BILLY JACK: I took a trip back in time when I read about the government overturning the protection act that keeps wild horses from being slaughtered. The order of protection was enacted in 1974, but it had been an issue for several years. I first learned about it (like so many things) by watching the movie Billy Jack. In San Antonio during the summer of 1971, I was a disenfranchised 13-year-old – detritus in a family splintered by divorce and the social upheavals of the late Sixties. The American Dream exploded in our faces, and suddenly words like “home” and “family” became abstract concepts that didn’t really apply to us. The tragedy at Kent State had just happened, and I was polarized. As a socially conscious adolescent, I marched to end the war, heal racism, and save the trees. I chanted, carried worry beads, and even tried to find answers in the writings of Aleister Crowley. I was too young to make any difference and too old to look away – but the world was on fire, and I was dying to get burned. My best friend was my 11-year-old brother, Bill. We were the two youngest, and had created a little world of our own within this fragmented new reality where our mother was gone and we hardly recognized our father anymore. The highlights of our existence were the monthly $25 checks from our faraway mom. Bill and I would buy our fun in a dozen innocent ways. From horseback riding and movies to candy, toys, and pets. It would be the last time those activities would be able to divert our attention away from the dramas that were shredding our childhood. I don’t know how I heard about Billy Jack, but undoubtedly, I hustled Bill onto the bus bound for Cinemas I & II at North Star Mall to watch it. I don’t really remember seeing it. I only remember being in that delusional state of being known as “having seen it.” Forever after, my life could be divided into two parts: Before Billy Jack, and After Billy Jack. I couldn’t stop thinking about it; I knew I belonged at that free school with all those hippies led by that emaciated woman. I knew that I’d be able to find “freedom” there – that elusive concept that we learned was “just another word for nothing left to lose.” I, too, wanted to save wild horses from evil dog-food manufacturers. Then there was that song that was etched in my mind: “Go ahead and hate your neighbor, go ahead and cheat a friend …” I just had to see the movie again. Accompanied by my friend Patty Henry, I made another trek to the mall to see Billy Jack. Patty was as smitten as I by the lugubrious and turgid drama on the screen; our adolescent minds were feverish to get away from our homes, families, and Mark Twain Junior High. It wasn’t long before we cooked up a scheme to pool our resources (less than $15 total) and run away from home. I didn’t even pack a bag – I just left, telling Bill that I just had to go. Patty and I met up at the mall. We spent the bulk of our fortune on bus tickets – to Lubbock, I recall, because that’s as far as our money would take us. We killed time back at the mall waiting for our Freedom Bus that would take us closer to the untold heights of ecstasy awaiting us on the reservation, where we would grow our own food while weaving Indian blankets. Our delirium was short-lived. Patty informed me that she had started her period, so we’d need to spend the last couple of dollars we had on Kotex. That didn’t seem to be a problem, but exactly how we thought we were going to survive on the way, much less once we got there, remains a mystery to this day. We talked about getting “jobs” when we got to Lubbock. In retrospect, I can imagine the interview process: “Yes, I’m Stephen Moser, a recent graduate of seventh grade, and my skills include playing a mean game of Twister and worshipping Billy Jack.” It didn’t matter anyway; we had learned from the movie that when you’re really in trouble, Billy Jack would come flying over the horizon on a horse or motorcycle. Hopefully he’d have a box of Kotex and some cash with him. But none of that was important. What was important was that we were hightailin’ it outta there. We thought. Sitting on a bench at the mall near some large plastic plants, I was mortified to look up and see my father walking toward us at a fast clip. Bill must have squealed on me. My dad was crazed with worry, demanding to know what we thought we were doing – like we knew. Patty was dispatched to a pay phone to call her parents. I was ushered off to Luby’s Cafeteria to explain myself. Tears flowed by the bucket as I talked about not being able to “be free” or “be myself.” To his credit, my dad was touched by the plaintive phrasing of my defense, with its high-excrement content. He told me it wouldn’t always be this hard, that someday I’d find peace. I’m sure he didn’t mean to lie. But it’s easy to believe lies like that when you want to believe things will be different. I did want to believe it, and I reveled in the attention. There was no question that I’d be returning home with him – though he knew my tortured teenaged pride would have to be soothed. Billy Jack may have taken my innocence away, but I got it back pretty quick by accepting a bribe of a stylish new pair of overalls from Chess King. I had completely sold out, even if I did keep imagining how smart I’d look wearing the overalls out there on the reservation chasing wild horses.
This article appears in March 25 • 2005.