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After a shower to get off the dust and grime, Lydia sat down at the computer, went into Google and typed in “war is not healthy for children and other living things” and pressed the “search” icon. Up came a list of over 9,610,000 references. She pressed the first one, discovered Another Mother for Peace had designed the logo. In further search she learned that AMP was a group of fifteen Beverly Hills housewives who, in 1967, fed up with all the killing in the ongoing undeclared Vietnam War decided to send Mother’s Day cards to members of Congress and the President, asking them to end the killing. The card read “For my Mother’s Day gift this year, I don’t want candy or flowers, I want an end to killing. We who have given life must be dedicated to preserving it. Please talk peace.” The logo itself, designed by Lorraine Schneider, was drawn child-like, with a simple sunflower in black ink on a yellow background and the words written around the flower stalk. Lydia visualized these women, gathered around a table much like the one in the kitchen where her mother, grandmother and others had gathered. Perhaps they, too, had sent out some of those cards. One of them had acquired the heavy chain and logo she had found in the shed, so they had known of AMP. She wondered how often the chain was worn. Did her mother wear it to school while she taught? Did she wear it to the peace marches in Washington D.C. and New York? And, how many others in the New Hope community went to those demonstrations? So many questions came to mind. She could have gone on reading about AMP, but it was the draft counseling that had gotten her mother killed, wasn’t it?
She turned her search to “Vietnam War conscientious objectors” and up came page after page of articles and statistics. She discovered a long history of men objecting to war and refusing to enter the military. By World War II provisions had been made so that these men could serve their country in another way. Civilian Public Service camps were set up by the government and 12,000 men went into that service. Another 6,000 went to prison rather than serving in any way, and another 25,000 served in the military as noncombatants. In the Vietnam war 170,000 men were officially recognized as conscientious objectors. So who were these CO’s? The official definition of Conscientious Objector, she read, is someone with “sincere conviction(s), motivated by conscience, that forbids someone from participating in war. This objection may apply to all forms or to particular aspects of war.” It sounded like something that would need a good bit of thought. Was that what a counselor helped young men like Dale think through? There had been no war when she was eighteen. No distraction from her first year in college experiencing an exciting new independence, budgeting her limited income against the needed books, clothes, and other things. And, how would one know to object to war when all those around you said it was right and glorious and patriotic? Of course, if in your church, like with the Quakers, that idea was instilled from the time a child could talk and think, maybe you’d wonder how anyone could not object to war. Lydia supposed that had been her parents, and grandparents experience. She couldn’t remember, though, that her uncle and aunt ever talked about conscientious objection one way or another. Nor politics. They simply lived their lives, day by day, year after year. College, though, had been expected, had been looked forward to, planned for. Maybe it had been the escape they all four had unconsciously looked for. Lydia chuckled, imagined her aunt letting out a sigh of relief when she was finally free. Or was that her own sigh of relief. In any case the trust fund had made it possible.
Lydia focused her mind back to her mother. She was getting a picture of her as restless, anxious even, and highly concerned about her high school students. Now picture them being thrust into decisions about being drafted into war, or going on to college. It wasn’t something that could be postponed. Lydia learned that when one registered with the Selective Service, at the age of eighteen, you could register right then as a conscientious objector. So it was important to know at that point what you believed. That was the problem wasn’t it? How to know? That was what her mother was faced with, wasn’t it? Helping a student to think things through without making the decision for him, not letting her own strong beliefs influence their decisions. Is that what Mr. Stephenson was referring to? Lydia felt a chill run up her spine as she asked the question. How did her mother interact with Dale? Truth in interpersonal relationships. The truth, Mother. Did you pressure Dale? Did he come to resent you? The thought rooted her to her chair. It was like being in a car, suddenly realizing you were going off the road, about to crash and there was nothing you could do about it. There was no turning back. The chill then turned to a slow heavy pressure against her chest making it hard to breathe. And she wondered if this distress was simply thoughts, or had she touched another energy, the energy of listening ghosts perhaps, now that she was getting used to the idea of ghosts.
Lydia took her hands off the computer keys and rubbed her arms, took a slow deep breath. She was not going to let this search for truth be hindered and sidetracked by an emotional ghost. Mother, she whispered, be patient. Just back off, now. You, or Dale, or whomever. Just let me find what I have to find. She took another deep breath and the pressure relaxed. She got up and took some time to get a drink of water, go to the bathroom, do a few yoga stretches.
Back at the computer she returned to the Vietnam War references. It had gone on for eleven years, she learned, with 58,202 killed in action and 304,704 wounded. The figures were staggering. President Johnson was said to have become discouraged and decided not to run for another term. Nixon became president in 1969 but still the draft went on until 1975. Now, a man (or boy?) must register when he reaches his eighteenth birthday, but the military fills its ranks with volunteers. Even so, Lydia reasoned, that means the military has names all ready to pull out of the hat when someone decides a draft is necessary. What a startling thought.
Lydia had not paid much attention to these things. The Gulf War eight years ago had been no more than a bleep on her consciousness. But now, doing this research, and going through some of her mother’s papers, she began to realize how different her mother was from herself. Her mother dared to be disliked. She endured hate mail. She assumed her parents would support her efforts, would babysit while she was off to the demonstrations. Now she wanted her support. Right, Mother? Well, what can I tell you? I’ll try not to judge. You did what you felt you needed to do. Now, it’s up to you to forgive Dale for doing what he maybe felt he had to do.
As she scrolled from site to site she saw pictures of the thousands with their picket signs at the Lincoln Memorial, in the streets of Washington D.C., the streets of New York. They looked so determined, so passionate. Was her mother among them? Could she take a magnifying glass and pick her out? Of course not.
But it must have been an exciting time. She could imagine her mother felt the enthusiasm of the movement for peace, the hope that one could change attitudes and stop a war. She sighed. So many meetings, conferences, rallies, marches—and her mother died before what she wanted could be accomplished. No wonder she was hanging around. Lydia slumped back in her chair. She’d had enough for now. Getting to know her mother was exhausting. Besides, it was time to go fix vegetarian chili.
Chapter 12
The Return Page 18