Number 43!  THAT was terrible news.  And I was stunned.  What would I do? 

At the time I was an anti-Vietnam War organizer, a protestor who had been jailed.  I had a strong commitment which since then, thankfully, has never wavered, even though I live in Washington, DC, city of Kerry, McCain, Reed, et. al., where Vietnam service is, more than ever, elevated to heroic status.

No. 43!  I planned to get married; I had no plan for the draft. But I had luck. Called quickly for a physical, I failed.  Maybe it was the year; so many Americans were opposed to the War, maybe even active duty personnel in the induction centers, I hoped.  Only a handful of guys on my bus passed.  The rest of us flunked … for hearing loss (rock and roll), for allergies, and, in my case, for having high arches.  I could hardly believe it.  "Are the tops of your feet always red like that?  Do boots hurt?"  "Uh, yes."  And soon came the IV-F.  Saved from going to Saigon or Toronto.

Instead I went to the inner city to teach.  A different kind of service. And I am still married, 40 years later.