I went to Woodstock out of spite. Regardless of that fact, this is a love story because what does a 17 year old really know about spite. And, in 1969, vengeance was easy–no social media to unfriend anyone, no cell phone numbers to block, and no one who I knew was practicing law, yet. So, when my boyfriend told me he was going to Woodstock with his friend, Gary, instead of me, I started to weave my wicked web of revenge. I implored my best friend, Maggie, to accompany me. Then, I set out to find a ride for us. We were cute, we were sassy, and we were lucky. And, our lack of worldliness only helped take away any fear of leaving Brooklyn for the wilds of upstate. I bamboozled Benjie, a counselor at the day camp I was working at, to take me and Maggie to Yasgur’s Farm.

Off we went, without a plan in our pockets.

What happened at Woodstock is not important. It was muddy. It was loud.
It was crowded. It was safe. It was lyrical. It was peaceful. It was freeing.
It was fun. It was the beginning, and it was the end.

I am now married to the boy I set out to spite.
Going to Woodstock, even though Maggie and I have our own versions of this trip, gives us a collective history, a past, and the cache to cool– very cool.

I think of Woodstock as our communal story.

Spite can, at times, turn into forgiveness. The boy who went to Woodstock without me has redeemed himself a few times over. And, in retrospect, I probably made wiser, albeit still fun, decisions while in the wilds with my best friend instead of my boyfriend. Today, Maggie and I have slightly different tales of how we got home from Yasgur’s Farm, but we did–get home that is.

Woodstock is my love story because a love story is not only about love, but about the journey– the beginning and the ongoing. In 1969, I ended up at Woodstock. What luck to land in that huge garden. It’s that garden this story gets me back to.