Matter of Conscience

IN MEMORY OF:

Susan Arnell Boyd

Ann Brebner

Dan Caldwell

Rick Cluchey

David Ireland

Allan Pimental

Ken Whelan

Suzanne Somers

SPECIAL THANKS TO:

Rita Runyon

Kara Kennedy

Anthony Crane

Peter Langs

Bess Scher

"Having known and lived through Bruce’s story as a friend, it is a privilege to read such a well written, compelling book. His story portrays a young man faced with a dilemma, and finally forced to make a choice. ‘This book should be read NOW."

Frances Hill. (Founding Artistic Director Urban Stages, OFF Broadway theater New York)

Some may ask: ‘How can a former Marine and combat veteran of the Vietnam War endorse a book by a Conscientious Objector’? The answer is simple. Bruce Neckels is a man who showed courage and commitment in his beliefs by going to prison. He didn’t hide; he didn’t create false exemptions; he took the punishment his government mandated. One of the founding principles of our nation is the right of each individual to stand up for their belief. The rest of us, whether we agree with them or not, should support that individual’s right to express their belief. - James Reynolds

FOREWORD

T

heodore Roosevelt once said – Recognition belongs to the man who confronts the great challenge of life - whose face is marked by sweat, tears, and blood, and by daring greatly knows the triumph of high achievement. Bruce Neckels refusal to violate his conscience protesting the Vietnam War, is an inspiration in today’s culture of mendacity. His remarkable Memoir shows how one lives and what one fights for, no matter the cost of personal suffering – defines the man. MATTER OF CONSCIENCE recreates a shameful era in American History doing greater damage to our future than relocating Japanese citizens, Congressional witch hunts, the Hollywood Blacklist, and Watergate. Bruce Neckels incisive writing brings alive a protesting culture of love, friendship, loyalty, drugs, music, alienation, and pain. Above all, his book describes the barbaric dehumanizing American Prison system, where sadism, massive incarceration, and the criminalization of dissent destroys the future of generations of our nation’s disadvantaged young.

Bruce Neckels quarrel with the land he loves gives new meaning to patriotism.

Norman Weissman, author of:

The Patriot

My Exuberant Voyage

DEDICATED TO MY DAUGHER ERIN:

When I began writing this, you were two months away from your ninth birthday. You are now thirty-one years old; a college graduate and working on a career of your own. Even though you’ve just recently taken a considerable interest in the book, you let me know years ago that you understand and accept what I went through. I just wanted you to know that when I chose to go to prison as a conscientious objector against the Vietnam War, I was neither coward nor hero. It was a stand that I had to take based on observations, encounters, and information I had gathered which helped redefine my ideology and who I was.

TO MY WIFE WENDY:

Thank you for 42 years and still counting, of love, loyalty, honesty, friendship, support – and for reminding me when I was putting my energy in the wrong places, to focus back on what was most important…this book. I don’t know where I’d be without you.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

T

hanks first to Dalton Trumbo, who I had the privilege of meeting in 1969 and whose book Johnny Got His Gun changed my life.

To Mohammed Ali, whose stand against the Vietnam War showed me that you have to put your conscience and your ass on the line when it means something. I would like to thank my dear friend, James Reynolds, an ex-Vietnam vet who engaged in combat for eight months on a daily basis and lived to still think and have nightmares about it - for his relentless encouragement to write my story. Thanks to so many people who supported and visited me during the time I had to spend in that shithole called the San Francisco County Jail: Terry, Joanne, Al, Marsha; Hope, Amy, Heather, and my dear late friends, Susan and Dan.

And while at Safford Federal Prison, stuck in the middle of the desert, a thousand miles away from home - thank you, Amy - the first to come visit me. To Susan, Mark, Frances, David; and to my dearest friends in life, Terry and Joanne - thanks for taking the time to come visit me at SFP. It wasn’t an easy place to find. To Colette for your undying support. Mail-call is the most anxious moment of the day in prison—someone reaching out to me from the outside, from home—assuring me that I was being thought of. And every day, I had at least one letter from you. Thanks to Colette’s late friend Andrew, a prominent New York attorney, who reached out to help me. His efforts, phone calls, and letters were a great source of encouragement. I so deeply regret that I never got to meet him personally.

Thanks to the Vietnam Vets who I met after prison, while touring college campuses all over the United States and Canada, performing as an actor in a prison drama, The Cage. It was great relating our experiences to each other. Thanks for respecting what I had to do, because I certainly respected you. We all got screwed on this one.

I can’t mention the Cage without giving a special thank you to the late Rick Cluchey, author of the play, for giving me one of the greatest eye-opening experiences I’ve ever had in my life, not to mention 45 years of friendship.

And finally, I guess I must thank the late Judge Samuel Conti for sentencing me to prison. Without his decision, Matter of Conscience would not be possible.

CONTENTS

Foreword      v

Acknowledgements      ix

Prologue      xv

The Times They Are A-Changin – Bob Dylan1

San Francisco: Future home of myheart…and my soul.5

September, 1965... What’s a nice boy from

North Dakota doing here?9

911: A hiccup to my memoir19

You’re a good man, Charlie Brown23

Peeling a layer of my conservative skin35

Hi Diddle-Dee-Dee –39

June 2, 1967...45

Vietnam 10149

Ho Chi, communism, and Dienbienphu55

The dawning of Aquarius…andMichelangelo Antonioni59

Comedy of Errors - A Shakespearian Tragedy65

MGM - My Golden Moment69

We’ve gotta find out what’s happening.73

Hell no, I can’t go!81

They’re only pretending we’re tough.………………………………. 85

An unfriendly visit to my local draft board.89

Draft Evasion 10193

D-Day....101

The Pre-induction blues and thePresidio show-and-tell.103

Moment of Truth...111

Up next... The FBI115

If you agree to fight, you agree to die...-

From Dalton Trumbo’s Johnny Got His Gun121

It’s official! U.S. Declares War on Neckels127

Enjoy it while you can, Neckels.FBI Agent Jones131

Maneater, by Hall & Oates, 1982135

God and Samuel Conti to the rescue....139

The speech I never gave.143

But... as continued bad luck would have it...147

C-line, and Doo Wop City149

Jerry… my guardian angel153

Elevated status….. Cum clean161

Same ol’ same ol’….163

Travels with Charlie167

Well.... Maybe I could.171

Goodbye Stormy Heather…181

Hello college coeds...185

The setup…193

Well, howdy… simply howdy!203

A lawyer’s debut…207

… and it’s Déjà Vu all over again211

Home sweet home.... I don’t think so.215

Love Letters in the Sand223

The Visit, bad poetry, andOnce Upon A Time

in the Psychedelic West.231

Hope is a good thing.239

My French pen pal...243

June and America’s Pastime.249

"Meester Neekles...Would ju like to go

a-rattlesnake hunting?"253

Keepers of the Gate Stories257

Say it ain’t true, Cat Ballou!269

Happy Birthday Blues275

That is, unless...279

And here I thought nobody cared....285

Homeward Bound....293

And now... In service of my country.299

Medicinal Marijuana – The Early Days303

Free at last.... Let the celebration begin!309

Full circle to Belfield317

Near-death experience323

Farewell Dick, the Draft… and Mark327

What did we learn andwhere do we go from here?333

Epilogue: It’s time… but what’s missing?      345

References      349

Two roads diverged …. and I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost –

Two roads diverged… both dangerous… one choice… and no turning back.

Bruce Neckels–

PROLOGUE

Saturday, June 26, 1971

I

t was a gruesome ride - that 1,000-mile trip from the San Francisco County Jail to Safford Federal Prison in Safford, Arizona. Sitting with two other prisoners in the back seat of a 1970 Ford LTD 4-door sedan - squeezed together, handcuffed and leg-ironed. Traveling between Blythe, California, and Tucson, Arizona, going 90 miles an hour with the windows rolled down and the outside temperature at 110 degrees, that heat wave blasting in my face. Yes, the car had air-conditioning. But the FBI officer who owned that car, a former Marine Corps Sergeant, was administering a dose of his own personal punishment.

I sat quietly, acting as though it didn’t bother me one bit. We asked the Agents if they would turn on the radio. To our surprise, they did. And how ironic that the song playing was James Taylor singing You’ve Got A Friend. That was painful. No, not a damn thing was going right. I was at the lowest point in my life, and I wouldn’t be calling out anybody’s name because no one was going to come running to save me.

On June 11, 1971, at 11:00 a.m., I walked into the Northern District Court in San Francisco, California, to receive my sentencing for Refusing to Submit to Induction. I had refused in 1969, when the Vietnam conflict was at its peak, and San Francisco had been the Mecca for draft resisters and pot smokers. I could get anything from probation to five years in prison. I’d already eliminated probation because President Richard Nixon had recently appointed the judge I was about to face on the recommendation of California Governor, Ronald Reagan. Orders from Nixon were to crack down on pot smokers and draft resistors. At the same time, there was an opening in the United States Supreme Court, and this judge was being considered for the position. So his objective was to show Nixon how tough he could be. Almost everyone who faced him went to prison. In fact, a jailhouse doctor at S.F. County told me he threw his own nephew in jail for six months, because the kid got busted on pot. In another case, some young lady inside her home, at her kitchen window, was smoking a joint. She was spotted by someone taking an evening stroll, who called the police. They quickly moved in and busted this criminal while she was chopping carrots. They found remnants of a marijuana cigarette. The lady faced Judge Samuel Conti and was promptly given jail time. Never as much as a parking ticket, and he wouldn’t cut her an ounce of slack for less thana gram of pot.

Affectionately known as Hanging Sam, Maximum Sam, I had read about this guy months earlier, in the San Francisco Chronicle.

2-Year Terms For 4 Draft Refusers My heart was pounding and my adrenaline pumping as I read the story:

[xxxxxx], attorney for [xxxxx], termed draft refusal a crime of conscience, a crime with no person as a victim. Judge Conti disagreed. He chose not to go, so someone else had to go and perhaps today, that person is maimed or dead.¹

With that kind of sound logic, what chance did I have? No chance in hell. I was sentenced to two years in a federal prison.

As I sat in the holding cell behind the courtroom, handcuffed and leg-ironed, my thoughts went to the movie Camelot - King Arthur, pacing the battlefield before dawn, his final moments of peace and reflection as he prepared to do battle with best friend, Lancelot. Trying to make sense of it all, Arthur begs for Merlin to appear, wanting to know why this was happening. Where did it all start? That’s what I was feeling... Oh, Merlin... How did I get here?

Chapter One

The Times They Are A-Changin’ – Bob Dylan

T

he decade of the 1960’s was insane—Civil War, Part II. I doubt that even to this day, the people who lived through it understood why the hell we were thrown into a war that made no sense—a war that tore this country apart, turning children and parents against each other, brother against brother, friend against friend, youth against establishment—leaving politicians on all levels declaring verbal war against their own people and gambling their careers on whether or not they supported the Vietnam War.

For those young enough to not even have a clue about the 60’s and Vietnam, it was an undeclared war. America had a Cold War - Capitalism vs. Communism thing happening in the 1950’s, and with Communist China next door to Vietnam, who had just defeated the French colonists, President Dwight D. Eisenhower introduced his Domino Theory that if the commies marched through Vietnam, we could expect a collapse of Southeast Asia. Better find an anti-communist Vietnamese leader fast, move in and involve ourselves in a fight which had up to that point, been domestic and going on for 2,000 years—I won’t even go back to B.C.. American involvement with that country began when we promised to assist Ho Chi Minh after World War II, then stabbed him in the back. More on that later.

Blacks (they were called blacks back then) were sent into the jungles of Viet Nam thousands of miles away to fight for their country, while their brothers and sisters were being hosed down, beaten, and murdered for having the nerve to fight for something called civil rights. Young black children were spit at, cursed, and assaulted for trying to go to white schools. I was attending Merced Junior College, in Merced, California, in 1963-65. Everything was still pretty innocent then. But with John Kennedy’s assassination on November 22, 1963, and an escalation of troops in Vietnam - from 16,000 in 1963, to almost 400,000 by the end of 1965 - the loss of baby boomer innocence had reared its ugly head.

On the music scene, the Beatles had landed in America in February of 1964, and changed what was still the infant stage of rock and roll music. Within months after they arrived, they controlled the first five positions of the singles charts in Billboard magazine. At one point they owned eight of the top ten of the week. However, they generously left studio space for The Ventures, The Ronettes, The Righteous Brothers, and The Supremes, to sign off on their careers—and they even let the Beach Boys finish up with their surfing thing, although in October of 1966, the BB’s showed their staying power with the release of Good Vibrations, one of the greatest hit singles of all times. But it was really their last hurrah, and by the end of 1968, the Beach Boys were pretty much an oldies act and a future cover band favorite. Though, to put them in historical rock and roll perspective, no band has ever come close to touching their chord structures and harmonies. But the Beatles officially put Elvis, Little Richard, Fats Domino, and Chuck Berry on the back burners and opened the door for Britain’s second invasion of the Colonies—sans redcoats - with the likes of Dave Clark Five, Peter and Gordon, Gerry and the Pacemakers, Herman’s Hermits and of course, one of the greatest bands that ever existed, The Rolling Stones. This second invasion was much more successful, and not one life was lost in anger, only drug overdoses. I had yet to appreciate a young man from Minnesota whose lyrics would inspire us all and take us through the 60’s... Bob Dylan.

So there I was, playing junior college basketball and golf. I was a shorthaired Republican conservative who found it clever and daring when four of my buddies dressed up in black turtlenecks, combed their hair down in front of their foreheads, and sang I Wanna Hold Your Hand. But I was always overly impressed back then.

And with months away from graduation, I still didn’t have a clue what I was going to do. I knew I’d go to a four-year college—but as to where, and what to major in, I was lost. What I did know was that America’s involvement in Vietnam was stepping up, the lessons of Dienbienphu apparently forgotten, or to put it more bluntly, never learned. And in February 26 of 1965, just after President Lyndon Johnson began his Rolling Thunder bombing campaign, he offered this comforting quote: I don’t think anything is going to be as bad as losing, and I don’t see any way of winning.² That being the case, I wasn’t ready to die for nothing, and neither were any of my friends. And with the strains of Bob Dylan warning us all that …the times they are a-changin’, I needed to get accepted somewhere fast. I decided to approach my choice of college in a very rational, logical way: Where do I want to live for the next 2-3 years? Answer... San Francisco. One of my boyhood buddies was already living there, attending college, and had been selling me on it. And I’d been to San Francisco on three different occasions:1958, my first pro football game—The 49ers and Y.A. Tittle against the Vince Lombardi-led Green Bay Packers; In 1959, I saw my first professional baseball game at the old Seals Stadium—the San Francisco Giants playing the Milwaukee Braves: Willie Mays, Hank Aaron, Eddie Matthews. Warren Spahn vs. Johnny Antonelli. And in 1962, when my girlfriend and I drove up for the day with another couple. While the other boy was looking for a famous magic shop on Lombard Street, this small-town boy found the magic of the city.

I went to the school library and began skimming through the handbooks of San Francisco’s two major colleges: The University of San Francisco; and San Francisco State. USF? There was nothing there that interested me as far as selecting a major, and besides, it was a Catholic college—and I wasn’t Catholic! As a little boy, growing up and living with a Ukrainian grandmother for the first nine years of my life, I went to St. Paul’s Greek Orthodox Church. I sang and prayed in Ukrainian. I guess that could qualify me for being Catholic—but an incident at St. Paul’s when I was seven years old, caused me to fall off the religious grid.

I opened the San Francisco State handbook and began searching for any major that might interest me. I was quickly nearing the end and losing hope, until I reached a section titled Radio-Television Broadcasting. Now that sounded like fun. I could be a DJ, spinning rock songs; or a TV talk show host - maybe one day take over The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson. Johnny was eventually going to get bored doing that. Somebody would have to fill his spot. Why not me?

And so I applied at San Francisco State. Fortunately, two of my friends from Merced Junior College didn’t know where they wanted to go either. I sold them on living in San Francisco; they applied; and within weeks, we were all accepted and on our way to live in the City by the Bay. Little did I know at the time, that my entire life, philosophy (what little I had of one), and beliefs would be turned on its ass.

The Times They Are A-Changin’

Chapter Two

San Francisco: Future home of my

heart…and my soul.

I

t was early afternoon and overcast as we crossed the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge. The view was breathtaking: The Port of San Francisco sign on the pier below the harbor clock; Coit Tower; Alcatraz off to my right, and the Golden Gate Bridge in the far distance; the smell of the salt air, Petula Clark singing Downtown over the radio. This was it! I was officially on my own.

We pulled up to our apartment on Ocean Avenue, just three blocks down from City College of San Francisco, where this kid named O.J. Simpson was playing football. City College was right next to the streetcar terminal. And on Ocean Avenue, were tracks that ran the bell-clanging electric streetcars, to this day, music to my ears. And with S.F. State an easy walking half-mile away; the Tower Theatre and Zanzibar Night Club only two blocks down the street; and a deli two doors away (owned by an Asian who let us buy on credit), I had food, recreation, and educational facilities all lined up. Next step: pre-registration tomorrow morning.

It wasn’t one of the major campuses in the country. But with the butterflies in my stomach, it might as well have been Stanford or Michigan to a skinny, naïve, 21-year-old, San Joaquin Valley boy. I stood on the corner of 19th Avenue and Junipero Serra Boulevard for several minutes, just staring across the campus of San Francisco State College, unaware that I was looking at one of the major anti-war, political hotbeds of America. The main sidewalk was a downward slope, cutting between Administration and classroom buildings on the left, and five acres of sprawling, green grass, punctuated with giant eucalyptus and pine trees on the right. I began my slow walk through the campus, taking in the scenery, the students... The excitement grew even more when I reached the front of a brand-new building with the words, Radio-Television Broadcasting. Once inside, I saw that the Drama department shared the hallways to the left of the main entrance. Straight ahead were the doors to R-TV. I entered and found myself looking at a small room to the left of the hallway, with a lighted sign, KRTG. It was the campus radio station that broadcast to all the dorms and on-campus frat and sorority houses. Even though school hadn’t officially started, there was already a student DJ sitting at the control board spinning records. Blasting over the speakers was Len Barry’s 1-2-3. Only hit he ever had, but man, the idea that I’d put myself in a world where I could be sitting behind a mike and turntable, spinning records, had my heart pumping.

Quinn Millar was my Advisor. Good-looking man impeccably dressed—he had a new sport jacket for every day of the week.

What can I do for you, Mr. Neckels?

I want to take over the Johnny Carson Show, I replied.

You’ll probably need a little more experience. So, you want to be in front of the camera?

Yes, I replied. But it doesn’t have to be Carson. I’d like to be a sports announcer, too, or maybe even a radio DJ.

And so I signed up for Introduction to Radio-Television, a course that would put me in the studio learning and trying everything: pushing a camera, floor directing, technical directing, directing, operating a sound boom, and even some on-camera announcing. In addition, I had courses in Television Business Law, Television Writing, and History of Film. By total mistake and lack of funds, and parents who couldn’t afford to send me to a four-year college immediately after high school, I had stumbled on the right way to do college: get all the electives out of the way in junior college; save a fortune in tuition; then spend my last two or three years taking subjects which only pertained to or supplemented my major. I couldn’t wait to get started

Before going home that day, I stopped by The Commons (cafeteria) to grab a coke and check out the coeds. Pretty quiet, nothing excited me, so I started up the sidewalk, passing.... Jesus H. Christ.... Who are these people!? I’d never seen such weird, disgusting, sleazy looking kids in my life! Long, straggly, dirty hair, with headbands, turquoise bracelets, beads around their necks—and I’m talking about the guys! Some were barefoot; others wore moccasins; their jeans flared out at the cuff—bellbottoms, with holes in the knees. Threading the loops were huge, thick belts with buckles that could be used for weapons. They wore skimpy Fruit-of-the-Loom undershirts that were multi-colored—tie-dyed. And the girls didn’t look any better. I noticed some of them didn’t shave under their arms. They were obviously homeless or lost. No school would ever allow students to dress like this. I know! I subscribed to Playboy Magazine. I saw how the college guys dressed: Sport jackets with leather on the elbows, sweaters over shirts with a necktie knot barely visible; nice slacks, argyle socks, and loafers. Hell, I was on my way to Bruce Barry’s on 19th Avenue to dress as closely to that look as I could afford.

And that’s about as naive and ignorant as I was. Little did I know that these love children were going to change the look of America, start a revolution, support an anti-war campaign, the likes of which this country had never seen... and in less than two years, take me right along with them. In fact, I would keep going where 99.999% of them would never dare follow.... Prison.

Bay Bridge to the psychedelic mainland

The Commons: backdrop for organizing and protest speeches.

Who in hell ARE these people?

Chapter Three

September, 1965... What’s a nice boy from

North Dakota doing here?

U

p until now, I’d never been one to take a lot of chances. I grew up with a Ukrainian grandmother in the small town of Belfield, North Dakota, for the first nine years of my life. Anna Shypkoski was her name. Born Anna Jesuchep in Austria, in 1894, of Ukrainian parents, story has it that her family moved back to the Ukraine when Anna was a young girl. She worked as a servant at a palace, scrubbing floors, polishing silverware, and harvesting potato crops. Apparently the Jesucheps and the Olynuk family were very tight, so Anna was promised in marriage to one Prokop Olynuk. But Prokop packed his bags and moved to America around 1909, promising Anna they’d be married as soon as she set foot on United States soil. So, Anna and her sister, Polly, left the Ukraine in 1910, arriving in North Dakota, where Anna promptly looked up her assigned soul mate. Surprise, surprise - Prokop was married! Whatever happened to good old arranged marriages?

Anna and Polly were on their own. They lived together until Polly met Adolph Gauther and married him. And one enchanted evening a few years later, Anna met Dimitro Shypkoski. I don’t know what the occasion was—they either met at a Greek Orthodox Church, or at a bar. Knowing my grandmother’s love for Four Roses Whiskey in her later years, she had to have developed a taste for it at some point in her life. Why not at a bar one night when a handsome young man introduced himself, and bought her a shot of Four Roses? Either way, they did end up at St. Peter and Paul’s Greek Orthodox Church and got married. Anna then stayed pregnant for the next five years, giving birth to four daughters and a son. One of the daughters, Janet, was my mother. Who would I be on this earth today, had Prokop kept his promise and waited for Anna to show up?

In 1941 my mother married a handsome man, Howard Neckels. They had two children: My sister Bonnie, born in 1942; and me, 1944. But two years later, they were divorced. My dad took off for California with me, and my mom stayed in North Dakota with my sister. But for some reason, he came back, they switched kids and Dad went back to California. Weird, when I think about it. Seems natural that dad would keep the son, and mother would keep the daughter. But that arrangement had a lot to do with my development. Having no fatherly influence as a driving force in my early years, I had no one to show me how to be tough; never give up; how to throw a ball, catch a ball, shoot a ball—fight, fight, fight; win, win, win—all necessary items in a small boy’s survival kit to success. I learned it all on my own with no paternal guidance whatsoever - other than my movie screen role models at the Belfield Theater: John Wayne, Audie Murphy, Robert Mitchum, Richard Widmark, Burt Lancaster; and I must single these two out: Gary Cooper and Randolph Scott. Hey, who knew, right? And surprisingly, I excelled at tackle football. And I loved to play war. The creek by my Aunt Polly and Uncle Adolph’s house, and the wide-open field next to it, were my battlefields. I fought in every war and defeated knights, Indians, Confederate rebels, Japanese, and Germans. It’s where I rode along-side Roy Rogers, and Dale Evans. I saved both their lives many times—probably why Dale had such a crush on me. But I always let Roy have her.

I rarely saw my mother. She was a schoolteacher, but had to find work in Grand Forks, on the other side of the state. There was one school in Belfield - first grade through high school - so teaching jobs were at a premium. For nine months out of the year, she lived in a dinky trailer, and in the dead of those cold North Dakota winters. Mom sent what little extra money she could to my grandma, and it was used for the bare necessities. I didn’t get new shoes until the soles came apart and I was tripping over the front of them. I had very little in clothes, and in the winter, one pair of snow boots and one jacket, a couple of long sleeve cotton shirts; long underwear; one pair of mittens, and a scarf.

Seeing mom at Christmas, Easter, and during the summer were my favorite times, though it was no summer vacation for her. She would immediately get a job as a waitress in order to keep the money coming in. But she found time to teach me the gentler things... reading, speaking proper English, trying to cut through the Ukrainian accent I’d developed being around my grandmother all the time. And she taught me how to sing and whistle. At four years old, I could carry a tune. There was many a warm, humid, summer night, when my mother and I would sit on the front porch, look up at the stars, and sing. Someone’s In the Kitchen With Dinah; You Are My Sunshine; Goodnight, Irene, and Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.

By the time I finished fourth grade, my mother had married for her third time, and moved to Hayward, California. Her husband drove a truck for Convoy, hauling cars throughout the western United States. Mom was pregnant at the time, and living with her sister, brother-in-law and their two sons. Little did I know, but clandestine plans had been made for me, Anna, and my four-year-old half-sister, Linda (by my mom’s second marriage, also living with us) to go to California that summer after school, to visit.  The real scoop was that I wouldn’t be coming back. Grandma was getting to old to handle me, and now that Mom was married again, with a husband to support her, it was time for me to live with parents. All parties agreed to withhold that information from me because they knew if I found out I was going to leave my grandmother, I’d have never gotten on that Southern Pacific passenger train. They would’ve been right. I loved my grandmother with all my heart—forget about the times she beat the living shit out of me—this lady was my best friend. We did everything together: went to the movies; to church every Sunday; we worked in the garden. Everything I learned about love in my early years, I learned from her.

We arrived in California after a three-day train ride in June, 1954. My mother was days away from delivering a baby. She was in no condition to mastermind the plan to keep me here and get Anna back to North Dakota. So, to assist in this effort, my father, his third wife (Opal), and my sister, Bonnie, were called in from Merced. The idea was for me to go visit them for a week, then return to Hayward in time to go back to North Dakota with my grandmother. I didn’t want to go. I wept uncontrollably as my grandmother hugged and kissed me, spoke softly to me in Ukrainian, telling me it was just for a week. She packed my little suitcase and walked me to the car. As we pulled away, I looked out the back window. Anna was standing in the street still waving goodbye. There was such finality. I’m sure I sensed it. One week later, 7:00 a.m. Saturday morning, after a miserable week in Merced with that family, I sat out on the curb with my little suitcase at my side, waiting for my uncle to come driving up to take me back to Hayward. After sitting there for an hour, my dad came out, surprised, and I’m sure, disappointed, that I wanted out that badly. And that’s when he said:

Oh, I forgot to tell you. Your grandmother called last night. They won’t be able to come pick you up till next week. He saw my dejection.

Was it that bad here? He asked. I replied that it was - while he and my stepmom were working, my sister and two stepsisters had me doing dishes, shaking rugs, running to the market—doing all the chores they were supposed to be doing. Thinking he was helping, my dad told his wife, and she gave the girls hell, which was what my life became the next week. But along came another Saturday morning, and while everyone was still asleep, I packed my suitcase, went outside, and sat on the curb, waiting for my ride back to Hayward. After a while, my dad came out.

There’s a telephone call for you. It’s your grandma.

Which meant she was still in Hayward. She’s sure as hell not at a gas station on the corner of Highway 99 and G, calling for directions. But that’s okay. As long as she wants to tell me they’re on their way, I’ll take it.

But Anna wasn’t on her way. She was calling from Walla Walla, Washington, where she was visiting a friend. My heart sank. And even when she told me in very broken English that she’d come for me soon, I didn’t need a translator to tell me otherwise. I hung up and wept quietly, while my dad stood there sheepishly.

Well, maybe we should enroll you in school here... in case she can’t get back.

Enough already! Jesus, I’m two weeks away from my tenth birthday, but I’m not stupid. This was the plan all along. And poor Anna had to come up with the bullshit excuses. Nobody had the courage to tell me the truth. And all the hushed, angry sotto voce talks my dad and stepmom had outside in the backyard, must have been about dad wanting me to live here... not with my mom. And for Opal, a fourth child was not part of the bargain.

And so, for the next nine years, I lived with my dad, stepmom, sister, and two stepsisters. And there was no question who ruled that