By Helen James
Issue 128, January - February 2005
On the eve of the Gulf War, while I was marching for peace with hundreds of other protestors, I spotted a familiar mop of shiny red hair down low in the crowd. Sure enough, it belonged to my then nine-year-old son, Adam. I hadn’t encouraged him to take up the politics of adulthood, but he and his buddies had convinced another parent to take them to the rally. We joined forces, and I walked and talked with them as they struggled to understand the deeper meaning of that day.
As I stopped to take a photo of the boys with their handmade peace signs, a tired, frail-looking man, covered with war medals and peace buttons, began limping toward me as fast as he could manage. He’d broken ranks with his group, Vietnam Vets Against the War, and had a look on his face I will never forget. He came close and embraced me, then pulled back, stared into my eyes, and said, “If my mother had done that for me, I wouldn’t be like this now.” We shared a moment of silence, then parted with a handshake.
The vet was right—my son was not being raised to be a soldier, and someday Adam might need to show his draft board the photo we’d just taken to prove that fact. While this scenario seemed only remotely possible and a long way off, I reminded myself that some parents start college funds when a child is born. I tucked the photo away.
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