Why I Hate Hippies
The year is 1972, and today is the anniversary of his death. I walked down the street, furiously blinking back tears. It hurt to go to the places he used to take me. It hurt to walk down these very streets. Seeing Them made it worse.
My brother used to tell me to ignore the hippies, that they didn't know any better. Well, he wasn't here now. I openly hated them with a passion. Their long, ratty hair, dead eyes, and occasional shouts of 'groovy' reminded me that they were here, and he was not.
My brother was always… cocky. He would walk around our small town like he owned the place. He would always pick fights, but never the hippies. He told me it wasn't fair. They didn't fight back. When he got his draft notice, he looked me in the eyes and promised he would return. He said he would return a war hero.
I still remember the soldier that showed up on our door. He said he was sorry, but he didn't know my brother. He wouldn't miss him. He said that my brother died saving someone, that he was a hero. It was bitter sweet. My brother got his wish, but lies dead in Vietnam.
Yes, bitter. That is how I am now. I walk down the street and shoot glares at the hippies. People think I hate them for being different, but I don't. I hate how they talk down his accomplishments. I don't hate the hippies because they are different. I hate them because they are against everything he stood for. The end.
Ponyboy Curtis reflecting after the death of Sodapop in Vietnam. Yes, it did happen, S. E. Hinton said that Soda died in war two weeks before his nineteenth birthday. Look it up if you don't believe me. Sorry for the depressing story: I just reread the Outsiders, so…