Free Queen of the Oddballs by Hillary Carlip

am a monitor at anti-war demonstrations, and protest alongside Jane Fonda while next to us pro-war groups carry signs and shout, “We’re not fonda Fonda.”
     
The FAA announces all airlines must begin screening passengers and baggage before boarding due to increased terrorism worldwide.
     
I see Shirley Chisholm, the first female African American presidential candidate, speak at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium, and create a photo essay of the event for my high school photography class final. Shirley loses. I get a
     
     
     

     
     

     

Teen Libber
     
    I was thirteen years old when women started burning their bras. Since I had just begun wearing one and was pretty damn excited about it, I opted out. But it was at that time I became what the Los Angeles Times two years later dubbed me: a “Teen Libber.”
    I had taken my first political stand at age nine by boycotting Sugar Daddies, Sugar Babies, and Junior Mints because the candy company that made them was run by the founder of the John Birch Society, a group of right-wing, anti-Semitic racists.
    At first my boycott wasn’t by choice—my mom and dad forbade my brother and me to buy the offending items. But I quickly felt the heady sense of empowerment that comes with taking action to fight injustice. Little did my parents know the impact this childhood boycott would have on my brother and me. By the time we hit high school we were both teenage activists.
    In my freshman year (or, as I called it, “fresh woman ” year) some friends and I started a women’s consciousness-raising group. Fifteen of us met weekly, gathering in basements and bedrooms to discuss sexism, racism, classism, ageism, and any other- ism we could think of.
    We weren’t just talkers. We also took action. We prowled newsstands in Westwood Village and Santa Monica, plastering “This exploits women” stickers on Glamour and Playboy magazines. We produced the first-ever High School Women’s Conference, where girls from all over Los Angeles gathered for workshops on Self-Defense and “High School Oppression,” and participated in discussions on such hot topics as “Rock Culture and Chauvinism,” whatever that was. At NBC Studios in Burbank we spearheaded a demonstration against Sexism in the Media, picketing the Dean Martin Show and his scantily clad Golddiggers. That landed us on the six o’clock news. Articles about us appeared in the Evening Outlook and the Los Angeles Times , headlines proclaiming: “High School Feminists Speak Out” and “Teen Libbers Fight for Own Cause.” We were committed to a revolution.
    But it was our weekly consciousness-raising sessions that had the biggest impact on me. And it was one particular meeting in the spring of 1972 that stands out most.
    It was the night we gathered at Jill’s house in Beverly Hills, just down the street from Zsa Zsa Gabor’s gated estate. We sat in a circle on the living room floor alongside Jill’s parents’ collections of African fertility goddess statues and brightly woven textiles.
    “We’re gonna do something a little different,” Jill, that night’s leader, said, gathering her frizzy hair into a bun. Her unshaven armpits peeked out of her tank top. We were proud of all our hair.
    “I want everyone to take off their clothes,” she announced.
    Murmurs of laughter spread as the group looked nervously at one another.
    “Don’t worry, my parents and brother are gonna be out late.” And with a playful smile, Jill pulled her shirt over her head, revealing her small, perky breasts.
    We laughed again; some of us even looked away. But we were determined to take risks and to support our “sisters” in those risks. So, once the initial awkwardness passed, one girl began to take off her clothes. Then another, and another. Shirts, then bras, pants, then underpants. Everyone was pumped. Everyone, that is, except me. I sat motionless and fully clothed.
    “Hillary, you gonna join us?” Jill asked.
    “Sure,” I said