Dear Janis,

              You were probably the original hippie chick; long frizzy hair, plain clothes that you dressed up with crazy hats, vests and fringe, lots of bangles on your forearms and finally, and unusual for the time, a tattoo of a bracelet on your wrist. At seventeen, I wanted to be like you; I admired your tough broad, hard living, anything goes persona.  I loved singing along with your songs, although even my deepest alto voice was still too high to harmonize with your raspy, wailing sound. Listening to you sing” Cry Baby” and “Summertime” somehow made me feel braver and more sensual than a young girl should. Hearing you sing, “break another little piece of my heart now baby…” seemed so fearless; certainly I could be more daring in my pursuit of men.

             In the summer of 1970, the collected recordings from the Woodstock festival were released to the public.   The rowdy delinquents in our suburban town began to have parties outdoors-in yards, in fields, in the woods.   Someone would find a clearing or a barrel and start a fire. Someone would blast the Woodstock sound track from their car stereo and the abuse of booze and weed would commence. We would dance and sing and play “air guitar” along with Jimmy Hendrix.  Every weekend, we tried to create our own Woodstock experience.  Every weekend I wanted to be you.

              You were always there, Janis, your intense bluesy voice crackling into the night.  I wanted to be a rebel like you. I would sashay into the party as I imagined you might; hair long and swinging, earrings dangling, jeans dragging through the dewy grass.  Instead of your Southern Comfort whiskey, I would carry a small bottle of wine. The Almaden Chablis had a pretty label and a glass ring, and I would let it sway beside me as it hung from my index finger. I guess that I dressed the part well, because guys were definitely taking notice. Sexy, yeah, but I completely underestimated the sleaze factor.  One night, in the woods, things got rough with a guy when I didn’t act the part of a promiscuous party girl.   He slapped me across the face when I tried to get him off of me, and I sobered up really quickly and slapped him back, pushing him down so that I could run back to the party.  Then I walked the long, lonely way home, knowing that I’d be stuck with a sordid reputation despite the fact that nothing had happened. I wondered about the wanton image you’d acquired.  Was it because you were a willing partner, or were you just too high to care or fight back?    It started to rain and I was soon soaked through to my skin.   Black eye make-up drizzled down my face, mixed with my tears.  I stopped trying to be a sexy rebel rock star like you.

              Dear Janis, after this happened I wondered how you could sing so invitingly about letting a man break your heart over and over.  It was as if you welcomed the pain.  I think my answer came less then two months later.  You were found dead in a hotel room from a heroin and alcohol overdose.  Maybe, inside, like me, you were just a scared and lonely girl, playing dress up too.