Gays In The Military. Vincent Cianni

OF A SAILOR

      Lt. Donald R. Bramer

      Imagine the room dark and the only glow comes from a single light dangling by a cord. It’s hot and your skin is soaked from sweat. In a chair before you sits a man dressed in a dishdasha, his hair as black as his eyes, eyes that are filled with hate and disdain. As you begin to speak, he lunges forward with a knife, his teeth clenched and showing through his dark beard. You fight back and strike him with a blow that lands him across the room.

      This event may have taken place in Iraq or Afghanistan, a foiled escape attempt by an insurgent. It is not; it is a story from within my own bedroom and one that repeated itself like others for many nights. The recipient of the blow was my partner. The man with the dark beard haunted me for many nights.

      My partner and I were fortunate enough to survive Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell (DADT). Living under the policy was not without its challenges. One of the most memorable came in the fall of 2006. I had just come back to work at my parent command in Washington, DC, after returning from my tour in Fallujah and having a few days of leave. My chief asked me to go for a walk with him. As we headed down ladder wells and into the quiet halls of the basement, he began by saying that I was one of his best operators and he didn’t care what people did in their personal life. I felt like I had been kicked in the gut. He informed me that he had been sent my blog anonymously, and he continued that, while I never used a name, or even a pronoun, all you had to do was “read between the lines.” He had to report this up the chain of command and would do so in 24 hours. However, if by the time he was to file the report, the blog had been taken down, then he’d have nothing to report.

      After this incident, I continued to serve and eventually left for another deployment. Shortly after I arrived in Iraq, I received a letter from my partner:

      Tue., April 17, 2007

      Once again I find myself driving home through the rain. Why does it always rain on these days, the days when I have to drop you off at the airport? Do you remember that Christmas Day the last time you left…when we drove to the city so you could be on your way and the heavy gray clouds threatened snow and rain? It didn’t start falling until I crossed the bridge on the way home. Of course the weather never prevents your plane from taking off. We never get any extra time. I’m sorry I couldn’t go with you into to terminal. I’m sorry I couldn’t wait with you. We’ve done this too many times, had too many goodbyes. Time after time, for over five years, one of us is always leaving the other behind. First it was for my tour in Iraq and then it was yours. It seems as if we are always saying goodbye. I just couldn’t handle it this time. I could not endure another passive passing of the time before you had to cross through security to the other side. I could not make idle conversation as we sat drinking our coffees, trying to be strong, trying not to give into tears and grief. So I left you in the parking garage. At least there I could give you a proper hug and kiss goodbye.

      We always have to be so careful in public. Until the military wises up and gets rid of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” we must hide what we feel for each other. Only there, in the cool, secluded gloom of the concrete garage could I kiss you gently, forcefully. Will it be our last kiss? Will you come home from this tour? So I crossed the bridge over the river and the rain fell. It’s awfully hard to steer when you are trying to see through the raindrops on the windshield and the teardrops clouding your eyes. It rained all day and night when you left. And until you come home again, every day will be like that dark and stormy day. We’ve had too many goodbyes. One day I hope there will be no more. So for now, it’s another goodbye until it is “hello” again.

       Come home to me.

      Relationships survived and failed in the armed forces for decades; careers were jeopardized, and countless gay and lesbian service members stood silent in the shadows yet never lowered their guard to the oath they so proudly took. Like many of our brethren, both heterosexual and homosexual, the trials and long separations of war soon took effect on us. After eight and a half years, we parted ways. Time, distance, and our own post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) had taken their toll, and even love could not mend the remnants of our dreams. When my PTSD reached its boiling point, I had the resources and the support of a family to get help on my own. Unlike so many, I did not have to rely on a system that would not recognize me or the pain I felt.

      I come from a family rich with a history of serving in the military; my grandfathers and uncles have worn the uniform of sailors and soldiers in multiple wars. They inspired me to wear that uniform and carry that badge. However, the one who inspired me most was Uncle Carl. He met his partner on board ship in the Pacific during World War II, a partner with whom he shared a naval career and thirty-seven years of his life. Uncle Carl became my mentor and my guiding light throughout my own career.

      And I have had the great privilege to work with some of this country’s most respected war fighters. My fellow sailors are truly brothers in the field of combat, for whom I would give my life should the need arise, and it is without doubt they would do the same for me. Why? Because, on the battlefield, where it counts, it is mission first. We all serve with the same honor, courage, and commitment that we swore an oath to when we first raised our right hand to join the United States military.

      The men and women I have served with have become lifelong friends and family. I have shared their hardships of loss and love, their joys of success and triumph; I have come to know them and their families. Until now, only a few have been able to share the same with me. Because I am gay, I spent the majority of my career changing pronouns and hiding the identity of the person I shared my life with for over eight years. One slipup could have ended our careers and stripped us of the pride in which we both serve. Through multiple tours, my partner and I covertly supported each other through cards, letters, and care packages. Yet we were never able to sign them or give a return address. Despite this, and despite knowing that each correspondence could very well be the last, our love for each other and respect for each other’s goals gave us strength to endure.

      Like other couples, we had to take care of things back home. We made sure that the other would be provided for should one of us pay the ultimate sacrifice. Under the DADT policy, we would be the last notified. We had the same bills, illnesses, and household issues. We had the same legal concerns. However, it’s not that simple when, even in death, you have to protect the one you love. All of this we accomplished with little or no support network, since the groups and administrative help available to heterosexual military couples were closed to us. We carried the burden of silence and invisibility each day that we served. We fought harder and trained harder just to wear the uniform with the same distinction as those around us.

      Through the years, our silent network had grown, and through multiple duty stations, deployments, and assignments, we learned that we were not alone. We found support among friends. Whether in the mountains of Afghanistan or the streets of Fallujah, aboard a ship or a plane, leading or following, there are thousands of other gay and lesbian soldiers serving each day alongside our heterosexual brothers and sisters, many of whom have opened their minds and hearts to get to know us. Some have been mentors, junior and senior enlisted and fellow officers. We train, fight, bleed, and die the same way and for the same things.

      Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

       BEEN THERE: History, Witness, and Some People We Might Never Have Known

      Alison Nordström

      From the time of their invention, photographs have been appreciated and understood as an undeniable record of what has been. They looked like truth, and possessed what Roland Barthes saw as an inexorable connection to the past, even at the moment of their making in the present.