How enraged are you? That a terrorist brutally murdered approximately 5,000 of us?

That we lost children, spouses, siblings, parents, friends?

That our safety has been challenged? 

That our morale has been beaten and bruised?

That American intentions have been spat upon?

That humanity has been hurt?

How inconvenienced are you?

That there is no curbside check-in?

That the NFL had to cancel this week's schedule?

That Barry Bonds' home run streak was interrupted?

How pissed would you be?

That there's no milk for your morning latte?

That the nightly news announces a military draft?

That you must find a new mechanic because yours is marching into Afghanistan?

That the military has used up all of the "dregs" of society and is conscripting those without wife, child or college deferment?

That you, your friends, fraternity brothers, mother and father crowd around your TVs while birthdays are drawn and draft numbers assigned in a manner similar to PowerBall?

That the hand of luck has blessed you with number 276, your best friend with 8?

That you head off to the bars, confused as to whether to celebrate your good fortune or cry for his fate?

How pained are you?

That there are relatively few boys in your classes?

That there are relatively few boys in general?

That your boyfriend left school to join the National Guard?

That your younger brother got drafted?

That in our gender-neutral society, females may be drafted as well?

How bitter are you?

That your dream of law school and Boston may never happen?

That your bunk in the makeshift barracks is a far cry from that Boston brownstone?

That you are sweating under the Saudi sun, burdened with the weight of a gas mask, biological warfare gear, communications equipment and an M-16?

That you have been unwillingly catapulted into adulthood?

That you may kill?

How aware are you?

That lines at Army Recruitment Centers nationwide rounded blocks after Pearl Harbor?

That our grandparents' generation was deemed "The Greatest Generation"?

That the convictions of our parents' generation were tested when they burned their draft cards and fled to Canada to avoid a war that they couldn't morally support?

That there is a building at 609 W. Clinton St. in Ithaca?

That this building is the Army Recruitment Center?

That the lines at Mama T's are longer than the lines at the Army Recruitment Center?

How conscious are you?

That our generation was suckled on the push-button gratification of Nintendo, Sega and Atari simulated warfare?

That a cruise missile just won't lick bin Laden, or the cancer that is terrorism?

That ours is the generation of ultimate entitlement?

That we are the first generation that expected to go to college and have our parents foot the bill?

That, unlike a game of Street Fighter or an all-expense paid four-year romp in Ithaca, our national safety is now something that we have to earn?

That we are asking, "What's Bush gonna do?" when the more appropriate question is, "What are we gonna do?"?

How much do you realize?

That Tuesday's attack on America is of the magnitude that causes wars?

That we are the generation that would be responsible for fighting that war?

How committed are you?

Enough that you'll march up to a vigil on the Arts Quad?

That you'll march across the deserts of the Middle East?

Enough that you'll give a pint to the Red Cross blood drive?

That you'll give an unlimited amount of your blood in battle?

Enough that you'll unwaveringly discuss the necessity of full-fledged retaliation?

That you'll personally reinforce your opinions as a soldier in the Armed Forces?

Enough that you'll support a draft?

That you'll send your younger brother off to war when he's drafted?

I may beg my 19-year-old brother to get on the first Greyhound to Canada.

Or I may urge him to get in line at the Army Recruiter.

I may detest a draft that inevitably spares the most intelligent, the most wealthy, the most Darwinianly "fit."

Or I may support a draft that enables the destruction of terrorism.

I may lament the loss of youth.

Or I may appreciate the forced maturity.

I may resent that the convictions of my generation have been tested.

Or I may welcome the challenge.

Archived article by Andrea Forker