Were
you TRYING to Get Kicked
Out of the Military,
Rhonda?
by
Rhonda
K. Davis
Navy Veteran
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I may have lost my Navy career that day on
the Brooklyn Bridge, but I gained my
self-respect.
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Most of
us have been guilty of speeding on the highway at
one time or another in our lives. Most of us are
aware that speeding is against the law, and there
are consequences to pay if you get caught. Most of
us probably don’t fully weigh out those
consequences when we place our foot so heavily on
the accelerator; we just think "I want to get
there, and I want to get there NOW." And when
you’re caught by law enforcement and you have to
pay the speeding ticket, you’re saddened by the
loss of hundreds of your hard-earned dollars, but
you knew the consequences when you started your
journey. Now if someone were to ask you,
"were you trying to get a speeding ticket,
did you want a speeding ticket?" The answer
is probably, no, you didn’t want a speeding
ticket; you were just trying to get someplace and
get there quickly, and the ticket was part of the
unfortunate consequence.
Now keep
all this in mind when I tell you what happened to
me on June 3, 2006. I got up to face a rainy,
dreary day and some of the biggest decisions in my
life so far: how heavily was I willing to press
that accelerator in order to get where I wanted to
go, how much was I willing to risk in order to get
there? These questions came at me subconsciously
as I dressed in jeans, then changed into Navy
summer whites and headed into New York City to
participate in the March for Marriage Equality.
White was clearly not the best choice for such a
wet, dirty day, but I chose the uniform because it
symbolized the very things we marched for that
day: freedom, equality, tolerance, and dignity.
I’ll be
honest with you; I was initially reluctant to put
it on. I knew that showing up at this event in
uniform would mean my life would probably change
forever, but by not putting it on, that would mean
I was afraid. Afraid of what? Well … afraid of
the Navy accusing me of being a lesbian and being
kicked out of the military, afraid of taking a
firm stand on something I believe in, afraid of
not being able to get the mud out of that uniform!
But honor, courage, and commitment are as much a
part of me now as the gay pride tattoo I have on
my left ankle … so, to me at least, not putting
on the uniform would mean I was a coward and not
worthy to wear it. And that was worse than the
possibility of unemployment.
The
choices we make are not always good for us in the
short term. The choices I made that day cost me 10
years toward retirement in the Navy, a steady
paycheck, a great job as a journalist and
broadcaster, and some really sweet benefits …
but I have no regrets. I talked to the news crews
about marriage equality and about the DADT policy.
In the time it took to open my mouth and start
talking, I found myself trading in 10 years of a
lie for that one glorious moment of truth. And it
felt damned good! The moment I said I have a
girlfriend and we want to get married, that was
the moment I knew my Navy career was over; I had
officially violated the "Don’t Ask, Don’t
Tell" policy … in front of millions of
people watching TV and listening to the radio.
The rest
of the march was uneventful for me. Hundreds of us
held brightly-colored umbrellas and walked across
the Brooklyn Bridge to Battery Park. We chanted
"What do we want? Equality! When do we want
it? Now!" as muddy streets left their mark
upon my white pant legs. The train ride home was
long and cold that day. Monday morning at work
seemed even longer and colder as I had to face an
endless hallway of closed doors – knowing the
officers and senior enlisted people behind them
were all talking about me.
After
hours of not knowing exactly what was going on, my
Commanding Officer pulled me aside and questioned
me about the event. "I am told," he
said, "that you talked about having a
Japanese girlfriend on the radio Saturday, and
that you want to marry her. That violates the Don’t
Ask, Don’t Tell Policy." I was seeing blue
lights in the rear view mirror and knew I had been
caught for speeding. I knew I could either get a
ticket or a warning.
There had
been so many times during the past 10 years that I
wanted to scream out, "I’m a lesbian!"
to the people in our office talking about
"fags and dykes." There had been so many
times I wanted to hang out with the crowd, but I
refrained because I couldn’t let them know too
much about me. DADT was almost a daily burden –
a constant tug of war between do the right thing
and get kicked out, or continue lying and stay in.
Some days, I felt like a sell-out to myself when I
put on my uniform. Living a double life was
difficult, especially when you’re stationed
overseas and the military community is small like
a close-knit family.
When my
girlfriend had to leave this country and return to
Asia to apply for a work visa, DADT really hit
home, and I felt it was just a matter of time
before the internal tug of war rope would snap. As
a leader in my work place, I was told by my
superiors to "take care of your troops,"
to "make their problems your own," to
"ensure they’re spending enough time with
their families." But what about my problems?
There was no one to talk to when my girlfriend had
to leave, and even though she’s family to me,
there was no one who could help me through this
family problem. Confiding in someone would surely
mean being discharged from the military. Not
confiding in anyone meant I bottled it all up and
was constantly distracted at work. It meant
growing more and more certain that abiding by DADT
was more than I was willing to do for my country
and much more than I should have to do for my
country.
"If
you want to tell me that the person on the radio
was not you, I’ll drop this case right here,
Petty Officer Davis," my Commanding Officer
persisted.
I didn’t
say anything.
"If
that person wasn’t you, I won’t pursue this
any farther."
I didn’t
know what to say. I had two choices: to tell him
the truth and package my discharge up with a nice
red ribbon on it right now, or to lie and have to
live with that the rest of my life. That would
undo my one moment of honesty two days earlier.
"Is
that what you want to tell me? That the person who
talked about her girlfriend wasn’t you?"
I think
he wanted to believe that, or at least have me say
it wasn’t me and be let off the hook at having
to punish me. I knew he didn’t want to let me
go, but policy is policy … and I broke this one.
I didn’t really want to be discharged – like
no one wants to pay a speeding ticket -- but I
couldn’t sit here and lie to the man.
"It
was me that made that comment to the
reporters," I admitted, "but you’ve
misquoted me."
He looked
curious, maybe a bit hopeful that it had been the
word "boyfriend" I used rather than
"girlfriend," and by correcting him, all
of this could end right here.
I
corrected the misquote by saying, "My
girlfriend isn’t Japanese, sir … she’s
Korean!"
The
Commander paused, then we both laughed, and within
a few hours, I was signing the first of many
papers that eventually led to my honorable
discharge from the U.S. Navy.
Now I
have personally renamed the "Don’t Ask, Don’t
Tell" policy, the "Don’t Learn, Don’t
Educate" policy because that’s what it
really is. In a military rich in diversity, this
policy forbids gays and lesbians from sharing our
culture, our experiences, and our struggles. I
hate admitting this now, but I’m a Southern
redneck who grew up with some awful stereotypes
and misconceptions in my head concerning African
Americans and other minorities. These didn’t
change because the Education Fairy showed up in my
room one night and got rid of all the crap in my
head. No, the way I view people changed when I was
in college where I met many different kinds of
people from many different religious, cultural,
and ethnic groups, and those people shared their
experiences and struggles with me. Just as I am a
reasonable person, capable of changing my mind, so
are the people I work with.
In the
weeks following the marriage march – before my
discharge papers were officially given to me – I
had the unique opportunity to share my life’s
experiences with my co-workers who demonstrated
that they are just as reasonable as I anticipated
they were. For me anyway, the unit cohesion was
stronger than it had ever been before because now
I was free to talk to these people openly and
honestly. They appreciated that honesty and we all
grew closer than we had been before. In fact, my
Executive Officer said to me on the day I left,
"Davis, I always liked you as a person and as
a worker, but now I truly respect you."
On July
28th, I handed over my Navy ID card, hung my
uniform in the closet for the last time, and ended
a 10-year chapter in my life. I also started a new
one. Of course, I didn’t walk out of my house on
June 3rd with the objective of getting kicked out
of the military that day. Like the person speeding
on the highway, I knew I was breaking the rules.
But I had a place I wanted to go, and I wanted to
get there quickly … even if it meant having to
pay a ticket.
I wanted
to get here, this place where I am now. I wanted
the freedom to marry my girlfriend that I love
more than anything on Earth. I wanted to find a
job where I could proudly put her photo on my desk
and say, "this is my girlfriend" to
anyone who asks. I wanted to have dinner with her
anywhere we want, without looking over my shoulder
every time she touches my hand. I wanted to stop
having to filter everything I say, and take a year
or more evaluating people before I could trust
someone, and have to fight off a barrage of
questions about why I’m 36 and not married! I
wanted to just be me: a hard-working, honest
person – a person who can’t reconcile my idea
of honesty and integrity with the military’s
idea of unit cohesion.
I may
have lost my Navy career that day on the Brooklyn
Bridge, but I gained my self-respect. And to me,
that’s worth any price you have to pay for it.
Today I devote most of my energy-- my honor,
courage, and commitment -- towards ending DADT so
that other gay and lesbian troops won’t have to
muddy their own uniforms in the struggle for
equality.
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