


Three women changed how this country saw itself. Two of us intended to. One of us didn’t. She had the greatest effect.

Heather Olsen dragged her heavy canvas tent out of her dented Oldsmobile. Using a hammer she pounded the metal stakes into the dry California dirt. Behind her a large sign warned “Beware the Wild Boars.” But having come from Hyde Park with one of the country’s highest murder rates, she couldn’t take Pinnacles National Park’s professed danger seriously. Besides she had survived Gambia’s deadly snakes, she could now certainly protect herself from an errant pig or two.

After attaching the wooden poles and righting her tent, she stood under the massive Live Oak protecting her camp site. She breathed in the warm fall air that tasted of bark, greenery and luxurious decay. Her cat Cleopatra lounged on top of the nearby picnic table on the T-shirt Heather had laid out for her.

Heather had come west to begin again. Not to get away from her father who had been her loyal companion. Indeed she’d relished her time with him, marching against the war together, their feet slapping hot Chicago streets while construction workers pelted them with nails and scraps of wood. Both she and her minister father embraced pacifism with religious fervor and had applauded Martin Luther King when he came to Chicago. Her father had gotten arrested with him in Birmingham.

But events that would have consumed weaker people Heather had locked away deep inside and covered with an easy smile. And for a while her strong will, her father’s deep faith and his powerful love for her had helped tame the despair and kept the nightmares at bay. But recently, decaying corpses had crawled out of Heather’s dreams to lie by her and pull her toward them.

Time to take charge and change the trajectory of her life. Just as her father had brought her family peace by taking them off to two years in Gambia, she would reclaim her life by going somewhere new. So she had loaded up her creaking car and placed her annoyed cat on the front seat and driven west. After three days she had arrived at this park that had burst forth from volcanic turmoil leaving rough rock formations to compete with engulfing forest.

As she sat at the battered picnic table eating lentils and rice, she heard the crunch of downed leaves. She turned to see a herd of raccoons stride out of the woods, their arms raised. The dozen or so creatures were the size of five year olds and certain they had a right to her food and maybe even her cat. Heather grabbed up Cleo and rushed to her car. She climbed in quickly and slammed the door. What were raccoons doing walking upright and traveling in packs? If the California animals were going to act so peculiarly- what would the people be like? Heather watched the raccoons quickly consume her dinner, then march toward her. Several raccoons climbed onto the hood of her car and scratched at her windshield. Others climbed over the roof. While her cat perched on the sleeping bag on the front seat and snarled at the frustrated marauders, Heather laughed at the absurdity of it all. She’d driven two thousand miles to end up attacked not by wild pigs, but a tiptoeing pack of raccoons.

After the raccoons slunk away, Heather rolled down the car window. The breeze lifted her short white-blonde hair. Pulling out her sketchpad and lithograph pen, Heather drew a raccoon wearing thick eyeglasses like the ones she wore. The raccoon held a conductor’s baton and directed a team of pigs to dance on their toes. When Heather drew, the world melted away and she luxuriated in her imagined universe. For hours after she put down her pen, creativity’s narcotic surged through her veins.

The next day Heather’s car sputtered up Telegraph Avenue behind a green Volkswagen bus covered with orange flower decals. Despite the numerous stories she’d heard about Berkeley, Heather almost stopped in amazement. Tie-dyed fabrics adorned second-story windows. On the sidewalks, men and women roller-skated past brightly dressed street vendors. As the skaters darted this way and that, their metal wheels shined and the small mirrors on their embroidered shirts caught the sun and threw bursts of gold into Heather’s eyes. She felt that she had been transported to one of the brightly colored Swedish fairytales her mother had read to her.

Turning left on Durant, Heather pulled into a parking space. She wound up her window most of the way to keep Cleo in. As she opened the door, she lifted out her plumb body and popped a penny into the parking meter. Then she crossed the street to the Berkeley campus where longhaired students crowded around tables full of colored leaflets. Women pounding tambourines and men strumming guitars tried to synchronize their disorganized sounds. She spun around trying to see everything.

A body slammed into her. Then the woman on the pogo stick bounced backward.

“Sorry.” The woman handed her a flyer before jumping away.

Heather looked at the leaflet. Simplistic images of planes with USA written on their bellies dropped bombs that blew up stick figures. Under the picture she saw, “Rally Against The War Sproul Plaza Saturday 3 p.m. Be There."

“You new here?” said a woman sitting on the steps in front of a large concrete and glass building. A woven headband held back the woman’s long hair. She patted a small dog at her feet.

“Yes, I’m from Chicago,” said Heather. She bent down to pat the fluffy animal who greeted her with licks and wiggles.

“Butch doesn’t usually take to people. You must be someone special."

“He probably just smells my cat Cleo.”

“No, she’s indifferent to cats. I named her Butch to give her confidence. But right now you look like you could use some help.”

“It’s just a bit different than the Midwest.” Heather stood back up.

“It better be or we’ve failed.”

“Failed at what?”

“We’re here to help each other out. I’m Marcia.”

“And I’m Heather. But what’s that?” Heather pointed across the plaza to where men and women lay on the cement in mock positions of death. Fake blood covered their clothes. Next to them sat a cardboard bomb with the words “Amerika’s gift to the world” written on it. “They just get to lie here?”

“This is nothing. The University’s just glad they’re not doing this in the Dean’s office.”

Marcia’s acceptance of such bizarre behavior further confirmed Heather’s sense
she’d walked into a very strange place. But, odd as this place was, she still had to be practical. “Is there a YWCA nearby?”

“If you don’t do heavy drugs, you can crash on our floor. We like having new people around.”

“I don’t do any drugs.” The deep smile line between Heather’s mouth and nose made her look older than twenty-four. “But I do have a cat.”

“The more the merrier.”

“I’d like that. Thanks.” In Chicago, you didn’t get an invitation to stay in someone’s place five minutes after you met them. But what a good way to start a new life.

They walked together to Heather’s car. Cleo greeted them with a snarl. After regarding the car stuffed with belongings and a possessive cat, Marcia said- “My car’s just around the corner- I’ll meet you there- It’s a blue Ford.”

Heather started up her car and found Marcia’s unwashed Ford Falcon. The bumper sticker on the back said, “Join the Army. Go to exotic places. Meet interesting people and kill them."

When they reached Marcia’s yellow-shingled home, Heather picked up a resistant Cleo and followed Marcia up the stairs and into her house. A madras bedspread hung on the living room wall. Marcia introduced Julie and Kenny, lounging on the couch. On the coffee table in front of them lay a pack of zigzag rolling papers and a brass incense burner shaped like Aladdin’s shoe. A twig of incense gave the room a spicy smell.

Kenny offered Heather a joint.

Heather declined.

Kenny passed the roach clip to Julie. Before taking a drag, the woman in the neatly pressed bellbottoms said, “You’ve got a great face. I’d love to photograph you.”

“Sure,” Heather said, startled by the request.

That night Heather lay in her sleeping bag on their soft couch and listened to the chirp of crickets and watched car lights play across the ceiling. Cleo lay on her feet purring. Heather agreed. They’d found a good spot to rest.

The absolute strangeness of the bright land where even the shadows seemed thinner eased something in Heather. Hoping to stay for a while with these friendly people who had so readily welcomed her into their home, she made herself useful. She reorganized the kitchen and cooked sumptuous meals for them. She put together ingredients such as cheddar cheese, spinach, rice, and mushrooms. She flavored dishes with cardamom, coconut milk, fresh dill and basil. She loved standing amongst the fragrant vegetables in the Co-op and pulling in their scent.

Within days of her efforts Kenny said, “Now that you’ve spoiled us
you can’t leave.”

“I thought you had to be rich to have a live-in cook,” said Julie, the only girl in Berkeley who ironed her clothes.

“Consider yourself rich,” said Heather.

“We’re cleaning up the attic to put you in; it’s not much but we want you to stay,” said Kenny.

“Thank you,” said Heather, though she was happy to sleep in the living room and be lulled to sleep by the voices that drifted in from the kitchen. She felt more and more like she was twelve and back in Gambia. Back in a land that by accepting suffering allowed it to be washed away.

Sound asleep Heather was oblivious to the discussion going on in the kitchen. Kenny said, "Pity she's so strange looking, or I’d be willing to share my bed."

"You said all women are the same with the lights turned out," Julie said.

"Maybe, but her face is so pale it's almost translucent. I don't like being able to see the veins."


“She has a nice smile,” Marcia said, holding Butch on her lap.

“Yeah, like Joey E. Brown in drag.” Then rubbing his belly Kenny said, “But she can cook.”

“You’re being a pig,” Julie said.

“Of course I’m a pig.”