When Atlanta Freaked

Introduction This book was proposed over twenty years ago. It was finally written around 1996. I shared the idea with friends and family and with their encouragement, began to compile years of material into this finished form. Despite what some may think of the final product, it was, and is a labor of love, a look into the past, a past I and many friends shared in those heady hectic days of teenage debauchery. And because it’s necessary, I’ve taken the liberty of introducing hyperbole into the story, a little artistic license, in effect embellishing the truth. Believe what you will. However, I will offer this, some of that which you will find most unbelievable, did indeed occur. For all these reasons I’ve brought myself back to these pages. Several years ago I tried to get this book published and failed. However, recently I was talking about the idea at a party, and someone expressed an interest in reading it, in remembering the past. And so here I am. I make a comparison. Freaknic was our Xanadu, if for only a brief moment in time. Those of us who participated in it look back upon it with fond memories, the rashness in irrationality of the young, the blatant flaunting of moral and written law, an expression of wild youth, all for the sake of the experience. The moment was everything. Past and future had no meaning. Who cared? No one. Because now was most important. How much illicit fun could be packed into the hours? Unkown. The point was to try; and if we never found the answer, so what. Even those who disparaged it look back upon it fondly, remembering when chaotic joy danced across their front lawns, their bushes, their azaleas, climbed their weeping willows, and precious dogwoods. They look back on it, and smile, even as a few, thankfully only a few, despair. It may never come again. But for a brief moment in time, it lived and breathed. Xanadu. Forgive me, I meant Freaknic. And so, I begin My friends, I’m in the middle of an unending cycle. I’ve been here before, and well, here I am again. It’s not the same. For the first time I feel I’m looking at it with an objective eye. I’m mixed up in it, for how can I not be. It’s enticing. It draws me in. However, I’m only the storyteller. I’m here to observe. Over there, a young man, probably eight years my junior, smiling, yelling, full of power, strength, claiming with all he is to be the youngest in charge, he’s the center of the gravity well, drawing young women with his antics, his boys by his side. The moment promises to be wild. A young girl lifts her shirt. The boys crowd around her. This is what’s expected. I shake my head, but I can’t judge. It wasn’t long ago I was one of those boys. I know I could end it or rather help end it, the whole thing. All I have to do, all any of us have to do, is to stop going, but I feel drawn to it, compelled to be in it. It’s a thing unto itself, truly alive. Those of us who recognize it for what it is understand we can’t stay away. We feel its inexorable pull every year. This is a lot to say about what’s essentially a big party. However, it is no ordinary party. It isn’t Carnival, or Mardi Gras, but it is what it is, unique. In 1996 it peaked, but it still drew the numbers up until 1999. When the great masses, mostly young college students, descend upon the city of Atlanta the party comes alive. In prior years it was immense, stretching as far north as affluent Buckhead, around to the east on Memorial Drive in Decatur, down as far south as Hartsfield International Airport, to Fulton Industrial Parkway in the west … the very edge of the city. It was a phenomenon, an event that once gained the interest of every ethnic group. After a while, people really began to take notice. They realized just how big it was and what it did to and for the city. Despite the millions of dollars made by the hotels, stores, vendors, and the city itself, they wanted it gone; complaining of congested streets and clogged highways. Some people became quite upset. They considered the annual party to be a good thing. It brought revenue. It gave the kids an outlet, a place to spend their Spring Break, far away from the hedonistic madness of Florida’s many beaches. Then, other stories began to spread, new stories about young women being accosted in the streets, or outright violated, tales of young men’s hormones raging wild in a sea of flesh, touching and tasting whether they were invited to or not. Opposition began in earnest. Party no longer, my friends. Party elsewhere. This was Freaknic, the annual celebration held in the city of Atlanta by and for the kids of various colleges and universities. It began as the African-American’s answer to Spring Break, a small event held in a flourishing southern city. However, by 1996 it was an event known nationwide. It drew people from New York to Los Angeles. Everyone wanted to be a part of the Freaknic experience. In 1998, Freaknic had even made it on MTV. This was Freaknic, wonder of unabashed freedom and flesh. Some would say it was a breath of fresh air swirling amidst a stagnant pool (or perhaps the opposite?), the highs and the lows, the ups and the downs. It produced confusion. We wanted it and then we wanted it to leave. We celebrated it and then we criticized it. This was Freaknic, and what I’ve decided to do is write about it. Yes, I’ve got a story to tell, several actually. They’re the stories of people I’ve known and whose paths I’ve crossed during that one special weekend in April. They are many and varied, and they are for the most part real. I hope you find them as stimulating as I have.