For those who do what I cannot

I remember the first time I considered breaking my legs.

My mother was telling me a story about how she had been in her dorm room on December 1st, 1969, the day of the Vietnam Draft, and everyone had their radios on. The guys who lived down the hall were listening, waiting for their birthdays to be called. As each new date was announced, she could hear audible cries and moans from people who had hoped it wouldn't be them. It was one of the worst things she ever had to listen to, and when I heard her retell the story, my heart sank into my stomach because I thought of my father and his friends, sitting around, biting their nails, maybe smoking a joint to help ease the tension.

He never went to Vietnam. His birthday, November 5th, was never called, and after that, he received an educational deferment because he went to graduate school. He was lucky; I asked him what he would have done if he had been called up: throw himself off a train to break his legs, maintain he was too crazy to be drafted into the service, or go to Canada. He shrugged and said he wasn't sure what he would have done.

Going to Canada would have upset his father who had fought in the South Pacific in World War II. My grandfather enlisted in the service after the United States entered into the war. Like many other men of that time, he came back home to start a family, work his job, and never spoke of what happened during the war. My father told me that once or twice, Grandpa had opened up and told him about a time that he and another man had been sent out to patrol an area of jungle before the rest of the group would advance. So my grandfather went and was on the lookout; it seemed quiet, but just as he got up to leave and report back, he found a Japanese soldier curled up, sleeping on the other side of a log. My grandfather took up his rifle and shot him. He had told my father it was the only way, otherwise they would come back and shoot you just the same.

I was a sophomore in college in 2004 when there was a small discussion in the Bush Administration about a possible reinstatement of the draft, this time for all eligible men and women. My heart stopped; it wasn't just that the draft may return, but that I could be sent off too. Basic Training, heaving a gun around, shooting someone: my friends and I laughed at how ridiculous we would look in fatigues, but secretly, I was petrified. I began to think about Canada and breaking my legs, just about anything that would keep me from having to do something I knew I physically, mentally, and emotionally could not do. If I couldn't convince them I was crazy, certainly being in the military would make me insane.

I'm sure some would consider this cowardly and unpatriotic, but I don't particularly care. I know that I'm not made of the same mettle as my grandfather, who marched off into the face of a dangerous unknown, and then returned to deal with everyday life with such conviction and resolve; nor the millions of other men and women who have gone off to war, and either die doing so, or return to the U.S., only to be forgotten by their government with poor or non-existent medical and psychiatric care.

I may not support many of these wars, but that doesn't mean that when I ran by Veterans Park the other day and saw the wreaths put up for the fathers, brothers, and sons who had lost their lives in battle (many from the Vietnam War), I didn't feel crushed by the sense of loss. It was a beautiful day, families out with bikes and strollers, meandering around and I wondered if they knew it was Memorial Day, or if they cared.

I turned from the wreaths and the monument and thought of my grandfather, alone in a jungle in Asia except for his rifle.