My Beatnik Uncle

I remember the day when I had my first contact with the beatnik subculture movement. I was not related with the term, and my only reference was maybe the Beatles, which I really like, but apart from that, it was a whole new world for me. It was in the late 90’s, when I was in the United States visiting my uncle, who was living in a place near Seattle since 1957, just before the rise of hippism. I had never seen him before, just in some blurred photographs, which portray him as young man with long black hair and dense moustache, dressed with big and worn blue jeans, a square–fabric T shirt, and some big round sunglasses over the head. Those photographs had always called my attention because he seems as a very particular man, and now I was on the road with my father, anxious because I was going to meet him.

I saw the house from the distance; it was an old wood house of an average size surrounded by a vast land covered by grass patches with different heights and colors. We parked the car in front of the old building, and as I stepped out of the car my uncle opened the door of his house and walked towards the car. He hugged us both effusively and let some amiable words of introduction came out of his mouth. His voice was soft and trembly, but somehow it sounded friendly and trustable, so I also introduced myself to him, although stammering because I found his presence was intimidating. He looked just exactly as the photographs: the face expression, the sunglasses and the clothes were just the same, or maybe not, but they look identical. The only changes were that he was now quite old and his hair was gray. He stared at me for a few seconds while I was thinking about this strange man, who, according to my dad, was a beatnik stuck in time. I didn’t know the meaning of my father’s words, but now they seem a little bit clearer because in fact, he was a person from another epoch. I also stared at him in the eyes –more exactly in the sunglasses- while the sun was heating the whole place. Then he smiled and invited us with a gesture to come into the house.

The first thing that shocked me when I entered into the house was the smell. It was quite pleasant since it was old-like, and dusty, but at the same time, it inspires a feeling of coziness. The second one was a great bookshelf that covered an entire wall of the living room. I don’t know how many books there were, but there were like hundreds and they all had brown or green or red hardcover. I read some names from the bookshelf: On the Road, by Jack Kerouac; Howl, by Allen Ginsberg; Naked Lunch, by William S. Burroughs; Counterpoint, by Aldous Huxley, among others. My uncle approached to the bookshelf and explained to me that those were writers from the Beat Generation who used to write about the beatnik, a subculture movement from which he was part of. I barely understood what he was saying; I was engrossed in the admiration of this mysterious place that embraces me with its old and interesting look.

My uncle laughed at me in a friendly way and invited me with a slow movement of his hand to sit down in a couch in the living room. I asked him shyly about the beatnik because I could not wait to know more about that confusing but involving world, since I was starting to relate it to him and his interesting environment. He seems somewhat uncomfortable. But then, after a gesture of approval from my dad, he started telling me. He told me that the beatniks were people who had very different ideas from the conservative society of the 50’s because they didn’t believe in war; they were only interested in protest lyrics that invited us all to join our intentions for peace and justice, and literature on liberation of all sorts. He obviously avoided the sexual and drugs references that implicated the beatnik, but nevertheless, I found all his stories amazing.  I don’t remember much about what he told me, but I know that it was one of the greatest moments of my life.

The light of the day started to extinguish and I start felling tired. My father touched my arm indicating me that it was time to go. I felt a deep sensation of sadness, like a pressure in my chest because I really wanted to stay there for an eternity, listening to all sorts of amazing stories about these particular people called the beatniks. However, I stood up knowing that maybe the next year I could return to see my uncle and talk with him, or I could write him anytime.  In the moment that I stepped out of the house, I felt the cold of the night and walked rapidly to get into the car.

By: Gabriel Restrepo