Abraham Sacrifices Isaac in the Draft

Sarah Dies of Shock and Trauma

The Sacrifice of Isaac. Rembrant 1635

Yesterday, when I responded to Dina Honour’s brilliant piece, Operation Mother Fury, about the possible draft for the travesty that is the Iran War, with a memory of Vietnam, she made me promise I’d write about it.

For me, the ugliest story in our mythological canon, the one I can’t get over, is the one where Abraham is so willing to sacrifice his son, Isaac. God revealed himself to me then, in all his horror. Though I was only fifteen, I saw his true nature, the one that underpins the whole patriarchal project: YOU MUST OBEY THE FATHER.

You know that moment, when you’re dating someone, and they do that thing, whatever it is, and you see them? I mean, really see them? Then you override your alarm and go forward with the relationship anyway. Years later, when you’re breaking up, you point to that moment and say to yourself: I knew it way back then. This is what the father-sacrificing-his-son story was for me, the moment when I understood who God was, though it would take decades for me to let the horror fully land.

This is how I remember it.

My eldest brother, Peter, turned 19 in 1972, during the draft for the Vietnam War, which was run as a lottery, a Hunger Games spectacle that was televised.

During this time, there were constant battles in the culture over the length of men’s hair. It was generational, but also ideological. My father sported a Marine crew cut, silently taking his stand. That style choice was as obvious as any MAGA hat. He had his three sons buzzed for as long as he had control over them. They hated this, but he didn’t care.

In defiance of my father, Peter had become a long-haired hippy freak. He looked like Rob Reiner in All in the Family. We, like everyone else, watched every week and debated the issues the show raised. For example, what would you do if you were on the gurney, all prepped for surgery, only to find out the surgeon was a woman? Would you hop off the table? Or what if you needed a heart transplant to live, and the only donor was a Black man? Would your body reject that heart? My father came down on the wrong side of many of these questions. We called the chair he sat in “his Archie,” because he was so like the main character, Archie Bunker.

Enter the draft.

Well, it’s one, two, three, what are we fighting for? Don’t ask me I don’t give a damn. The next stop is Vietnam. Country Joe and the Fish.

Are you a man? Or a pussy?

For the weeks leading up to the draft, my parents argued. My brother was mostly silent, as was his way, but I could tell he had strong opinions boiling under there.

Mom said, “He’s going to Canada.” Even though it meant she’d hardly ever see him, even for a visit. She’d give up being a real part of his daily life, or his children’s lives, once he had them. But he would live. It was a sacrifice she was willing to make.

My father said, “If you are called, you must answer.” It was a matter of honor, of patriotism, of defending the homeland so communism would never come to the U. S. of A. My country, right or wrong. My son will not be a draft dodger.

All I knew was that I loved my brother and didn’t want him to go to either Vietnam or Canada. Oh, and if he went to Canada, he could never come back. Ever. For as long as he lived.

The diet of fear we were fed by our government then was all this bullshit about the balance of power between the free world and the communist world. Somehow, magically and logically (for men are never irrational), if we let communism flourish unchecked in Southeast Asia, they’d be banging on our front doors next. We had to go do this thing. No choice.

By 1972, 58,000 U.S. personnel and 2.5 million Vietnamese had already died. We had an obligation to finish it. As my friend, Mr. Vonnegut says, “And so it goes.”

It sobered my parents, that draft. Before that, their brawls were all about the balance of power in our home - domestic violence. Who would prevail? Who would be shamed into submission? Would my father resort to violence to win as he so often did? Or would he crumble into a sobbing shame heap when my mother humiliated him with her scathing accusation: Big Man. Stay tuned for the nightly drama, just add alcohol.

But this domestic violence was external, from the country, not the home. This was war. Now their fights were whispered.

Deep down and close to the surface, my brother only wanted my father to love him - to be proud of him, and maybe, dare I say it: to protect him. But he didn’t want to go. He didn’t believe we belonged in Vietnam, and he didn’t want to be maimed or die in an unjust war. But he had dropped out of college and lost the privilege deferment. He didn’t have bone spurs and wasn’t willing to shoot himself in the leg, so…

The six of us gathered in front of the TV. The way I remember it, they used lottery ping-pong balls in the air-popper machine, but that could be a conflation on my part. I’m not going to look it up. The balls had birth dates on them. My father sat in his Archie, my mother on the couch, the rest of us fitting in where we may. I sat next to Peter, arm touching arm, as was my right as his only sister and his favorite. They picked and picked. Three dates in March, close, but not April. A January, a December. Tense, tense, tense. Peter didn’t hold my hand, though I wanted him to. August. Then the tenth and final draw. April. Spines straightened. The 29th. Phew. Not the 22nd. That was a close one.

Not Peter. Not Peter. Not Peter.

As was typical of my family, we didn’t talk about this afterward. There was no celebration. My mother probably cried quietly. I don’t remember what came next. We all retreated to our own resentments. We never had to find out what Peter would have done. But estimates suggest as many as 125k men and their significant others fled to Canada, accepting that they could never return. No one knew a pardon would come. Many of them remained even after it did. I guess they had the proof they needed about our national Big Man.

My brother still wanted my father’s approval, and he still withheld it. My mother moved on to what she thought were bigger grievances with my dad than his willingness to sacrifice Peter to Vietnam. I couldn’t do it. Just couldn’t.

I had seen the face of God in my father, and it was terrible. He, like Abraham, had put obedience before his son’s life, and I was disgusted. What god wants that? How is that love? What the fuck is wrong with God, and for that matter, my father?

And I can tell you this: If they draft my son to fight in an unjust war, there is no limit to what I will do to keep him safe. I’m a woman, a mother, fierce and furious. That war god cannot demand the sacrifice of my son. We will not comply. Instead, we could stop venerating the god that drafts the whole culture into war after endless war since the whole fucking patriarchal project began.

I’d love to know what you think. Please comment, it’s my favorite part of Substacklandia, the comments.

If you read to the end - please leave a comment to let me know you did. I count them, you know… those hearts.

Another note about comments: Tomorrorw, I’m leaving at the crack-o-dawn to enter the darkness at Sky Cave Retreats. Six days - three days, and four nights of that in total darkness, where I expect to meet myself and kill the Buddha - full stop. I won’t be responding to comments, obviously. I’m completely unplugging from everything. The day after my return is Easter, and I’m spending that quietly with my family. I’m not going to look at Substack until after that. But I hope I find you here when I return. You are what makes Substackland my favorite place, all you super smart smarties, and super deep feely feelers. I look forward to connecting with you again… after.

Oh, my gods… what was I thinking?