Michael Crowley

 Because Trump doesn’t care about the military

In 1965, my father got his draft notice from the US Army and dutifully reported to his nearest recruiting station for his induction physical near Deer Lodge, Montana. After going through the initial paperwork and examination, Dad stood in a room with other draftees waiting for the officer in charge to arrive and swear them all in as recruits, which would have meant that they all were heading overseas to Vietnam.

Only, the officer was late in arriving; and, as my father had a date with my mother, he decided to leave in order to keep it. This horrified the young men in the room with him, but—as Dad pointed out—he hadn’t sworn an oath, he hadn’t signed any final paperwork, and if the officer in charge didn’t care to do his job, then that was his problem and not Dad’s. So, Dad left. He later joined the Air Force and remained stateside during the four years he served.

In 1968, Fred Trump purchased his son a compliant podiatrist who diagnosed young Donald with “bone spurs,” which kept him from joining the party my father was invited to. For decades afterwards, Donald Trump referred to avoiding venereal disease as his personal Vietnam. My father, though, served as an orderly in the base hospital of Travis AFB, where he helped triage soldiers who were suffering from sleep psychosis from staying up for days at a time in the field, or those who had had parts of their bodies blown off by IEDs. When the base hospitals couldn’t handle the flow of casualties, local hospitals helped when they could, which meant my mother (a registered nurse) also helped treat battlefield injuries.

Both of my parents saw firsthand what war did to people. Both were horrified by it, even though their parents had both served during WW2. They came away with great compassion for soldiers and a loathing for war. They cared for people different from themselves. They knew the value of serving others and what it cost to serve.

We all know what Donald Trump thinks of American soldiery. He preferred to stay dry rather than risk dampening his hair piece with rain visiting the soldiers buried at Belleau Wood. You couldn’t expect any great respect from a man who thinks that not getting the clap after a hookup at a Manhattan club is equivalent to not getting a sniper round through the chest while on patrol in Vietnam.

I’m not a soldier—I’m one of the few people in my family who have not worn our country’s uniform. I learned my father’s lesson, though—people prepared to risk everything for an ideal, for “The United States of America,” as Thornton Wilder described the Union Civil War dead in Our Town—are deserving of respect at least. If they fail in fulfilling their oaths to the Constitution and to the US, then judge them accordingly. 

This is one of the many, many reasons why I cannot vote for Donald Trump. Ever. My father, an ordinary man who has done ordinary things with his life—worked a job, raised a family, served his country—has been, on the worst days of his life, orders of magnitude more of a man than Donald Trump can ever hope to be.

Michael Crowley is an actor, writer, singer, fight arranger, and martial artist based in Missoula, Montana, his hometown.