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Incorrigible Peacenik

33 years ago, on the occasion of my 18th birthday, I registered for the draft. This was done in keeping with the law, and for no other reason.

I was in college at the time, a Freshman away from home and my cultural worldview. It occurred in Indianapolis, while the war raged on in Viet Nam, and I was a New Yorker, lost in the Midwest.

A few months earlier Iíd been at the very lead of a peace rally, carrying one side of a big flag with a peace sign. It was a peaceful early evening candlelight rally, although violence loomed large, everywhere one looked along the rally parade route, in the ranks of the Indianapolis Police Department Riot Squad. This group of helmeted and armed policemen, with their gear cocked and ready for battle, were an almost humorous counterpoint to our calm and underwhelming pro-peace demonstration.

The rally came and went without incident. Some of the Riot Squad police looked pretty frustrated over the lack of incident, as they shed their gear, packed it in, got in their squad cars and drove off.

Later that evening as I was heading back to my dorm room, a drunken hawkish upperclassmen sucker-punched me, then proceeded to beat the shit out of me for being an ìanti American commie pinko faggot New York jewfuck.î To this day I still recall him calling me this long epithet.

I was dragged over to the schoolís med unit, where a similarly hawkish nurse asked me why I didnít cut my hair, and what the hell were my eyes all dilated for, was I taking some of those hippie drugs? No, I explained to her, I was just beaten half to death by some jerk. Was I at that damned peace rally with all those out-of-town other hippies, she asked? Yes, I said. Well, she replied, I could take my druggie ass back to the dorm and sleep off whatever I was on, sheíd had enough of me.

A buddy helped me back to my room, where, indeed, I slept it off. The beating, that is.

The fellow who beat me up had been suspended a year earlier for a drunken rage during which he pulled the antennas off of cars and smashed them through windshields. He got in no trouble for his attack on me. Later that same year he peed out of his dorm room window. His room faced a residential street, and a homeowner complained about him, identifying the room and the build of the naked pisser. That got him expelled from the place.

Piss in public, thatís grounds for expulsion. Beat up a New York peacenik Jew with long hair, thatís not.

So I went down to the Draft Board in Indianapolis to register. And what was happening in downtown Indy that very day? A sit-in protest rally at the Draft Board. Yep, an anti-Viet Nam protest.

Despite my sympathies for their cause, there was no way I was going to avoid registering, as that would have been unlawful. So there it happened, long-hair hippie me, I jumped over the sit-in demonstrators so I could register for the draft. And they were yelling at me for not taking up the cause.

I didnít bother to tell them Iíd already led a peace demonstration, had my picture on the front page of the paper carrying that flag, and been beaten up for having been there.

It didnít change my feelings, nor my outlook (read: opposition) to the war in Viet Nam, to have been beaten up, to have led a demonstration, or to have to jump over a bunch of sit-in protesters in order to register for the draft.

Iíve been an incorrigible peacenik ever since.

Back in those days the slogan was Make Love, Not War. Still sounds good to me.

These days we have millions of people all over the world protesting war, conducting peaceful demonstrations, And it isnít the disaffected youth, the hippies, or the New York Left Wing Jew Media. It is millions and millions of pro-peace individuals, from all walks of life, of all ages, races, creeds, colors.

Of course, the President of the United States thinks this can be shrugged off as a simple focus group that he would choose to ignore.

Being a peacenik, aka a Pacifist, can be a particularly non-peaceful experience. One gets beaten up. How utterly antithetical to a non-violent position!

It pissed off that drunken fool that I would not engage in a fight with him. I refused to make it a fistfight. He scoffed at me that I wouldnít ìput up my dukes.î He called me a faggot, a girlie-girl (my hair was v-e-r-y long in those days), and told me he was going to knock me out and then piss on me.

I guess since he didnít knock me out and get to piss on me, that must be why he was later having to pee out the window in the dorm. Or maybe it was some sort of karma, a sense of retroactive balancing of doing damage to him. I later learned that his father was, like him, a violent sort, and beat the shit out of him for getting kicked out of school.

Ironies, huh?! He probably ended up getting drafted, and sent to Viet Nam. Maybe that made him feel good, who knows? Then again, who cares?

These days I remain an incorrigible peacenik. Like the late Edwin Starr, I canít figure out what war is good for. The obituaries say Starr died of a heart attack. Seems more like a case of massive irony.

Being a peacenik seems to make others perceive paradoxical behavior. Hereís an example: I have a friend, a fellow I worked with for about two years, a really good guy. He retired from the Marine Corps, but remained in the Reserve. When all this war prep began he anticipated being recalled. As the date drew nearer, he was counting time. Add to this a pregnant wife, a lost job, and some other uncertainties.

And yet, through it all, his spirit and sense of humor prevailed. Also, being the gung-ho Marine that he is, this business with Iraq and with North Korea was the sort of thing that excited him.

He was, of course, recalled. And off he went to training and then to Kuwait. The war broke out, and his unit went into Iraq.

I got an e-mail from him a few weeks back. In it, in addition to letting the recipients of the e-mail know that he was alright, he asked for packages to be sent to him and his unit. Send Iced Tea mix, Kool Aid mix, Gummie Bears and some other candies, he requested.

So off we went to the grocery store, spent about $30 on this stuff, packed it up and sent it to his address in Kuwait. We hope two things: that he is safe and will return home in one piece and can resume life as he knew it, and that the package gets there and he and his unit can enjoy the candies and the drink mixes.

When Susan took it to the Post Office, the clerk told her that there were numerous packages being sent to the APO in Kuwait that day. We, as did many others, answered the call for care packages from our friends serving over there.

Is there a paradox here? I think not.

Can one be totally supportive of the troops involved in the action in Iraq, and at the same time be opposed to the war, opposed to war in general, and opposed to just about everything the President stands for?

To this I say yes.

Paradox? What paradox? My friend the Marine (about whom I think each time they mention a Marine unit on MSNBC or CNN) and I are on opposite ends of the political spectrum. Does this make us enemies? Of course not! We are friends. We are colleagues, co-workers, a couple of guys who like to go see The Yankees play at the Stadium. How is there a paradox in my support and deep-seated concerns and hopes for the safety of my friend, while at the same time I hold the whole waging of this war to be a bullshit campaign?

Opposition to the war (and to the regime currently occupying the Oval Office, et al) and support for the troops are not mutually exclusive.

Respect for veterans, respect for those in service to (for?) the country is not counterpoint to opposition of the ways of the Administration. This is not an ìus versus themî proposition. Just as there are anti-war protesters from all over the globe of every size, shape, color, et al, there are people who are fighting the battle who may or may not be of a common mind with those who sent them off to battle.

It is not the old hawk argument: casting those who oppose the war as tantamount to being commie sympathizers. In many ways the current anti-war movement is a more polymorphous group, a true melting pot of people, with a specific common trait: that of being anti-war. And not necessarily "anti-American" while being anti-war.

Another point: being a peacenik does not mean one loves the French!

If anything, as an incorrigible peacenik, this whole business with the French seems as appalling as the other side of the coin. It is a money-grubbing strategy on their part. The French have been back-dooring deals for Saddam, profiteering and making gain while the sanctions were in place. And the French enjoyed financial gain as they enabled Saddam to further the horrors of his regime, and to gain access to arms, chemical, and the machinery of war and torture.

The French are no worthier or pious than the Friends of Bush, such as George Schulz, et al (Bechtel in Schulzís case), who received closed-door, private-deal, back room commitments from the administration to land huge contracts to îrebuildî Iraq.

I say Make Love, Not War. Those clowns say Make War, then Make Money.

I prefer to give peace a chance. Hopefully, though, I wonít suffer any more beating by public pissers over this position to which I remain incorrigibly committed.