My half-brother was a Marine who served three tours in Vietnam. I have a daughter who joined the Air Force for a tour in Germany and Yemen. I currently have a son in the Navy, on a nuclear sub cruising off Korea. I honor all of them for their convictions and their response to our country’s protection.
But I have never been, and never will be, reconciled to our country’s foreign policy that led us into the Vietnam war or the current military actions in Iran and Afghanistan.
And in the summer of 1970 I did two things to protest against what I still believe was an unrighteous use of force by our government: I bought a one way bus ticket to Winnipeg, and I applied to the Ringling Clown College.
When I turned 18 I had registered for the Draft down at the Post Office, as required by law, but I was determined not to be inducted into the Armed Services to play at gangster in Southeast Asia. My adolescent mindset was that I would either flee to Canada to avoid the Draft, or run away to the circus under an assumed name so the Draft Board would never find me -- it worked for Jimmy Stewart in The Greatest Show on Earth, didn’t it? Well, at least for a while . . .
I spent most of that summer at anti-war rallies in Minneapolis -- because I was passionately against the Vietnam war (and because it gave me an excuse not to look for work, and as a way to meet a bevy of young girls.)
My parents and I were barely on speaking terms that summer. On those sticky summer evenings, while Gary Moore chuckled idiotically on CBS, my dad raged and my mother wept when I insisted that I would either have to leave for Canada or run off to the circus and never darken their doorway again. I even bought an English/Canadian dictionary to brush up on my possible new native tongue (honestly, I thought they spoke a different patois up there -- until I realized the ‘dictionary’ was a joke book full of Canuck puns.)
“I’ll report you to the police!” my dad threatened.
“At least look up your great uncles in Quebec, for godsake!” my mother pleaded. “They’ll keep you away from those terrible hippies!”
I remained adamant. I had some money in the bank, which I drew out, and my bus ticket in my pocket, and Uncle Sam could kiss my sweet bippy.
As the air grew crisper in September I was leaning towards the Canada option. I hadn’t heard back from the Ringling Clown College, and frankly didn’t think my chances of getting in were any too good. And I kinda liked the idea of being a lonely exile up in the Land of Ten Thousand Molsons.
Then, as Victorian historians used to write, the hinge of fate swung wide open for me. On the very same day I got my draft number -- an unbelievably high 320 -- and my letter of acceptance to the Clown College down in Florida. With a draft number that high I would never have to worry about being inducted into the Armed Services -- and the bright letterhead featuring clowns and elephants promised me all the wonders of the big top, without the hassle of me having to change my name and always be looking over my shoulder.
I tore up the bus ticket, packed my knapsack with underwear, a toothbrush, and a pair of boy’s culottes (which I immediately ditched when I saw what everyone else was wearing down in Venice.) My older brother Billy drove me to the Greyhound Bus depot on Hennepin Avenue, since my parents refused to believe I was actually leaving, and I went down the Slapstick Road like Dorothy and her pals went down the Yellow Brick Road in a similar fantasy.
I’ve often asked myself since then what my life would have been like had I gone to Canada instead of waiting around. I wouldn’t have met my wife Amy and had 8 wonderful kids with her. Nor had all those years of child support. But most of all, I think of the opportunity I would have missed to generate laughter as a circus clown, first with Ringling and then with a host of other circuses.
Providence, I believe, took me down the right road at the right time to the right place. So praise the Lord, and pass the custard pies!
