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It was the sixties, and I was in college and incredibly restless. Besides sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll, the politics of the times were overwhelming. I remember sitting in one of the thousands of buses streaming into Washington, DC, for the 1963 civil rights march and sticking my head out the window as we entered the city, and as far as I could see up and down the avenue there were chartered buses rolling into the capital in one long caravan and nothing else moving on the streets, just black people on sidewalks and front porches waving at the buses and cheering.