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The high point of the afternoon was when Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997), dressed all in white with a red sash, made his entrance chanting and playing finger cymbals. A crowd formed around him, and wouldn't leave him alone. They treated him like a clown.
He tried as best he could to shake the crowd, even asked them to leave him alone.
Eventually he just sat down. A circle formed around him. This was the strangest thing. A sort of no-man's land between celebrity Ginsberg and the crowd, like around a street performer, sword swallower or acrobat with a trained monkey.
No one seemed to know why they were there, taking pictures. Like they were waiting for Allen to do something. Do something funny. Act like a poet, whatever.
He just sat, quietly chanting, playing his finger cymbals. Eventually people got bored. And left. I moved on, guilty that I too had invaded his privacy. I checked back later and he was gone.
Up to this point (it was already late afternoon) the day seemed joyous, everybody out on a beautiful afternoon doing their thing. But the memory of the event that I've lived with for forty years now is seriously darkened by the treatment that Allen got from the crowd. He wasn't jeered at or called names, or treated badly physically. He was just a celebrity; worse yet, a beatnik. A curiosity. A clown.
Allen was one of the most patient people I'd ever met. Years later I got to know him better and found him both uncomfortable and crafty about his celebrity status. But this time, on Easter Sunday, 1967, it was clear that he really wanted to be alone and to do his thing, and no one would let him. It was as if he was attacked by a swarm of bees.
I left the park soon after, but with a heavy sense of sadness. I had wished that Allen would have been greeted better, and I expect so did he. In the many times I met him later on, I never mentioned being there or taking these pictures. I guess I was embarrassed that no matter how appalled I was, I too was part of that crowd. To this day I wish I hadn't been.
