Where Did Your Long Hair Go?

Where Did Your Long Hair Go?

A 1966 poem recovered by the woman who lived through the era that blamed girls and protected boys,

and the girl who wrote this had no voice,

but the woman who publishes it refuses to be silent.

Written in 1966 by my younger self. I was raped by five 16 year old boys who were crude, rude, and cruel. In 1966, girls had no rights, no protection, and no voice. Between religion and the culture of the time, I was told it was my fault because I wore hip huggers, a crop top, and my Indian moccasins.

I am 76 now, looking back at that time. I do not live in fear, but I fear women are going to be forced back into the same old roles, the religion policed, pot rattling, martini fetching expectations that trapped so many before us.

“Honey, what’s for dinner? Bring me another martini. You know your hubby wants some loving.”

And the wife finally says, “Sorry honey, I’m out the door. DoorDash is delivering your burger and fries. Don’t wait up this girl is not succumbing to your wishes.”

I am 76, divorced, and carrying the inherited illnesses of my ancestors.

Back in 1966, women had no rights. Women were blamed for everything.

It is 2026, and I no longer need a man, nor do I care for the mysterious faux egos of misogynists, male or female. I no longer bow to the righteousness of people living inside false religion or false power.

And the truth is:

They’re gone.

I am here.

I outlived every one of them — not just in years, but in spirit, in evolution, in wisdom, in art, in voice.

The Poem — 1966

Here I sit, here I am, don’t know why

But I could cry

So many things have happened, good & bad

Happy, joys, tears, and so sad.

I sit here and wonder if ever things will be the same

Then on the other hand, guess it’s all a part of life’s game

On the end I always get stomped on and my hopes shot,

Everything I dreamed is shattered and I lose what I got

My pride is little; lack of success

Here I sit as before looking for whatever more will be best

Just when I think I’ve reached the end of the lonely

I turn around to find it hanging over me.

All the days gone before seem to disappear into the night

But I can always get hope, and things start to turn out right.

When just like before, there stands a door

A door marked never more that wasn’t there before

Then here it is weeping as before in the day

Looking and searching to find the way

The way to succeed and go back to thinking

With every day my pride still sinking

I think I can go on, only to be laughed at, and my hope killed

Someday I hope to find a shield

But no matter how I try I always make a fool of myself

Then sink again into the endless night of what I left

I have been on the right hangout, only to be took down

And be knocked all over town

Why can’t people see what I am trying to prove

Why can’t they see I’m trying to be good

Well, I guess there is not a track left to talk

My song is written, my trials are to be walked

So remember one last thing, this one last word before I go:

The good book says, “You reap what you sow.”

This is my confession: a truth the girl in 1966 was never allowed to speak, and the woman in 2026 refuses to hide. I lived it. I survived it. And I’m done being quiet about it.