From Hospital to VISTA

I spent ten days in pelvic traction at Queen of the Valley Hospital in Napa. Knowing that the stay would be uneventful, I had driven down to San Francisco on a book buying excursion; Napa at that time did not have a bookstore with any depth. I bought a variety of books: most were serious; others like Mickey Spillane’s Mike Hammer novels, were for action-packed and somewhat gruesome reading. By the second day, I had adjusted to the various schedules common to hospitals such a shift changes during the early morning, the doctor’s rounds late in the afternoon. As time progressed, my hair was becoming dirtier and dirtier; shampoo technology for dry washing was still being developed. Mom had a plan that involved a large bowl, shampoo, and plenty of towels. Despite the mess, my hair was cleaned.

On my second day in the hospital I received a letter from my draft board telling me to report to the Oakland Army Terminal for another physical in a week. My father gave me the letter and suggested that I ask Dr. Bailey to send the draft board a letter explaining my situation. I gave the letter to Dr. Bailey when he made rounds and explained my dealings with the draft board and my Navy physical.

“Well,” he replied, “the Navy doctor had it right: you’re probably not going to make it through any boot camp or advanced training. I was an Army doctor at West Point; I’ll send the draft board a detailed letter that hopefully will wrap things up. What do you plan to do when you leave the hospital?”

“I’ve applied to the Peace Corps, VISTA — that’s Volunteers In Service To America — and the State Department, to name a few. I passed the written State Department test but didn’t do too well at the interview; actually, I failed it.”

“I understand those interviews are tough,” Dr. Bailey said. “Apparently one of the men on the interview panel is supposed to see how you handle pressure.”

“Right, one fellow relentlessly went after my appearance.”

“Your physical appearance?”

“No, my clothes. I was wearing a Brooks Brothers navy blue suit, shined black oxford shoes, a white shirt, with a red and white red-striped tie. The man had a copy of my application and knew that I went to Stanford; the school’s colors are red and white. The hit man, so to speak, settled on my tie. When I purchased the tie for the interview, I didn’t give Stanford a thought. After several snide observations, the badgering fellow told me that I was a hopeless anglophile; because I was wearing a school’s tie like the British often do. That did it.”

“Then what?” Dr. Bailey said.

I said, “You brought me here to talk about my tie? After several deep breaths I composed myself and told him that I knew what he was doing: seeing if I could stand up to an annoyance barrage. The interview was wrapped up soon after that. Five days later I got the letter closing the door to that profession.”

“So that’s how our State Department judges a candidate’s quotient of diplomacy?” Dr. Bailey said.

“No striped trousers and morning coats for me, I guess.”

As far as my draft board went, I heard nothing from them until nine months later in New York when my wallet was stolen and I requested a new draft card. About three weeks later I received a new draft card. I was classified as 1Y. At the Oakland Army Terminal one fellow told his friends that he was classified 1Y; the Russians would be in Seattle before he was called up. I never heard from my draft board again.

New York City

I was accepted by VISTA late in March of 1966, and was told to check into a hotel on West 85th Street where other aspiring volunteers would be housed during our training. I flew into La Guardia Sunday afternoon and took a cab to the hotel and met my three roommates. Calvin Johnson and I shared the one bedroom; the other two slept in trundle beds in the living room. The living conditions were cramped with no privacy whatsoever. The Columbia University School of Social Work oversaw our training.

Some of the training took place at Columbia; but most of the training consisted of visiting various social service organizations operating in New York’s five boroughs after which we were assigned to small groups to discuss the organizations, their management, and the results they had achieved.

One of the first group sessions was sharing why we became VISTA volunteers. When it was my turn, I said something like, “I had an obligation to serve this country and wanted to become a Navy officer; however, I failed the physical. So I’m fulfilling my obligation by joining VISTA.” There was an uncomfortable silence before someone else shared. As the meeting was breaking up, I was asked to stay behind.

The leader of the group was a social work graduate student. He thought I was joking about the Navy; I told him I was not. He asked me if I supported the war in Vietnam. I asked him what do my views on Vietnam have to do with this program. He tried again; instead of answering I asked if there was a political test. He shrugged and walked away. A few days later, I was called to see a psychologist, Sidney Barr, who was the head of the training program.

When I arrived as his office, the receptionist escorted me to Sidney Barr’s office and introduced us. Sidney was genial, a bit chubby, balding, and dressed in corduroy and tweed. He sat in a wing chair facing the sofa where I would sit. He fiddled around with his pipe and invited me to smoke if I wished. I lit a cigarette while he got his pipe going. Within a cloud of white smoke, he said, “You seem somewhat suspicious, are you?”

“Somewhat, I had a brief conversation with one of the staff about Vietnam; I didn’t wish to discuss that as I knew where he was coming from. Frankly, I’m tired of getting lectured on Vietnam; and now I’m sitting here talking to you, a psychologist. That seems kind of Russian: if you don’t agree with the Communists, you’re sent to a mental hospital where they shoot you up with psychotropic drugs until you start thinking correctly.”

He laughed, “No that’s not even close to why you’re here. From your file, you grew up in California and went to college out there. Attitudes, ethnicity and politics are far different in New York, especially the upper west side of Manhattan. I wanted to see you and give you some guidance, okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

“My first name is Sidney, why do you think my parents named me that?”

“Sydney, the large city in Australia, it’s said to be nice, but it’s spelled with a Y. I looked you up; your name is spelled with an I. I thought about male Sidneys. And came up with Sidney Webb, the Fabian Socialist, and his wife Beatrice; they founded the London School of Economics.”

“My parents were committed socialists, and so am I. Does that bother you?” I shook my head no. “Are you interested in socialism?”

“I’ve read about it, but it doesn’t interest me.”

“I’ve been frank with you about where I stand; where do you stand…” His pipe went out. He tamped down the tobacco, and got the pipe going again.

“In 1964, I turned twenty-one in May and voted for Barry Goldwater. Why? Because I didn’t, and still don’t, trust Lyndon Johnson. Despite painting Goldwater as a warmonger, Johnson ramped up our Vietnam participation exponentially. If we turn Vietnam over to the communists, they’ll slaughter all those who worked with us. Communists feed on class warfare. How many millions did they kill in Russia and China? Some estimates believe that both countries together killed more than 150 million people when communism was being established. But when making a new and perfect omelet, many eggs must be broken, I guess.”

Sidney said, “The world of social workers is hard left, unionized, and the overriding culture is somewhat Jewish. I doubt you fit that profile at all; should you make it through the training program, I believe the year or so that you’ll spend in VISTA will be rather lonely.”

“Is that all?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Thank you for the heads-up.”