My '60s high-school experience was close to the stereotype -- smoking pot, trying LSD, seeing the world in a new way, and questioning authority: If the government lied about drugs, why not about other things?
It turned out that the Gulf of Tonkin Incident, the justification for the Vietnam War, was one of those lies — as have been the justifications for most of our wars, I believe — but I didn't find that out until later. Still, even before I knew that war was based on a lie, I could see that our nation was divided and confused about it. No one could give me a good, clear, convincing explanation of what was going on. Wasn't that uncertainty a sufficient reason to refrain from killing millions of people? That's how I felt at the time, though I couldn't have articulated it so well back then.
I didn't figure that out all by myself. I had the good fortune to fall in with some other teenagers who were also figuring it out. We spent many hot summer afternoons in someone's cool basement, playing peace music and reading counterculture comic books. We listened to the sound track of Hair over and over. Clear Light's cover of “Mr. Blue” was a stunning indictment of authoritarianism, though I didn't learn the word “authoritarianism” until years later.
We felt that the war and the draft were bad, but I didn't fully understand what my friends were going through; my own experience was too different. I was good at math, so I knew I'd be going to college, and I'd automatically get a draft deferment. Also, I felt less nationalism than most people. For me it would be just an inconvenience, not a great hardship, to flee to Canada, at that time a safe haven for draft dodgers. I knew that I would never wear a uniform.
Then, in November 1969, after I'd been in college for a year, the rules changed. A lottery began phasing out student deferments. My roommates and I started thinking and talking more about the draft. It occurred to me that the people on the draft board were human beings who deserved a friendly hello as much as anyone did, so I wrote them a letter.
The letter was very brief. I don't remember the exact words, but they were something like this: “Dear Draft Board, I feel sorry for President Nixon. He must have had a terrible childhood. Why else would he be bombing all those Cambodians?”
It wasn't just ink on paper. I thought anyone on a draft board must have a terribly drab life and deserved some cheering up – so, when my breakfast cereal box was empty, I cut out the front panel, which included a colorful cartoon character. I flipped it over to the blank cardboard that had faced the inside of the box. In crayon, with the great innocence that can come from LSD, I wrote the letter that I sent to my draft board.
It wasn't a conscious attempt to get out of the draft. That payoff hadn't even occurred to me. But my draft board promptly decided I was crazy, and classified me 4F, unfit for military service. They even phoned my parents to offer condolences. I got off lucky; a more authoritarian board would have drafted my sorry ass right then and there.
Perhaps I was crazy, but not as crazy as war. At any rate, I was safe, and home free, and no longer affected by the draft. I hardly noticed the draft-related events of the next few years: In 1973 the draft ended, in 1974 President Ford offered conditional amnesty to the draft dodgers — 40 years ago today — and in 1975 the war ended. But by then the draft had already done great damage to the U.S. military and its image. I've heard many stories of soldiers who didn't like what they were forced to do.
During my college years, at first I joined in a few antiwar marches. But I found political arguments frustrating, so after a while I put them aside; I left the world in the hands of people who claimed to know what they were doing. I grew into a middle-class life, with spouse, house, two kids, and a tenured mathematics professorship at a prestigious university. I didn't think about political ideas again for decades. Then, in 2006, a number of changes in my life gave me time to think, and I woke up. I realized the world was a mess, and taking care of it is the responsibility of all of us; it seems to me that the people in whose hands I'd left it did not know what they were doing. Since then I've been marching for many causes, and reading and writing about politics. Among other things, I've formed much stronger opinions about war and the draft.
It turned out that the Vietnam War never really ended — it changed its name and location, but as far as I can see, the questionable justifications have not changed. Politicians tell us that the people “over there” are different from us, but really those people are our cousins. I think we need politicians who will try harder to make diplomacy work.
And the draft never really ended either — now it's a poverty draft. I hear stories all the time about people joining the military because they can't find a decent job. Forty years after the draft dodgers were offered pardon, their message still matters: being able to choose what you'll fight for is a freedom worth fighting for.
Eric Schechter is Professor Emeritus of Mathematics at Vanderbilt University. Since his retirement in 2013, he has devoted his time to political causes.
Read 1974 coverage of President Ford's decision to grant amnesty to draft evaders here, in TIME's archives: Choices on Amnesty