1972 by Bruce Emard

                                                                    1972

The year was 1972.  The Vietnam War was raging.  Support for the War had turned to resistance and protest, especially among young people whose friends and peers were seen on national TV returning home in flag-draped coffins.  I had entered the University of California at Irvine after a college preparatory education in the sheltered environment of an all-boys Catholic high school.  Uncle Sam had stopped college draft deferments, and by some twist of fate and government policy making, I was carrying a draft lottery number of four.  The preceding summer, before taking the draft physical at the induction center in Los Angeles, I had torn cartilage and the meniscus in my left knee in a wild water-skiing accident, giving me a temporary draft deferment.  My future was uncertain, and I didn’t know what to do.  “What is my end game?” I asked myself.  “Will I end up in Vietnam, Canada, prison, or a coffin?” Confused and naïve, I entered the University, majoring in the humanities. 

One afternoon after class, I was talking with Daniel McEwen between the stacks at the UCI library where I worked shelving books, not necessarily for the money, but for some social interaction with people outside the classroom. A commuter student is a lonely existence.  We chatted about the War and current events.  Suddenly, he stepped into the middle of the aisle and performed a perfect pirouette. Baffled, I asked, “What the hell?”  “I’ve changed my major,” he said.  “I’ve changed it from engineering to dance.”  His demeanor was ebullient as he gushed about his new major.  I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “Great, but what about the draft?”  He said, “I’m not worried.  My draft number is three hundred and ten.”  “Lucky you,” I said. “Mine is four.”  I asked him, “Why did you change your major?”  He said, “I’ve found my passion.”  I said, “I haven’t found mine, but I do know I don’t want to die in a Vietnam jungle.”  I said, “I don’t know what to do.”  He said, “Why don’t you just wait it out.  You can always move to Canada or shoot yourself in the foot.”  “Thanks for the advice,” I said. “I’ll consider it.”  We drifted off to our shelving duties in different dewey-decimal sections of the library.

I dawdled in the music stacks, occasionally shelving a book of notes, clefs, and rests.  A young woman sat on the floor, reading a book.  Could she really understand and appreciate what she was reading in a music book?  I certainly couldn’t.  In fact, I couldn’t understand what I was doing at the university.  I was feeling inadequate in the university environment.  I had expected a course, a professor, a book, or who knows what to inspire me to take my studies seriously and into my future career and life, but it wasn’t happening.  My high school education certainly had not prepared me for this.  “Maybe I should just enlist and let the War take me wherever,” I thought. I wandered over to the archives section of the library where Georges Roulin and Sylvester Stone, two middle-aged single men, worked.  They were always fun and interesting in conversation, and they always had free time.  Georges spotted me and asked, “What are you up to, mon ami?”  He knew I was taking French courses.  “Je ne sais pas, Georges,” I responded. “Of course you don’t,” he said.  “You’re a college student.”  “Well, George.  Some students seem to know exactly what they are doing here.”  Sylvester saw me at the archives window and walked over.  “Well hello, Bruce,” he said effeminately.  “What are you doing in our refuge?”  “Just trying to figure out my life,” I responded.  “What courses are you taking next quarter?” he asked.  “Oh, probably another French course and a couple of history courses,” I said.  “Maybe a statistics course, unless Uncle Sam nabs me first.”  “Sounds stimulating,” he said with a note of sarcasm.  “Have you considered branching out and taking an art class?” he asked.  “No,” I said, “but I have thought about taking a science class.”  That’s progress,” he said.  Georges said, “Ah, the French.  We can blame the imperialism of my homeland for the War.”  Changing the subject, he asked, “Have you heard about the toenail bandit?” “What!,” I said. “We’re on the lookout,” Sylvester said.  “For who, or what?” I asked.  We don’t know,” Sylvester said.  “But young ladies have been stopping at the front desk complaining that when they entered the library to study at an open carrel, their toenails were bare; but when they finished studying, their nails had been painted in vibrant colors, some with a perfect gold rose.”  “That’s really weird and creepy,” I said with a note of disbelief.  Georges said, “We are living in a crazy, mixed-up world.”  “That’s the truth.  I’ll stay on the qui vivre,” I said, laughing.  “Je t’aime bien,” Georges said. “Au revoir,” I said, walking away.  Georges smiled.  Sylvester shook his head.  

Leaving an empty cart behind the returns section of the library, I punched my timecard. I walked over to an empty carrel, preoccupied with thoughts of what courses to take in the upcoming quarter.  On a course card, I marked American history with Professor Spencer Olin. He was offering a course on the military-industrial complex in the United States.  I’d heard Olin was an American patriot who came from a wealthy family.  On his reading list was Alexis de Tocqueville’s Democracy In America.  I marked French III with Professor Alice LaBorde.  I marked world history with Professor John Diggins. He was offering a course on the rise of communism in Russia.  I’d heard Diggins was a radical who organized worker strikes at the University.  Karl Marx’s Das Kapital was on his reading list.  I needed two more courses to complete a full course load.  My mind began to wander.  I remembered I was wearing flip flops.  I looked under the carrel desk and down at my feet to be sure my toenails hadn’t been painted.  “Whew,” I laughed to myself.  I refocused on the course form.  I browsed the course offerings in the Physics Department.  “Astronomy sounds fun,” I thought naively.  “It has labs on the science building roof.”  I marked it.  “One more course for a full load,” I thought.  Sylvester’s advice came to mind.  I browsed the Art Department curriculum and came across Drawing with Professor John Paul Jones.  “That should be an easy three units, and it’s pass/no pass,” I thought.  “I like Led Zeppelin. I wonder if he has a side gig as the bassist for the band.”  I limped over to the Registrar’s Office across the mall and turned in my course form, then I walked to the Cashier’s Office, where I submitted a check in the amount of one hundred dollars for Spring quarter tuition.

Spring quarter 1972 arrived at the UCI campus, and I was apprehensive.  How would I like my classes?  How did I feel about the Gay Students Union demonstrations on campus?  I’d seen Sylvester and Georges at one of their rallies.  My good friend Victor had come down from Berkeley for it.  He talked about demonstrations against the War on the Cal campus and confrontations with the blue meanies, when he wasn’t talking about dropping acid at a Grateful Dead concert. Would my deferment end and would I receive a notice to report to the induction center?  Should I continue a major in the humanities? How would it provide me with a livelihood?  With these and other questions ruminating in my mind, I attended my first classes of the Spring quarter.  Professor Olin was passionate in his idealism for the American capitalist system. Professor Diggins was equally passionate in his idealism for socialism and the plight of the workers.  Professor LaBorde was light and funny and had us speaking in conversational French.  The astronomy class opened my mind to the universe, then blew it away with formulas and equations.  And then there was drawing.

The drawing class was in a studio in the fine arts area of the UCI campus.  I’d never been there.  I walked over after world history class. Searching for the drawing studio, I passed by music studios, performing arts studios, and a large theater.  The architecture was different, and so were the people, it seemed.  Some were milling about, speaking in affected voices with exaggerated gestures.  Others were sitting alone, seemingly lost in their thoughts.  Others moved about lithely. I found the drawing studio and walked through the open door.  I looked around.  I counted twelve easels set around a raised circular platform.  Next to each was a small table on which were set brushes, paints, chalks, charcoals, and a neatly folded smock.  Some students already stood at an easel wearing a smock.  Professor Jones greeted me as I entered the studio.  “Please find an easel and put on a smock,” he said.  I walked past a young woman in tight jeans and a tie-died crop top, her red hair flowing over her smock.  I noticed she already had drawn and painted in gold on her drawing paper, a perfect rose.  She glanced over her shoulder, seeming to recognize me. I found an easel and put on a smock.  Class began.  Professor Jones stepped up and onto the platform, then said, “Welcome.  This is a free-form art class.  There are no rules.  Use your imaginations.  Now, let’s begin and have some fun.  He pointed to the open door and stepped down.

A young woman wearing a robe stood at the door.  She walked into the studio.  Professor Jones motioned her to the steps leading up to the platform.  He pushed a button.  Stairway to Heaven began playing on speakers hanging from the ceiling.  She stepped up and onto the platform.  She removed her robe, then tossed it to Professor Jones.  I could feel the muscles in my jaw slacken.  I tightened them so my jaw wouldn’t drop.  After a few seconds of wide-eyed gaping, I thought to myself, “How do I begin a nude?”

There is a funny thing about end games.  They never end the way you plan or expect.  1973, 1974, and 1975 followed the Spring of 1972.  Nixon won re-election in a massive landslide victory in November 1972, then resigned the presidency in August 1974.  After nineteen years, five months, and twenty-nine days, the Vietnam War ended in April 1975 with the Fall of Saigon to the Viet Cong.  Fifty-eight thousand two hundred and eighty-one American boys and men were killed in action; another one hundred and fifty thousand three hundred and thirty-two were wounded in action.  The last draft call occurred on December 7, 1972, for those born in the year 1952.  I was born in 1953. I never reported the toenail bandit; there was never another toenail incident at the UCI library; and I finished my undergraduate education at UCI with a Bachelor of Arts degree in history.