J. K. Osborne (b. 1941) was just a few days shy of his twenty-seventh birthday when he was sentenced, in June 1968, to four years in prison for draft resistance—an unusually heavy sentence, though in the end he was released after eighteen months. His memoir of that time, I Refuse (1971), is unusually candid—as in the excerpt that follows, which stands out both for its account of the sexual violence Osborne was threatened with and to a still greater degree for its account of Osborne’s rage at the threat being made, and his readiness, surprising even him, to reach for a weapon of destruction in self-defense.
Raised in poverty in Mandan, North Dakota, Osborne had won a scholarship to Dickinson State College and later graduated from Regis College, working by day to earn his tuition; he had taught junior high school in Seattle, met a girl he hoped to marry, and applied to join the Peace Corps. After his release he published two books of poetry—Leaving It All Behind (1970) and First Things (1976)—and coedited the Seattle literary magazine Madrona. He retired from high school teaching in the 1990s and now lives in Marica, Brazil.
FOR many months after I came to prison, I was confident in my ability to withstand all sorts of pressures, hardships, and conflicts; I felt that in whatever trials I was forced to endure, the strength of my convictions would see me through. I had then, and I have now, a belief—among the hierarchy of my beliefs, one of the highest—in the efficacy of nonviolence to overcome all hatred. I believed myself, at that time, to be incapable of resorting to violence as a personal measure to ensure my safety, or someone else’s, or as a means to an end, however good that end might appear. This belief is put to the test often in the course of a peaceful man’s life. My own is no exception.
I had been importuned, on a number of occasions, to participate in activities among other prisoners which were personally distasteful to me, although I cannot condemn the practice of such activities where it is entirely voluntary. Demands were made by a particular convict that I be used as his sexual outlet. I had time and time again refused, but apologetically, as is my habit. The man would not be put off.
One day I was sitting alone at a table in the dining room having lunch. The fellow, whose friendship I had hoped to cultivate while not giving in to his sexual desires, approached the table, greeted me, and sat down. He put his hand on my knee. I moved away. He grabbed my wrist tightly in his hands—he was a large man while I am slightly smaller than the average—and, turning my wrist, snarled in my face: “You meet me in the library lounge tonight at third period, and this time no excuses. I’m going to get what I want from you one way or another.”
An unfamiliar feeling took hold of me. My whole body tightened and my head rang as if filled with giant gongs. For a few seconds I lost sight of everything except his face; all around it everything was black, and filled with strange movements of color, as if I had been struck nearly unconscious by a blow on the head. My free hand felt for the fork beside my tray, and I clenched it tightly. Raising it up slowly to the level of my chest, I began unwillingly to rise from my chair. My ears were still ringing, louder than before. In that instant that we stood glaring at each other, our brotherhood was confirmed. He released his grip, and with a wry smile said, “Remember, third period.” He turned and walked away.
I sat down at my place. I don’t know how long I sat there, fork tight in my hand, my blood pounding as if to burst all its vessels and arteries and the heart itself. My full sight returned, the ringing stopped, and I gradually resumed my normal composure. But for quite a while afterward I felt a chill.
What was it that I had experienced? What had I undergone? I gave much thought to this episode for a long time after it had passed. It has left me with a little understanding of myself, and perhaps also of man. Was it fear I had experienced? Perhaps to some degree fear was present in it. Fear itself is not new to me, although it is an emotion I do not usually find myself burdened with. What it was that had caused me to grab my fork and raise up out of my chair, what had caused my head to ring and impaired my sight was, I believe, hatred. Pure and solitary hatred. At that moment, I had been seized with what man has been striving to overcome for all his turbulent centuries; I had been seized, and very nearly moved to become anti-man, by hatred.
I did not meet the fellow later nor, in fact, did I ever consequently have anything more than a nodding relationship with him. What had caused him to discontinue his advances is unknown to me, although there are those who will see in this episode a justification for violence. But since that incident in the lunchroom, I have seen the whole question of pacifism in a clearer light.
I know now that I, as a fallible human, am capable of surrendering to hatred and fear and striking out at another being. I am even ready to admit my capability to kill another man. I can see, too, where this instinct lies in every man, in man’s nature. I also see that it is because we are all capable of murder that it is imperative to the survival of man that we purify ourselves of this unholy and satanic failing. A century ago, it may not have been as urgent as it is today.
But it must be recognized that, since we now possess the means of destroying all of mankind and of throwing nature itself off balance, the question of whether or not we must change the nature of man from an aggressive one to a peaceful one can no longer be debated, delayed, or doubted. It is quite simply a matter of deciding whether or not we want man to continue his existence on this earth.