Memory
Seems a Bit Drafty Around Here
By Stephen Zanichkowsky
Ah, yes, each generation must have its war. My father’s was the Second World War; his father’s was the Bolshevik revolution. My older brothers would have driven the Commies from Korea but were found unfit for military service. My own conflict occurred in Vietnam, just as social activism began to tarnish war’s presumptions of glory, honor and duty. We weren’t necessarily a more selfish generation; just more thoughtful about the things we might be willing to die for. And although I would rather have Dick Nixon in the White House today than the current pinhead, I wasn’t willing to die in the rice paddies for his fears and ambitions.
To my father’s rage and shame, I applied for (and was granted) recognition as a conscientious objector. Today it seems clear that my objections had been more emotional and existential, and less than morally conscientious. I simply couldn’t tolerate the idea of another booming voice (Uncle Sam’s) taking over just where my father’s left off, on the cusp of my own independence.
Vietnam was winding down at this time, but they still needed bodies. I’d dropped out of engineering school, unable to hack the rigors, which immediately qualified me for a swim in the draft pool. And this was a real draft; Vietnam was a huge operation, and they never could have manned it simply by counting on the economically disenfranchised to trade a year overseas for some college tuition and a dental plan. As luck would have it, the minute I surrendered my student deferment my draft number was pulled from the cage. The selections were televised in those days, and I watched them draw four in a row: 66, 67, 68, 69. Quite a statistical improbability, when you think of it. Imagine your fate being linked to the fall of a capsule in a Power Ball spinner.
Now came the hard part. Even a conscientious objector might be called upon to assist in the war effort in some way, maybe by serving as an orderly or an ambulance driver. My physical was a few months away; what would they do with me if I passed? And here resurfaced an idea that had nagged me since I was a kid. What gave any one else the right to do anything with me? Which man is entitled to ask another to face death? I was still a kid and had no way to answer such questions. Still, I understood that rich fat white guys, throughout most of history, had defined the relationships between rights and duties; had created their own borders around their own states; had denied women the right to property and vote because so-called chivalry had prevented men from sending women into combat. Even a cursory reading of history revealed that the privileged seldom expired on the battlefield.
The staunchly anti-establishment Rolling Stones intervened here. I’d been listening to them for years, and their message of autonomy and rebellion had taken root in my psyche. As it happened, the day of my physical fell between two back-to-back Stones concerts at the old Boston Garden, and I had tickets to both shows. The first didn’t begin until one in the morning, and I found myself driving to a 7:00 a.m. army physical, my head crushed like ice, on three hours’ sleep. Despite months enduring a severe crash diet intended to make myself sickly and frail, I passed with flying colors. Afterward I jumped back in the car and headed to Boston for the second show. It was at this concert, in July of 1972, that I decided to burn my draft card.
I can remember thinking that here was a felony, that unleashing the Zippo would be taking a step I’d never imagined. Do you burn it and then just not show up when the notice comes? Do you mail in the ashes and make a statement? Do you hand yourself over and face court and jail like a real man? I didn’t know. All I could think about was the last three songs, how the Stones had turned the house lights full up as if for a hockey game, and ended the night with Street Fighting Man. This was no longer just a song on the radio. How was I supposed to march to somebody else’s drum after that?
The name I selected for myself was Bill Wyman because Keith Richards seemed too obvious. My decision was to do none of the above, but head underground and wait for the whole thing to blow over. I gave away everything I owned, traded my Fiat for a guitar, and packed it in with a like-minded friend. We drove west in his 1966 T-Bird until the gas money ran out in Denver.
I was lucky; as I remember Nixon got bogged down in the mud and part of his price for handing Ford the presidency was to allow draft dodgers (and himself) to wiggle off the hook.
Perhaps the only good thing to come out of a draft is the fact that it forces participants to think about war, and for this I am thankful. I wonder how many people who pulled the lever for Bush in 2004 never volunteered, never considered joining, never even gave Iraq any thought because their cozy cocoons kept them insulated from the cold winds of war? How would women have affected the election and the invasion if they’d been carrying draft cards all along? I’m in my fifties now, and my war is long over. But the ugliness in Iraq persists. Even though there’s no draft, kids today are supposed to register at eighteen, just in case. They should think it over; there were 58,000 dead in Vietnam before we threw in the towel. I don’t suppose America’s lower classes will be willing to cough up that number.
Stephen Zanichkowsky recently moved from New York to Maine where he makes furniture and is studying cardiac imaging. He is the author of “Fourteen,” a memoir of growing up with thirteen siblings, published by Basic Books.
