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Register for Selective Service Under Protest

With no end in sight to the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, and military recruitment on the decline, a resumption of the military draft looms as a frightening possibility for young people. While many activists have been turning their attention towards anti-recruitment work, resistance to Selective Service registration has taken a back seat.

A cursory search on Google reveals advice that is ridiculously simple-minded. It is unreasonable to ask a young man not to register for Selective Service if he wants to go to college. Anyone who wants to go to college, but cant afford to pay tuition out of pocket, has to resort to student loans. Anyone who applies for student loans must first file a Federal Application for Financial Student Aid. Under federal law, all men between the ages of 18 and 26 are ineligible for FAFSA unless they register for Selective Service. The simple math for this is: Working Class Male Student – Selective Service Registration = No College.

The solution is to register under protest. I realize that this column is a little too late for this year’s batch of graduating high school seniors. After being solicited for some advice by a young comrade in Florida, and looking through my own, old paperwork, I decided to post this information online. I hope it will help tomorrow’s seniors who find it through Google. Perhaps it can help those young people who have already registered for Selective Service, but want to take action anyway.

Just before the war with the eskimos, in 1997, I was a graduating high school senior faced with this dilemma. The advice I received at the time, from the War Resisters League and the Central Committee for Conscientious Objectors was to register under protest for Selective Service. In order to do this, you should do the following.

You should actively register for Selective Service. Do not merely check that box on your FAFSA that registers you for the SS. Go to your local post office, pick up a SS registration form and mail it in before you apply for financial aid. Include with the registration form a letter from you explaining that you are registering under protest. Here is my own letter from 1997:

As an editor, I may quibble with this young writer’s precise wording, but the essence is there. I am a conscientious objector. If drafted, I will not serve. Those are crucial statements. If I were writing this letter today, I might add, “I am registering under protest in order to apply for federal student financial aid. I have no intention to cooperate with the Selective Service Administration” and “I oppose the war in Afghanistan, the War in Iraq, and all wars.”

Now, here’s the crucial bit: carbon copy yourself on this letter. Send both copies of the letter, the one to the SS and the one to yourself, via certified mail. Keep all receipts and stubs in a safe place.

Keep the letter that you mailed to yourself sealed and in the same safe place.

The reason that you mail yourself a copy is to save your own skin. What you have in your hands is government certified proof that you were a conscientious objector way back when you were 18-years-old, should you ever be called before a draft board (which was a remote possibility eight years ago, but is not now).

Saving your own skin, as a form of activism, is not particularly satisfying, but you do achieve a secondary goal by sending a direct message to the war machine that you are an active opponent of their scheme. Believe me, they keep track of this stuff. Their statisticians undoubtedly will credit you for representing another ten or fifteen cohorts who didn’t have the nerve to speak up. The more young people who file letters such as these, the more the war machine gets the message that they will have a real problem on their hands should they seek a return of the draft.

When I did this, before our government declared permanent war against invisible enemies, a funny thing happened: the Selective Service Administration wrote me back!

By acknowledging and rejecting my claim of conscientious objector status, the Selective Service Administration provided even more evidence (should I ever need it) that I was a pacifist in 1997, long before the wars and the draft. They also directly acknowledged that they are aware when young people resist compulsory military service (and, again, are almost assuredly keeping statistics on these letters).

I would be curious is a young man who filed a similar letter in 2005 would receive the same kind of response. Please let me know how your own letter is received.

Finally, if you’ve already registered for Selective Service, and filed your FAFSA, you can still take action. In fact, you’re in better shape, since your loans are cleared up, and the SS never rescinds a registration anyway. Send them a certified mailing expressing your desire to rescind your Selective Service registration. Use the same language as I recommended: “I am a conscientious objector,” “I registered under duress in order to qualify for college, “I do not support this or any war.” Your objection will be noted by the statisticians, and hopefully you’ll receive back from the SS a dated letter rejecting your claim of objector status (thereby proving that you were an objector way back when).

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Lawnguyland

Long Island is full of surprises. I’ve been doing house visits for a certain union on Long Island. I’ve been working in Lindenhurst, a town that is mostly known to me from those hypnotic station announcements on the Long Island Railroad (“Making station stops at…Wantaugh, Seaford, Massapequa, Massapequa Park, Amityville, Copiague, Lindenhurst and Babylon; Change at Babylon for the train to Montauk…”), which are stored in the same place in my brain as parts of the Nicene Creed and the pledge of allegiance. I’m not in the habit of spending time in Suffolk county, and it’s easy to forget that we live on an actual island that’s surrounded by water and docks. Lindenhurst feels like one of Maine’s lobster towns, but without all that pesky tourism.

When you get far enough south, these modest, working class houses have dock slips for backyards. When I don’t get an answer at the front door, I nervously look around back to be sure that no one’s escaping by sea. After all, in my rolled-up shirt-sleeves and tie I look a fair bit like a Jehovah’s Witness, and who wouldn’t take the opportunity to put some ocean between themselves and evangelicals at the door?

The great thing about working in a seaport town is the ready availability of fresh, delicious seafood. I finally satisfied my summertime hankering for fried clam strips at Southside Fish and Clam on the Montauk Highway. I momentarily disregarded concerns about a “red tide” and enjoyed the thick, meaty and delicious strips found there. I also enjoyed the terrific, honest-to-goodness oldies radio station heard there. B-103 is now the last oldies station in the New York Metro region after CBS101 was switched to the hated “Jack” format by its evil corporate parent. Unfortunately, its signal won’t even reach to Queens.

What I’ve noticed most often are the strange living situations that Long Islanders are forced into by low wages and high housing costs. Brothers, sisters, cousins, great aunts, grandmas and in-laws all under the same roofs (actually, some are in the garage, others the basement; more, I bet, are living on those boats in the backyard). Most of the Islanders that I meet who are in their 20’s plan to leave New York entirely. This jives with the experience of most of the people I grew up with on the edge of the world, and other people I’ve met along the way.

Long Island, as a housing development and a society, is scarcely 50 years old. Any society that cannot provide jobs, homes and schools for its young is a failed society. If only narrow-minded voters realize this as they vote down school budgets and lobby against apartment developments.

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He Ain’t Never Caught a Rabbit.

I think I’m over the dog thing. My parents are away this weekend, at a family reunion that I am boycotting, so I volunteered to dog-sit Alfred. I drove by my folks’ place in the late afternoon to pay the neurotic pup a visit and then take him to my apartment. I took him for a quick run around the backyard in order in order to expend some of his pent up energy from being cooped up in the house alone for the previous ten hours, and then for a nice long walk around the neighborhood in order to answer the call of nature.

Now, Alfred can be rather clever when it comes to sneaking food or prying open doors, but he can be a bit of a dummy when it comes to basic doggies duties. Still, it was a new one on me when I caught Alfie absent-mindedly peeing on his own front leg, and an even more disappointing surprise when I had to point out to him that he was missing his targeted tree by a good six inches.

I took the opportunity to hose him off in my folks’ backyard before we finally drove to Kew Gardens. Back at my place, Alfie took awhile to get comfortable in less familiar surroundings, but amused himself by barking and whimpering at the neighborhood dogs out my second floor window.

During dinner (mine), the excitement became too much for him and he started throwing up in the corner of my living room – on my stereo speaker! I needn’t have worried too much about that particular part of my home entertainment system as Alfred, always busy, set about a brief tour of my living room, pausing occasionally to spew a little more.

Both of our meals now dispensed with, and Alfred sitting contentedly with that same look on his face that we all get after a violent protein spill, I’m taking the opportunity to jot down this note to myself: Do not get a dog while you still live in an apartment.

Alfred is now nudging my arm. He wants a walk. Don’t forget to spay or neuter your pets, folks, and if you have a backyard, please consider adopting one of the adorable mongrels at the North Shore Animal League.

North Shore Animal League
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Jackie Robinson Park vs. Snapple Apple Stadium

The recent, long-awaited announcement of plans for a successor to the Mets’ Shea Stadium opens the chilling possibility that New York City will be stuck with one of those stupid corporate-sponsorship name venues. From the Staples Center in Los Angeles to the MCI Arena in Washington, DC and, in between, those poor bastards in Houston who were stuck with Enron Field, corporate-sponsored naming rights have blighted our nation’s sporting venues.

This frustrating trend has reached as close as New Jersey where the naming rights to the Brendan Byrne Arena were sold to Continental Airlines (while the poor old man was still alive to see it), and…well, what the hell was the PNC Bank Center before it became a corporate ho? (How the hell is one supposed to find the stadium if the name keeps changing?)

With the impending demise of Shea Stadium – which is owned by the city – and it’s replacement with a privately funded stadium, there is a real risk that fans will be saddled with the “Snapple Apple Stadium” or the “Always Tampons Arena.”

The current stadium was named for William Shea, a lawyer and civic booster who attracted the expansion National League franchise to Queens in 1962. That precedent leaves fans with the unfortunate alternative of riding the 7 train to the “Doctoroff Dome.”

There’s really only one true alternative name for the Mets’ new home: Jackie Robinson Park. Jackie Robinson was, of course, the first black player in the major leagues, a superstar who led the old Brooklyn Dodgers to six National League pennants and one World Series Championship. Fifty years after Robinson broke the color barrier, all the teams in the major leagues retired his jersey number. New York went a step further and gave him the dubious honor of renaming the Interboro Parkway, the two lane death trap that runs from my beloved Kew Gardens to East New York (past Robinson’s grave in Cypress Hills), the Jackie Robinson Parkway.

A true honor would be naming the new home of Da Bums’ spiritual successors, the New York Mets, after one of our proudest heroes. Mets fans had better jump on the campaign to name our new mecca Jackie Robinson Park before the Citibank Coliseum makes us ashamed to be New Yorkers.