INTRODUCTION TO WHO I AM
I turned 18 in 1965 just as the Vietnam War was heating up as well as the protests against it. I was intent on registering as a Conscientious Objector from a young age because I was, and am, opposed to war and the taking of a human life under any and all circumstances. That was, and remains, 100% non-negotiable. I am a pacifist.
I started U.C. Berkeley as a freshman in the fall of 1965. Berkeley became a center of anti-war sentiment and the number of young men determined to stay out of the armed services increased swiftly year by year. Students in good standing could get a college deferment but for those not attending college, they had to decide sooner what to do if drafted. And since the need for soldiers in Vietnam was so great, it was just a matter of time until you got a letter from your draft board once your college deferment was up. So I had to think about that coming moment, too, and figure out what I would do. It came sooner than expected during my sophomore year, too, due to a mix-up!
The decision to become a conscientious objector always derived from my own beliefs and not from external circumstances. I’d given such matters as war and peace, courage and cowardice, a great deal of thought over the years. I was not considering what was merely “practical” but what was personally right for me in terms of my own conscience: it would be “I-0” or nothing for me–even if it meant conviction for draft evasion, the maximum penalty being five years in jail and/or a $10,000 fine.
If the draft board turned down my application for conscientious objector status, I would have to decide how and when to refuse induction into the armed services. Although I was aware that other anti-war students were not cooperating even to this extent with their draft boards, I was committed to pursuing my legal and constitutional rights as far as they would take me. I never considered going underground or seeking exile in Canada. I felt a moral imperative to choose jail since only in that way could I remain true to my beliefs and demonstrate the sincerity of my pacifism.
One of my most difficult decisions came from a question on the application form itself: Do you believe in a Supreme Being? Answer yes or no. Now I knew that the United States government in this way recognized the customary anti-war position of certain religious groups but I did not belong to any of them! I was not even religious. The problem was there was no easy way to dance around this question or try to obfuscate your answer. This question was more than academic: if you answered no, you could not even apply to be a conscientious objector. One “no” and you were done. The application process came to a screeching halt and you could go no farther.
This created quite a moral dilemma for me: I did not want to be dishonest but I did want to apply for my CO status and at least have a hearing in which I could explain the nature of my pacifist convictions. After weighing carefully the pros and cons, I decided to press on. I wanted the opportunity to tell my draft board I was not going to be complicit in any way with what I felt was an immoral and illegal war, as well as remaining true to my own convictions of opposition to all war and all killing on principle.
So I decided on an odd compromise. I asked myself: what did I believe? I answered myself: I believe in people, human reason, and such things as truth, justice, equality, and love. I then realized that these virtues were occupying a place in my heart and mind parallel to those values held by religious people—yes, they saw a spark of divine intervention in them while I saw them as moral human qualities but it was the best I could do under the circumstances.
I checked the “yes” box and told my draft board I believed in the gods of truth, justice, equality, and love.
I imagine such creativity was not appreciated at their end and they probably laughed themselves silly or got quite angry. That’s more than supposition since when I finally had to appear before them for my status hearing, the room was frosty and the mood was not exactly friendly, to say the least.
I know they were seeing a lot of young men from Berkeley despised by the military as long-haired, drug-taking, hippie freaks and cowardly draft-dodgers. I did not wear my hair long or anything of that nature but it didn’t take a genius to guess they would see me as “another damn Berkeley radical”. There was nothing I could do about it.
The way things worked, the Selective Service System required that once a year on your birthday you filled out a form and notified your draft board of your status: if still a college student in good standing, then your deferment continued. This had to be done within ten days of one’s birthday; the law was very clear on this point.
I intended to be very careful about sending that notification letter to the draft board as soon as my birthday rolled around but during my sophomore year I got absent-minded and was slow in responding. Some eight days had gone by past my birthday when I realized in a panic that I hadn’t taken care of this crucial piece of paper work!
I rushed to take care of it immediately and mailed it off on a Friday. I read the holy legal words very carefully. I noted with great relief that it said the form had to be postmarked within ten days of one’s birthday. I made it by a couple of days. I breathed a deep sigh of relief–though short-lived as it turned out. I was shocked when a short time later the dreaded letter arrived stating I was now classified “III-A” and ready to be drafted!
The rules say that when that happens, it’s also time to proceed with the request for a C.O. hearing before the draft board, to which I dutifully complied.
I felt a combination of fear and anxiety on the day of the hearing. I went by myself and did not know what to expect. My family supported me, thankfully, but I still had to make key decisions on my own. The day I stood in front of the door to the draft board office before entering, I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, part fear and part anxiety. I worried about my own future and safety.
I was fairly sure I had the moral resolve to say no to the draft but if I were sentenced to five years in jail (the maximum sentence then being handed out as warning to others) I did not know what would happen while incarcerated. I tried not to dwell on the negative or let fear get the upper hand. My immediate challenge was the interview.
I could reasonably guess that the three men of the draft board and yours truly would likely be worlds apart in our thinking, and yet this was my one and only chance to explain to them why I was a C.O. and why they should recognize my claim to such status. Needless to say, the interview did not go very well; I think they had made up their minds to deny my claim before I got there, which they soon made pretty clear.
I had hoped for some kind of intellectual exchange–but I was quickly brought down to their level of blunt “let’s get this over with” attitude and abrupt procedural shorthand. I was rather taken aback to see how quickly they were going to reject my C.O. application so I changed course. Although I was getting both nervous and flustered, I did manage to blurt out that I was still eligible for my college deferment. Whew–did that ever create a stunned silence!
The head interviewer—the guy in the middle–was visibly annoyed. I think it was more than annoyance at a possible bureaucratic error. I had the distinct feeling he didn’t like the idea of giving up the chance of sending me—“a Berkeley radical”–to Vietnam for my comeuppance. He snapped out a command or two to a woman secretary who showed up promptly and was told to get to the bottom of the matter.
That ended the interview. The head guy said there was no reason to go on with the question-and-answer examination of my C.O. beliefs if I were still eligible for my III-A. The interview, thus interrupted, was brought to an abrupt close and I was shown the door so fast it was like I’d never been there.
In any event, I was thankful for two good things that happened: if all went well I should get back my college deferment (as indeed happened) and I had been given an authentic chance to see that my C.O. application was going nowhere. It’s a bit like peeking over the edge into one’s own grave but at least you get a sense of what you’re facing.
I understood that to keep up my hopes that this Oakland Draft Board might come to appreciate the depth of my pacifism was futile, but that in itself was practical knowledge that could stand me in good stead. I needed to fight for my Conscientious Objector status and that meant only one other way: the courts.
The University of California promptly wrote an explanatory letter taking responsibility for the late mailing of the form I had submitted and as a consequence I had my student deferment reinstated. Later, after my college deferment was really up, I was re-classified III-A (“cannon fodder”) again and the whole process repeated itself.
Once more I sent the draft board a letter asking for my C.O. hearing . . . but this time they replied that I already had it. This was a devastating blow. I felt I still deserved an opportunity to present my reasons for why I became a C.O. Even if my views were rejected, I had not been given a fair opportunity to explain my beliefs. And now they were telling me I would not even be given a chance to do so!
It was then that a faint glimmer of light began to show, although whether fantasy or feasible I could hardly tell. My amateurish legal reasoning went like this: my first hearing had never been completed once they discovered I was still eligible to be classified as II-S: student deferment. The hearing, indeed, had stopped at once.
Under these circumstances, how could the three-member Oakland draft board say I already had my hearing when one’s C.O. status cannot be decided until other forms of deferment have been exhausted? Even if such a hearing had mistakenly started, it certainly was not allowed to run to completion. The draft board owed me the opportunity to present my evidence and reasons: that had not occurred!
Thus, I slowly realized that there was one hell of a strong legal issue brewing. If I didn’t get to complete my first hearing and now would not be given a new one, I saw a chance to go to court: the very chance I had been waiting for! Slim technicality or major slip-up did not matter to me; I wanted my chance in to defend my views in court and challenge the legality of the war in Vietnam.
Not only would such a court case cause a much-welcomed delay–and month by month the anti-war movement was growing by leaps and bounds–but it would provide me with a chance to express myself in an open forum: yes, even more important than delay was the fact that, in a courtroom, I would have a chance to fully defend my pacifist beliefs!
I started practicing my courtroom speech and felt I was getting pretty good, too. Then, to my surprise, one day I got another letter from the Oakland Draft Board: enclosed in the envelope was a new draft card with two magical letters stamped upon it: I-O.
I could not believe my eyes- Uncle Sam had just said “yes” and recognized me as a genuine conscientious objector!
When that letter in 1970 arrived granting me my conscientious objector status, I was very pleased with the outcome. That’s a bit understated; I was overjoyed. Yet, paradoxically, I was also disappointed that I would not have my “day in court” and a chance to express my views. It would have been a test of my character and my sincerity and I was ready for the challenge wholeheartedly.
For whenever I asked myself the questions what do I believe and why? I always came up with the same simple answer: as a matter of conscience, I am opposed to war, killing, and the taking of human life. As a matter of conscience, I can never take part in war, no matter what the consequences or punishment.
Of course, I recognize in retrospect that it was probably the fluke of me sending in my renewal-of-student-status notification letter to the draft board somewhat tardily (eight days past my birthday) that helped me achieve my C.O. status. That didn’t matter! I had achieved what I had set out to achieve and that was good enough for me.
In my own eyes I had acted courageously and consistently with my deepest personal principles in registering as a Conscientious Objector. I had prepared myself for the possibility of going to jail for many years. I was ready to make that sacrifice.
What was the resolution of this five-year struggle? I never carried an army-supplied weapon and I never spent a day behind bars. I was one of the lucky ones who followed the dictates of his conscience—and was not coerced into fighting or sent to prison.
In the years to come, I pursued my dream of becoming a teacher. I earned a PhD and three teaching credentials. Today I teach U.S. History, among other classes, at a private college. I get to teach students about the American Revolution and the adoption of the U.S. Constitution and its democratic principles that are the foundation of our nation.
I now get to challenge students to think about the many ethical issues that were, and are, part of our nation’s history.
Sometimes I write famous sayings on the board and started off one class with Henry David Thoreau’s classic remark:
“If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer; let him step to the music he hears, however measured or far away.”
Follow your conscience!
