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Anonymous Active Duty Service Member: A Time to Refrain from Embracing

I am not sure who is reading this, maybe it's just me trying to sort everything inside of me right now into words on paper. It’s one of those quiet evenings at home where the dogs have finally settled down and my partner is sleeping soundly downstairs. Somewhere, under a pile of paperwork on my desk, there is a grad school paper trying to surface its way to the top to be proofread before I retire. Every day brings my partner and me closer to yet another milestone in our relationship: My impending deployment. I measure the countdown in different increments every time: 11 more nights of sleeping next to him, eight more mornings I can make him coffee before work, two weekends left, one more chance to let him know how much he means to me.

I guess that “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell” has taught me that. A day in my life need not be measured in standard units of time. Instead, on my commute home, as I replay the day, I measure it rather unconventionally: Two lies, one deflection, one helpless stare, one wink.

Today, while I was double checking my life insurance and emergency contact information, I called the love of my life “a friend.” It’s the most convenient label. In my reality at work, he cannot be “fiancé” or “partner,” just a friend. On the way out, one of my troops stopped me saying “I saw you were in a relationship on Facebook, but with who?” “Ask your mom,” I quickly replied. Conversation averted, sigh of relief.

Going to dinner with colleagues, the name of a coworker comes up. The stories begin to flow about how he’s “special.” It’s all an elaborate code for his sexuality. I stare off into space, hoping that no one knows that this person is my best friend. Part of me is thankful that his demeanor makes him such an easy target, concealing me. Another part of me is ill, as I confront my own cowardice for not standing up for my friend. On the way home, one of my troops calls. He “knows,” because we bumped into each other at the bar. He asks me for reassurance. I summarize the events in Washington, where people that don’t know our story debate our fates. I give him hope. We laugh. We soldier on. I go home and become myself.

I picked up my itinerary today. I’m traveling in uniform. The flight leaves way too early in the morning. Perfect! Hopefully, members from my unit will not be there to observe our last moments together for six months, or God forbid forever. I am not sure what I will say. I only know that it will be a time to refrain from embracing, because so many of us travel through that airport. As I hold myself together, looking back through security, I deny him what could be our last kiss. I will probably sleep on the first leg of the trip, not wanting to talk to anyone about what just happened or where I’m going. The last taste in my mouth will be the bitterness of the daily reminder that I am a second-class citizen.

When I get Over There, we won’t get to talk that much. I’ll have to remember the girl’s name I use to refer to him during discussions with roommates. Which of my female friend’s pictures did I say was my girlfriend again? I’ll measure the days until we can be reunited in successful evasions. Every morning, I will wake up hoping that while I slept the world changed. Every day, I’ll find some quiet time to go to the wireless internet café and read the news. Every night, I’ll hope and pray that we inch toward that “more perfect union” in which I’ve always believed. I will count down in faith, so that in six months when my commander and my partner meet me at the airport it will be a time for embracing.

09-17-10 By Anonymous |