First draft
A couple of weeks ago my friend Chelsea and I met at the Claremont, a grand old hotel in the Berkeley hills, close to our roots with a view. She lives in Texas now, but we grew up together and a bagel shop I frequent has a coffee named after her, aptly described as sweet and nutty. She's a very political creature, a die-hard Democrat, this is one of the mysteries of our friendship, since at 31 I have never voted and consider it charming that I obstain from all forms of the news.
During this visit the presidential campaign comes up. I'm not sure how, but I know I'm not to blame. I mention stem-cell research, only because of my father and she tells me something that I still have yet to shake: "Well that's your vote this year then, you have to vote for your dad."
So less than a week before the legal deadline I mail in my official voter registration. I am now a registered voter. And while I know nothing of candidates or issues, I know my father needs medical help that doesn't yet exist.
In 1965, three months after he finished high school, my father turned 18 years old. He moved to Texas, for a girl he tells me shyly, slyly now. Anne Richmond, a debutante. Her father had a lot of money and connections. When my father was 16 he met Marlon Brando, a buddy of the old man, and rode motorcycles with him. "So I registered," he tells me now, "because it was the law."
The law , like he cared. "They were catching up with people and pushing you ahead in the line if you weren't registered," he explains. I pause with this answer. My father could hotwire a car at 13 years old, the law was not a concern. He watches me take this in. His eyes are hazel, layered green and gold. Mine are brown, dark to nearly black. I ask him if he thought there was a chance he would be drafted.
He fills his cheeks with air and looks up for an answer. Tips his chin down and exhales with a small laugh. "No," he says. "I just figured if it happened I would figure something out. Maybe something would happen with the war. Maybe I would go to school and get a deferment. Maybe this, maybe that, but none of that really happened."
He takes a long drink of his water, and I watch it quietly slosh in his tremulous hands. None of that really happened, he says.
During this visit the presidential campaign comes up. I'm not sure how, but I know I'm not to blame. I mention stem-cell research, only because of my father and she tells me something that I still have yet to shake: "Well that's your vote this year then, you have to vote for your dad."
So less than a week before the legal deadline I mail in my official voter registration. I am now a registered voter. And while I know nothing of candidates or issues, I know my father needs medical help that doesn't yet exist.
In 1965, three months after he finished high school, my father turned 18 years old. He moved to Texas, for a girl he tells me shyly, slyly now. Anne Richmond, a debutante. Her father had a lot of money and connections. When my father was 16 he met Marlon Brando, a buddy of the old man, and rode motorcycles with him. "So I registered," he tells me now, "because it was the law."
The law , like he cared. "They were catching up with people and pushing you ahead in the line if you weren't registered," he explains. I pause with this answer. My father could hotwire a car at 13 years old, the law was not a concern. He watches me take this in. His eyes are hazel, layered green and gold. Mine are brown, dark to nearly black. I ask him if he thought there was a chance he would be drafted.
He fills his cheeks with air and looks up for an answer. Tips his chin down and exhales with a small laugh. "No," he says. "I just figured if it happened I would figure something out. Maybe something would happen with the war. Maybe I would go to school and get a deferment. Maybe this, maybe that, but none of that really happened."
He takes a long drink of his water, and I watch it quietly slosh in his tremulous hands. None of that really happened, he says.
posted by Tristani at 11:26 PM
![[ Registered ]](http://www.diarist.net/registry/button.gif){kind=small}
3 Comments:
It's amazing how our lives are so tied in the lives of others... "Of Course they are," but when those little details are pointed out.... it's so amazing. I like how you describe apathy -in the most emotional way.... wow. Heavy.
This is very interesting. I wonder sometimes what the impact of the Iraq war is in the soldiers there - and the Iraqis too. Everything is reported so abstractly and yet the personal cost to each person is incalculable. Thanks for your writing here.
Great Entry.
I will be back to read some more.
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