I was the last of the eighteen year olds faced with the question of the draft. You remember that they put all our birthdays into one huge hopper, spun it around and began selecting who would go to Nam. One of my buddies that last year in 1972 found his birthday drawn first. It all took place on a television show. It reminds me a lot of the lottery drawings you see nowadays (without the tuxedo and Ed McMahon, though). My birthday was 7th but I knew already that I could not go and fight for a cause I didn't believe in.

I had friends who cut off toes, didn't sleep for two weeks, walked without shoes for three months, and attended dozens of loud rock concerts in order to make themselves physically dysfunctional for the medical exam. Most of the time it didn't work. I had planned on writing a thesis proclaiming my religious reasons for avoiding the draft. I had serious religious convictions that prevented me from killing anyone, anything.

My father had different convictions. The Vietnam War created a deep rift between us. I would have avoided registering for the draft had it not been for my dad who personally drove me downtown and escorted me to the room where I filled out a form and was designated an E2. Nothing was said on our way to draft board; however, I know he knew about my opposition to the whole war overseas. I remember him talking about the enlistments of World War II. Because of a birth defect, my father was not accepted into the armed forces. He cried when telling me about this disappointment. I was fifteen years old. He was fifty-five. My opposition to Vietnam created a barrier between us that lasts to this day. The length of my hair, the condition of my jeans and the hair on my face all contributed to the gulf between my father and I. Eventually I ran away to Canada where I continue to live with my wife and our two sons who will never know their grandfather.