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*

  I am likewise close to my mom. Our relationship has always been solid. We’ve never had to work at it, but I certainly have never taken it for granted. She was always home when I was growing up. When I entered Ohio State as a freshman, she enrolled at the local community college, ultimately earning her associate’s degree in medical administration.

  I was as proud of Mom’s straight-A report cards as she was. After graduation, she hired on with a physician in town, but she quit after five or six years because she decided she hated the work. She’s found greater personal reward and a fuller schedule volunteering at the hospital, Meals-on-Wheels, a local food bank, and the library. She has her own interests and her own circle of friends, and my dad has his, but they intersect enough that they are content.

  Their only battle zone is the stereo.

  My mother chooses to listen to Madame Butterfly or Aida. Mom inherited her appreciation for the trained voice from her dad, my late grandfather, who sang in a beautiful tenor himself. Her extensive knowledge of opera, of plots and characters and arias, grew from no particular schooling, simply a love for the drama and music. Puccini is a favorite of hers, and Mozart and Verdi, too.

  My dad, however, prefers the classic country style of Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, and Patsy Cline and their twangy, uncomplicated songs about complicated emotions. My dad claims to be a simple man and prefers music he can understand. Three or four chords are generally sufficient. Privately, my dad thinks all opera sounds like yowling cats. Privately, my mom thinks country music celebrates an ignorant redneck sensibility with a little too much enthusiasm.

  When I was growing up, the soundtrack for my life was a splendid train wreck of grand opera and Grand Ole Opry. I refused to pick a side, maintaining a foot in each camp. In no way can I mine an unhappy childhood for excuses of any sort. I’ve genuinely enjoyed being part of our small family. Years ago, I hoped for a brother or sister to relieve some of the pressure of being an only child. But I grew out of it. My parents seem to be satisfied with me, and I certainly am with them.

  The general’s experience, however, was quite different. Although he’d speak on occasion of the Great Smoky Mountains and the Little Tennessee River—beautiful country, he’d tell me, and I must see it one of these days—he rarely shared any details about his family. I don’t think he deliberately withheld anything. He just didn’t want to talk about it much.

  The general’s mother died from cancer when he was in his early twenties, not long after he’d graduated from the Academy. His dad sold the suburban family home and bought a condominium in the city. The general’s younger sister is married with five children in Virginia. No one else in his family chose a military career. I wondered why he was so close with the details. Doesn’t everyone talk about family?

  *

  I re-upped in the spring of 2011, not long after the President had signed legislation to eliminate the damnable “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy across the whole Department of Defense. The ban was still in place, however. It would not be officially dropped until the military services were “ready,” due to the projected risk that homosexuals posed to combat readiness.

  Whatever.

  Perhaps some of the other estimated sixty-five thousand gay servicemembers were as surprised as I was when the policy was abruptly eliminated at midnight as Tuesday, September 19th, became Wednesday the 20th. For the first time, gay soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines could serve openly, as if years of gay-baiting and witch-hunting and homophobia had never happened.

  I remember the anxiety and exhilaration I felt that morning as I dressed and ate my breakfast and drove to work. But I also knew I would not remain silent. As I showed my ID to the security-forces airman at the front gate, I announced a bit breathlessly, “I’m gay!”

  The moment was liberating for me but lost on the gate guard.

  I parked my car and walked into the building, eagerly scanning the faces of the people surging toward the doors, looking for a sign of the new times. Airmen rushed past me, anxious to get inside before the base loudspeaker system started broadcasting “The Star-Spangled Banner” at half past seven, for which they’d have to come to attention and salute until it concluded, and thus be late to work.

  At the end of our morning briefing, when Major Beckett asked if anyone had any final announcements notes for the group, I raised my hand. “I just wanted to let everyone know that I’m gay.”

  “Well, duh,” someone said. Everyone laughed.

  “Okay, thanks for sharing,” the major said. “Anything else?” And we were dismissed to start our work day, sent out to deal with the customer-service complaints of an endless line of airmen with urgent personnel issues to discuss. A typical day, full of standard vexations and tiny victories.

  In the days that followed, I continued to search for something tangible on our base as witness to the change. For me and others like me, serving openly was radical, groundbreaking, deserving of speeches and brass bands, parties and proclamations, if not a rainbow banner flying on the mast next to the Air Force flag and the stars and stripes.

  It was not cause for celebration in every quarter, however. I came to realize the best way to commemorate the revolution was to ensure that business continued as usual. After all, we had an air and space force to run and a nation to protect, and we had insisted for years that allowing gay people to serve openly would not be disruptive.

  When I saw the flyer posted at the gym in late April, four months into my tenure as the general’s aide, I couldn’t help feeling supremely pleased. It was an advertisement for airmen interested in marching in the gay pride parade in June. It would be the first occasion when actively serving military personnel could march without doing so undercover, and I didn’t want to miss it. I jotted down the phone number and called later. To my surprise, the guy who’d posted the flyer was one of my old colleagues from the personnel office.

  “Sergeant Forester! So you came out, too.”

  He laughed. “You set a great example, Lieutenant Mitchell. Are you marching with us?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it. Sign me up.”

  “Great!” he said. “So far, you’re the only officer who’s called. I’d like to get a few more. There are plenty out there. Except most of them aren’t actually out.” He laughed. “Hey! Maybe we should ask Beemis!”

  That would be Lieutenant Colonel Matthew Beemis, commander of our security forces unit, for whom I’d developed an immediate dislike. Once I’d overheard him tell a truly offensive gay joke when he knew I was in earshot, as if he dared me to say anything about it. I didn’t. I suspected his intense homophobia was a protective posture, that he was gay and in full denial. This topic generated some gossip around the NAF. Perhaps he hated himself as much as he claimed to hate the rest of us “fags,” but I couldn’t summon much sympathy for him.

  “You think he’d be interested?” Sergeant Forester said. “Of course, he’d have to drop that charismatic ‘gay-baiting asshole’ pose long enough to reveal the true rainbow within.” Without missing a beat, he added, “Did I say that? Oops. Sorry.”

  “Except you’re right,” I said. “Beemis is a gay-baiting asshole. I wouldn’t want to claim him even if he did come out.”

  “You got that right, sir. Still, it would be nice to get another officer or two. Maybe a captain or major.”

  “Good luck with that. Somehow, I don’t think being out and proud would look good to a promotion board. Maybe someday, but not yet,” I said. “It would help just as much if a couple of the chiefs would join us. How many senior-enlisted guys do you have on your list?”

  “Let’s see,” he said. “That would be zero.”

  “Not even the maintenance superintendent?”

  He laughed. “Chief Jordan? Nope. I bet he still thinks people haven’t figured him out, but I know a couple of guys who can give you the real lowdown on Fairy Gary. He’s as bad as Beemis, except that the chief isn’t a homophobic asshole. He’s just scared.”
/>   I agreed. “It’s a shame. He’s got nothing to lose. No more promotion boards to meet. Chiefs carry a lot of weight. It would set a great example, not just for the junior guys, but the officers, too.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I think there’s hope for him, but he hasn’t met the right guy.”

  “Go for it.”

  “No, thanks. I’m not interested in a science project just now. Anyway, we’ve got about thirty signed up so far. We’re getting T-shirts with ‘serving out loud’ on the front with the NAF patch on the back. The shirts cost twelve bucks apiece if we order in quantity, but I’ll have to get the money in advance.”

  “No problem,” I said. “What’s the plan for the march? Drill formation?”

  “Nothing like that. We’re making a big banner to carry in front, but otherwise it will be kind of informal. I grabbed a big stack of the recruiting brochures for the NAF, and we can hand those out, too. Maybe we can drum up some interest in the unit.”

  “Sounds like you’ve thought of everything.”

  “I just hope a lot of guys show up to march,” he said. “Spread the word, okay? And bring your boyfriend, too, Lieutenant Mitchell. The more the merrier.”

  Hmm. If only I had a boyfriend to bring. “I’ll stop by later today with the T-shirt money, Sergeant Forester.” We traded good-byes.

  I decided not tell General O’Neill about my plans. I figured it was none of his business how I spent my off-duty Saturdays. Even if he found out, what could he say to me that wouldn’t get him into trouble with the Office of Equal Opportunity, our own Gatekeeper of Political Correctness?

  *

  The day of the parade dawned, gloriously perfect, warm sun and cloudless blue, like optimism come alive. I had been attending pride parades for years as a spectator. For the first time, my colleagues and I could proudly announce our identities as a gays and lesbians serving in the U.S. armed forces. I was looking forward to it.

  In spite of the fact that we were free to be as out as we chose, I’d come across few people on the base who were eager to identify as openly gay. Beemis and Jordan were hardly isolated cases. New worlds aren’t necessarily easy to explore, and the knowledge that one is a trailblazer isn’t necessarily a comfort. One day, being gay was a crime punishable through the Uniform Code of Military Justice. The next day, being gay was fine, and all military personnel were ordered to accept it, pretend it was no big deal, and not be troubled by it at all.

  On base, still a little unsure, we trod cautiously. But the pride parade was different. The mere act of participating meant you probably had at least one thing in common with others who came to march. And on the day of the parade, about twenty-five airmen and a few civilians were brave enough to show. I can’t say for certain how many chose to take part out of mere curiosity—who else from our base was gay or lesbian?—but I admit I was among them. Indeed, most of us were giving each other a friendly once-over. Who knows? If you’re looking for a partner or even a friendly hook-up, you might as well hang out in places that draw like-minded people.

  As the senior-ranked person and the lone officer in attendance, I became the default leader of our little group, checking people in and handing out the T-shirts according to the list provided by Sergeant Forester.

  “Forty-six signed up, Lieutenant Mitchell,” he said. “I kind of figured some of them would get cold feet.”

  Participants were mostly unfamiliar to me. Nearly all of them were junior enlisted guys and gals, the ones with nothing to risk, who’d grown up feeling comfortable in their own skin, confident that they had nothing to hide or be ashamed of. But I was still a little disappointed the group wasn’t more diverse in terms of age and experience.

  Following instructions shouted by a woman with a bullhorn, our little faction lined up behind a high-school marching band and in front of a church group on a bus inscribed “God sends a rainbow sign.” I took one end of our banner and Sergeant Forester took the other. When our turn came, we stepped out with purpose.

  It was a good day for confidence. We were greeted with cheers and applause all along the parade route and had no trouble handing out our recruiting brochures. When we reached the end, after friendly hugs and handshakes all around, the group scattered to enjoy the rest of the weekend. I rolled up the banner and was heading to my car with it when a man wearing a professional camera around his neck stopped me.

  “Excuse me. I’m Ron Gilbert, from the Times.” He offered his hand and a friendly smile. “I cover the military beat. Last time I was on base, I saw the flyer. I wanted to check out the parade to see if any airmen would actually march. Got a minute?”

  “Sure. Beautiful day to be out and proud, isn’t it?”

  “The best. I got a couple of photos of your Air Force group marching, and you in particular with the banner, but I need to get your name and make sure you won’t get any grief if your photo appears in the paper. Okay?”

  I gave him my name and unit of assignment, and he jotted it down in his notebook.

  “You got time for a couple of questions?”

  “Sure.”

  “How does it feel? To march in the parade as an openly gay serviceman?”

  I thought for a moment. “It’s been a long time coming,” I said. “The old policy had its place, I guess. It was a good transition, but it outlasted its usefulness. This is the twenty-first century, and it’s about time we can serve openly and proudly. I’m glad I don’t have to stay in the closet anymore.”

  “So you’re out at work, then?”

  “Yup.”

  “What does that mean for you?”

  “Well,” I said, “for one thing, I don’t have to pretend to my coworkers that I’m dating a woman. I can put a picture of my boyfriend on my desk at last.” The reporter laughed as I’d hoped, and thankfully didn’t press the issue.

  “And how do your coworkers feel about your coming out? Were they surprised?”

  “Not really. I haven’t noticed much difference in the way people treat me in the unit.” That wasn’t entirely truthful. There would always be those who didn’t want anyone to be openly gay.

  “How is the Air Force adjusting to the new policy?”

  I couldn’t speak for the whole Air Force and told him so. “But I think any time there’s a big change, there will be a period of adjustment. It will be a while before the prejudice is entirely gone. It’s not a big deal for the younger airmen. They don’t think being gay is anything to hide or be ashamed of.”

  I was warming up. No one had asked my opinion thus far, and I was as eager to share it as Mr. Gilbert was to hear it. “In twenty years, the young airmen who were marching in the parade today will be the chief master sergeants and generals who are in charge. They’ll be the senior-enlisted advisors and wing commanders. That’s when the real change is going to happen, when the old ideas are gone.”

  The reporter scribbled furiously in his notebook. “Old ideas such as—?”

  “For one, there’s the idea that being gay and serving in the military are incompatible,” I said.

  “Hmm. I see. So you think it’s going to be twenty years before there’s a real cultural change?”

  “That seems about right. In the meantime, we’ll keep doing what we can to change their minds.”

  “Do you still find a lot of prejudice toward gay people now that you can serve openly?”

  “There’s some, naturally,” I said. “You find it anywhere, not just in the military. The tone is set by the senior leaders, and sometimes they can be slow to change.”

  He nodded. “Uh-huh. And what’s your line of work?”

  My telling him I was a general’s aide didn’t impress him, but he certainly perked up when he found out my boss’s name.

  “The commander of Sixth Air Force? That General O’Neill?”

  “You know him?”

  “Tall, skinny guy with the oversize black mustache and pipe. Handsome like a movie star. Very opinionated,” he said. “So he has an aide who’s ga
y, huh? That’s a great hook for the story.”

  It finally dawned on me that talking at length to a newspaper reporter on this particular topic was perhaps not in my best interest. But it was too late to extricate myself. Inwardly, though, I shrugged. I didn’t believe I’d done anything wrong. I hadn’t said anything untrue or revealed any of the NAF’s trade secrets. I did, however, remind the reporter once again that I was speaking for myself, not the NAF or the Air Force.

  We shook hands and parted. I put the banner in the trunk of my car and spent the rest of the afternoon at the festival that followed the parade. My T-shirt got quite a bit of notice. Dozens of people shook my hand and thanked me for serving—openly.

  *

  On Monday morning, the Sunday newspaper was waiting for me on my desk, the local news section folded open to show a prominent color photo of a grinning lieutenant carrying a “Serving out loud” banner in the gay pride parade. The name under the photo was mine, of course, and I quickly scanned the article that appeared alongside it. I’d meant to pick up the paper yesterday morning but had actually forgotten about it.

  The article itself was well-written and fair. If I’d been the reporter and an eager, articulate, and talkative gay airman had crossed my path, I would certainly have taken advantage of the opportunity. I groaned when I read the line about the boyfriend’s picture on the desk. I also wondered if I’d been perhaps a bit too forward with my observations about the climate and culture for gay servicemembers, considering my own limited perspective.

  I measured the coffee, filled the percolator with water, and plugged in the pot. As it gurgled and chugged, I stood by, lost in thought until I heard someone speak up. “Hey, Harris! You’re standing between me and my caffeine fix, and that could be dangerous!”

  I turned to find Mark Sinclair, the budget officer, smiling, mug in hand.

  “Oh. Good morning, Mr. Sinclair. Sorry.” I picked up the pot. He extended the mug and I filled it. “Cream or sugar?”