On a raw, drizzly day during the winter of 1969, I met a young man named Allen at the Chicago office of the American Friends Service Committee, the social action arm of the Quakers. I was working there as a draft counselor, helping young guys file as conscientious objectors. This was a tough process designed to discourage and deny, sparing few from Vietnam. All I remember of him was his long reddish sideburns, the peace buttons pinned to his jean jacket, and his sad eyes.
We talked for almost an hour about whether he would report to a U.S. Army boot camp the next day. He picked up an anti-war flyer off my desk announcing an upcoming “die-in” protest in front of the Chicago Induction Center. He asked me if I intended to go. I glanced at the photo on the flyer of a naked Vietnamese child running down a dirt track in panic. Her village had been set on fire by napalm, dropped by American aircraft. I could hear her terrible screams, almost audible on the page. I told him that our government was responsible for so much suffering and death, and yes, I was going but unsure if I was willing to be arrested.
At the time, I never learned what he decided to do, but I guessed, like me, he ultimately chose resistance. Anti-war rallies and marches weren’t enough for me anymore, small tokens of conscience without much risk. What could I do that would be real and visible, yet align with my non-violent ideals?
