Parallel To Massachusetts Avenue, away from the noise and neon of Harvard and Central Squares, Kinnaird St. Aspires to gentility. The shrubbery and patches of grass are ragged, but the narrow, four-story houses, with clapboards painted in variations on brown, are staid and even attractive. The area looks much as a neighborhood of college students and young Cambridge couples should look.
To Daniel J. Hayes Jr., Mayor of Cambridge, however, Kinnaird Street is, as he puts it. “Hippie Row.” Next week, according to sources close to City Hall, the Mayor has scheduled a series of 1 a.M. Narcotic raids on Kinnaird Street residences.
The raids, if they occur, will form another episode in Mayor Hayes’ much-publicized War on Hippies, which was announced two weeks ago. “The great unwashed,” said Hayes, “are creating an intolerable situation in our City by the widespread use of drugs and other anti-social practices such as boys and girls living together under the guise of ‘Free Love’ and without any benefit of clergy.” It was the start of an energetic campaign to drive “the hippies, beatnicks and other undesirables” out of the city. Said Hayes, “These groups add nothing to the Cambridge scene other than a sense of distaste and repulsiveness on the part of our many residents.”
Drug users were his primary target, but Hayes seemed equally incensed by a variety of moral and material trappings–bare feet, beards, long hair, birth control pills (“We’ve found birth control pills at every raid,” he thundered), pre-marital intercourse, Digger-type communes, even the sort of liberated prose of the Avatar, certain columns of which lie heavily penciled on the Mayor’s desk.
Just two days after his statement, the Mayor launched the first skirmish in his War on Hippies, a televised raid at 183 Columbia Street. It is in a dusty slum area whose dirty gutters and tottering houses contrast sharply with Kinnaird Street.
In that early morning raid on a six-room apartment, 17 hippies were arrested on narcotics charges. One unfortunate–who arrived shortly after the raid to look for his sunglasses, was booked for vagrancy. In his press and television statements, Hayes laid primary emphasis on the squalor in which these hippies lived. “A flop-house,” he said. “I never saw such a filthy situation. There are terms which I could use but I would not use in public.”
Whether the hippies were being booked for narcotics violations or for garbage in the refrigerator, two days after the raid there was no evidence of squalor, except for some clothes strewn in the hallways. The apartment seemed to make the best of a bad thing. Collages, pop art, quotations from Hegal, and flower decorations relieved the monotony of beige paint. When the Commissioner of Health arrived to inspect it, he told a representative of the absentee landlord, “I wouldn’t mind living here.” Then he ordered the apartment be boarded up as “unfit for human habitation.”
Its former residents, out on bail, were drifting from friend to friend. In a cramped Boston apartment, one thin Digger picked sporadically on a guitar. “Look,” he said, “all we were trying to do was groove together.” Another was trying to get the telephone number of the Manhattan Diggers. He would set up a Digger Fund. He would collect $20,000. But, at the moment, he said, he couldn’t lay hands on a hundred.
Palladin strutted back and forth, resplendent in black vest, white turtleneck and shoulder-length black hair. He reads poetry in Village coffeehouses. His poetry had been confiscated. “I’m running for mayor,” he announced in his nasal voice. “And at the last minute I’m going to throw my suport to Hayes and blow the voters’ minds. They’ll all vote against him.”
“Why don’t they just leave us alone?” asked the guitar player. “We stay in our own territory and do our own thing.” For the Diggers, most of them unemployed drop-outs, their “thing” is mostly of drugs and “grooving” in the commune.
Earlier this week, the Mayor of Cambridge took a sip of his chocolate frappe, leaned forward in his chair and defined the enemy: “It’s not the hippie, it’s the hip-bo.” The Mayor leaned back. The word is of his own devising, and he is proud of it. “Hip-bo comes from three things. First, hobo. Second, the combination of hippie and bum. Third, from Life Buoy soap. Remember that commercial with the foghorn blowing B-O, B-O?” To Hayes hip-bo’s are the ragged tail-enders of the hippie movement, the floaters without money. “There are chronic drug and narcotic users,” he charges.
But there is more to the Mayor’s aversion than drugs, On LSD and marijuana, he is actually enlightened. “It’s wrong when people don’t understand the dangers and consequences of drugs,” he says. “But if they do, why, I’m in no position to make a judgment. Look, when a Harvard professor, say, or a student wants to turn on in the privacy of his own home–well, for them it’s a pleasure. They’d rather use drugs than drink.” The Mayor pushed away the frappe and lit a Newport. “I’m not a moralist who’ll tell you that you can’t do it.”
The hip-bo’s, according to the Mayor, are less private about it. “These people recruit the young and inexperienced kids who are looking for some kind of kicks. The hip-bo setup is nothing but filth, dope, narcotics, and sex. Our young people have got to be protected. The daughters of Cambridge residents, he says, must not be tempted. “Obviously I don’t see myself as the father image of these girls,” explains the Mayor, a squat man with a barrel chest and bull neck. “But I represent the thinking of a community.”