They asked.  I told.  I recently read an essay, "Lottery Night," by Kim Stafford, recalling his experience with the draft lottery during the Vietnam war and his successful application for conscientious objector status.  Stafford is the author of a dozen books of poetry and prose and director of the writing program at Lewis and Clark College in Portland, but his bio is always accompanied by a mention of his being the son of former U.S. poet laureate William Stafford.  (It must be quite a burden never to escape your father's shadow.)  During WWII, the father was granted C.O. status, but was interned in labor camps.  The son had a much easier time being granted the C.O. exemption 25 years later.

Reading Stafford's essay reminded me of my own experiences with the Vietnam draft, and my memories, like Stafford's are a mixture of the very specific and the empty spaces in between--another instance of how inconsistently selective our memories are.  Even though being called for my pre-induction physical was a momentous event (it determined whether I would go to Vietnam and it was the occasion for coming out to my parents), I don't even remember what year it was.  I was a graduate student at the University of Oklahoma, but graduate school deferments had come to an end.  It must've been 1967 or 68 because I think I remember the apartment I lived in at the time (at an old complex near campus called the Alamo).  Every wall was painted black, and every window had been painted over.  I had just come out among all my friends, and the "if it feels good, do it" atmosphere meant that no one was shocked or judgmental, so despite the blackened surroundings, it was a very happy year.  I remember (I think) a cold walk in the early morning dark to catch a bus to Oklahoma City, where the physical was to take place.  Almost everyone on the bus was an OU student, most of whom, like me, were looking for ways to avoid the draft. 

The conscientious objector option wasn't on the table.  At the time, you had to declare that your objections were religious (the Supreme Court struck that part down sometime later) and that you opposed all wars.   I didn't satisfy either criterion.  Gays were prohibited from serving.  There was a question on the form asking whether you were homosexual, but I wasn't sure I was ready to "check the box."  I definitely remember how scared I was--and how relieved I was when the physical tests revealed that I had marginally high blood pressure.  The relief was short-lived, however, when they said I'd have to go to the OU health center every day for a week to have my blood pressure checked and then come back for a second pre-induction physical.  The blood pressure tests were normal, so that excuse disappeared.  I had heard that if you drank a lot of Cokes before you went for an exam, you would have high blood sugar levels, so on the way back for a second physical I swigged two or three bottles of Coke.  Now, in addition to being scared, I was in physical discomfort until it was time for the urine sample.  I do remember distinctly the combination of bashful bladder and great urgency.  Sure enough, the sugar level was too high, but once more I was sent back to the health center for a week of testing before returning for a third physical. 

The third cold, dark morning, I summoned my courage and checked the box.  It was my first public declaration that I was gay.  I nervously took the paper to the sergeant in charge.  He looked it over and then yelled across the room of what, looking back, seemed like a couple of hundred of men, "Hey, we've got a queer over here."  The room fell silent, and everyone stared at me, standing at the table, visibly scared.  "How do you know you're a queer?" he asked.  I mumbled "experience."  "What kind of experience?" he continued.  "Homosexual experience," I answered rather obviously.  He sent me to see a psychologist there, as I breathed a premature sigh of relief.  I don't remember any of the questions the psychologist asked, but he said that I would have to see a psychologist or psychiatrist to certify that I was really gay.  The worst was over, I thought.  It hadn't been pleasant, but all I had to do was get a letter from a doctor, and I'd be exempt.

A couple of days later, I started calling shrinks in Norman.  Everyone said the same thing: I'll have to treat you before I'll write the letter.  If they said they could "convert" me, I immediately eliminated them from the list.  Some said that they didn't want to change me but that I must be unhappy or maladjusted, and they wanted to help me be happier and better adjusted.  When I protested that I was quite happy with the ways things were, they dismissed this as denial.  I was getting panicky.  I wasn't going to Vietnam; I didn't qualify as a C.O., and I didn't particularly want to go to Canada or Sweden, the two most popular options.  Finally, a friend said he knew a sympathetic shrink at the El Reno Federal Penitentiary near Oklahoma City.  So off I went to the prison (I have no memory of how I arranged the meeting or how I got in) and met for five or ten minutes with the shrink who agreed to write a letter saying that he had treated me and that I was homosexual.  He sent me a copy of his letter which was so illiterate that I was afraid the draft board would think it was fraudulent, but soon I got a new draft card (you were required to carry these cards with you at all times) with my status changed from 1-A to 4-F.  And so, like many white, middle-class, educated men, I was exempted from going to Vietnam.

There was one further consequence: I had to explain to my parents why my draft status had changed overnight.  They were 500 miles away, so, scared once more, I told them over the phone.  I don't recall what my father said.  He wasn't happy (though I doubt that either of my parents were really surprised), and I'm sure he didn't say much.  I thought my mother would be understanding, but all I remember of her response is that we lived in a small town, the word would get around, and my father's reputation would suffer.  My friend Darrell still remembers that that evening I went to his apartment and spent an hour or two sweating over a long and probably overly sincere letter, hammered out on an old manual typewriter.  My parents didn't take long to come around and accept the sexuality of their only child. 

It's probably difficult now when only 1% of Americans have served in the armed forces during the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan to comprehend how the Vietnam draft affected the lives of so many Americans.  If the draft still existed, there is no way that we would have spent twelve years in these wars.  Of course, the draft doesn't exist, gays have been allowed to serve (quietly) since the Clinton administration, and now Don't Ask, Don't Tell has been repealed.  In my head, I know that's a great victory.  In my heart, however, I'm thankful that once upon a time there was a box to check.