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I was a war baby, born in the Summer of '42 at Madison Park Hospital in Brooklyn, NY, the second son of school teacher parents. I was not told much about my birth, and even though others claim to astounding feats of memory, such as being a slave in the household of Cleopatra, or even Cleopatra herself (as many of us apparently were), I can't remember the early events of this life. So I don't know how I was thought of, as I (undoubtedly) lay squirmy, wrinkled and pink in my tiny maternity crib. However, I was told that my uncle, recently enlisted, came to see me dressed in his Navy Whites, and as he stood on the hospital steps, waiting for visiting hours in the hot afternoon sun, a woman approached and, apparently mistaking him for The Good Humor Man, asked for an ice cream pop. I am told my uncle squared his shoulders in disdain and replied, "Madam, you are addressing the uniform of the United States Navy."

This was the same uncle who, 23 years later, tried to convince me to abandon my commitment to conscientious objection and acquiesce to the draft board's directive to report to Fort Dix. When I told him I believed that killing compounds rather than solves problems, and that this Viet Nam war is particularly grotesque, my uncle countered with the opinion that sometimes we have to follow our country's instructions, even if they're wrong. I asked him if that would make me any different from the Kamikaze, a gaggle of teenage suicide pilots anxious to die for the flag of the rising sun, on whom he had his 50 calibers trained a generation ago.  My uncle then retreated into a morose silence. He was really not that committed to convincing me anyway. He had a son, my cousin, two years younger than I, shortly to face the same crisis.