*Recently, I was asked about my thoughts regarding the debate on transgender individuals serving in the U.S. military. I responded that the audacity of our Commander-in-Chief to question the dedication of any service member was mind-blowing.
First, his dodging the draft, not once but five times, hardly warrants respect from those of us who have served and protected our country. Second, LGBQT individuals have always served in the military. We simply served in silence. Third, there are transgender soldiers, retired and active, who have stellar service records. And yet, transgender individuals continue to be marginalized when it comes to the repeal of DADT (Don’t Ask Don’t Tell). I was incensed at the question.
Yet, after all these years, I couldn’t help but question myself. Was I a soldier who was a lesbian or a lesbian who was a solder? Did my sexuality diminish my solidarity?
I flashed back to my own service to my country. I felt like a pawn. Once I signed on that dotted line, I was government property. Only the parts of my existence that were useful to the military were honored. I remember swallowing hard when having to answer the question regarding homosexuality. My hand shook as I checked the wrong box. My anxiety heightened when I was asked during my physical what form of birth control I used. The physician was impatient as he looked over his glasses as I hesitated. I exhaled when he was satisfied with my answer that I was not sexually active.
The question of what is more important, solidarity or sexuality, lingered. But it’s a fact that the experience of serving in the military creates an enduring bond between soldiers. In Basic Training, we are broken down as individuals and rebuilt into one cohesive unit. That sense of solidarity transcends everything else.
I realized my sexuality was secondary to my solidarity during a critical mission. I served as a medic with the 343rd Medical Company during Operation Desert Storm. After twenty-seven years, a scent, a sound … can take me right back to the Saudi Arabian desert. I’ll never forget that night. The sound of a siren blared across the city of tents. This time, it wasn’t a mock mission. We slept in our BDUs (Battle Dress Uniforms) so that all we had to do was slip on our boots, grab our M16s and run to our ambulances. Sergeant Kader barked orders to move out.
We grabbed our gear and headed toward our ambulance. My heart beat faster and faster. I grabbed the MBITR (Multiband Inter/Intra Team Radio) and listened for our intended location. I repeated it to Jones, my partner. The desert was darker than anything I had ever seen. My eyes widened as I looked for the helipad. Jones leaned over the wheel and waited for my directions as he sped through the darkness. It was as if we had a joint adrenaline rush as our senses intensified. The sounds of the chopper got louder and louder. We stopped approximately 100 feet from the helipad and waited for the signal from the pilot. The sand slammed against our faces as we lowered our heads and ran toward the helicopter. A sergeant yelled over the sound of the whirring blades: “Stepped on an IED [improvised explosive device].”
I braced myself as I ran to the other side of the gurney. Two front-line medics helped move the soldier onto to our gurney. They were on one side, Jones and I were on the other. The injured soldier had to be at least two hundred and fifty pounds. He was mumbling and shivering. We crouched under the helicopter blades as we ran back to the ambulance and hoisted him up. I jumped in the back as the front-line medics disappeared into the night. Jones locked me and the injured soldier in the back of the ambulance.
I swallowed hard before pulling the blanket back. I looked down and gasped. No amount of training could prepare me for what I saw. His foot was missing. There were pieces of bone and metal embedded in his shattered leg. His voice startled me as I tightened his tourniquet. “My foot! Please! Stop the pain! Stop the pain!” he screamed.
I wanted to cry as I started talking to myself. Man up, soldier! His screams became louder than the ones in my head. The medical equipment clanged against the walls of the ambulance as Jones sped through the desert. That was the moment I became a medic in the United States Army. My words were almost a whisper. “Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home … swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home.” His screams became soft whimpers the more I sang. I looked at his name tag before pulling the blanket over his trembling body. “Hold on, Sergeant Blaine, we’re almost there.” He squeezed my hand just as we pulled up to the evacuation site. In that moment, I was a soldier and that transcended my sexuality.
I knew I would never see Sergeant Blaine again. I wondered if he had a wife and children, or a fiancée. The one thing I knew for sure was that he had a mother and a father. I’m sure that they were not concerned with whom I chose to love. And neither should anyone else.
Monika M. Pickett is a veteran of the United States Army. Her debut novel, PRETTY BOY BLUE is available on Amazon. Pickett is an Advocate and Activist for the LGBTQ community. For more information on Monika M. Pickett, please visit, www.MonikaMPickett.com. For other inquiries email: [email protected].
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