by Lucille S. deView
O.C. Register
Oct. 20, 1997

The life of a bohemian was alluring to the young in my generation, back in the Great Depression. Puccini's opera set the tone. Who wouldn't want to be a struggling artist in Paris — dodging the landlord, enjoying the camaraderie of fellow artists, even finding romance, though a little late? It all seemed so innocent, as did the modest bohemia of my own little crowd in a Midwestern city. We would-be actors, writers, painters thought it wicked to stay awake till dawn, sitting on cushions, sipping tea, reading poetry in the living room of one of our homes while our parents and siblings slept in the bedrooms down the hall. Paris? Hardly. But I remember a sweetness about our pretentious gatherings. No romances, but we didn't have trouble paying the rent, either.

Not so for my daughter's generation of protest against the Vietnam War and the straight world in general. She lived in a commune and knew how to scramble for food. Yet when I dropped in for a visit, the bunch was decorating the house for a gala Halloween party, bohemians all. And today's generation? Not Puccini. Not the musical "Hair.''  But a musical poem called "Rent.''

There they are, a stage full of lusty, gutsy, brassy, sassy young people singing or screaming their joy and pain. Unlike the elegantly costumed chorus lines of the traditional Broadway musical, they're a ragtag bunch in T- shirts, worn-torn jeans, and misplaced touches of glitter. The rock music pounds, the struggles grow more dire. But as the players come to know one another, we come to know them. Who loves whom — this boy and this boy, this girl and this girl, as well as this boy and this girl, and all without regard to race.

And we learn most of all how many are even now dying of AIDS, as Jonathan Larson knew. He wrote the book, music and lyrics. With bravado, the players mock their own situations, their frailties, their fears. Why, then, am I crying, when the audience is wildly laughing and loudly applauding?

I cry for my little group sitting on cushions and sipping tea, not knowing World War II already hovered and life would soon enough be dead serious.

I cry for my daughter and her little group, so angry, so bold, so anxious to end a cruel war, so young they still loved Halloween.

I cry because I was like the proper mother on stage phoning her gypsy child living in what looked like a bombed-out cellar; asking if the child is well, realizing he is not. 

I cry because learning to love what we know is not enough. "Rent'' says we must also learn to love what we don't know and may not understand, that we must love ALL our children.