Diary of a White Virgin

The sixties rose out of the fifties with so much hope. Eisenhouer was gone. Kennedy was now. Wrestling was real. The Leafs were winning Stanley Cups. Television was a series of comedies about white kids in the suburbs with skin problems. Or westerns about bounty hunters, and Boot Hill, smart alec card shots. All men had jobs. And wives hung their bedsheets out on clothes lines. No one was raped. No one knew what rape was.
Or killing. Or starvation. Except my father. And he didn't talk about the War. .