Yonder

was forced to resign from the

United States Air Force Academy
for being queer. Since then I‘ve grad-
uated from UVM, worked as an
engineering consultant in Seattle, and
built a career as an engineer with the
State of Vermont. I’ve been out,
loud, and proud. I’ve marched on
Washington. tlown the rainbow flag.
and made the evening news during
the Civil Union debates. This year
my partner and I celebrated the sec-
ond anniversary ofour Civil Union.

But for all that. I still carry
the hurt and shame of that unfath-
omable experience. It’s hard to
describe what my time as a cadet at
the Academy means to me. It had a
lot to do with patriotism, but that’s
been so perverted and mixed up, and
in these days of George W. has
almost become a curse, a bludgeon
used by the right wing to subdue the
doubters.

I grew up an Air Force
brat, with the deeply held conviction
that our country, for all its faults and
foibles, is the best there is. In sixth
grade I discovered the Academy, and
decided that ‘was where I wanted to
go, to prove myself, and to serve my
nation. Early in my senior year of
high school I accepted my appoint-
ment to USAFA, and two weeks
after graduation Ijoined the elite
youth of our nation, the cream ofthe
crop, at one of the nation’s finest
institutions.

A little over a year later, I
was back in Vermont. my future and
my faith in my country snatched
away.

It’s been nearly 20 years since I

I can tell you stories about
all the rules that we had to follow
when we were eating, and about
helping my roommate with German
in exchange for getting her to shine
my shoes. Wearing shirt garters to
hold my socks up and my shirt
down, the elastic and clips rubbing a
permanent hairless spot on my upper
thigh. The thrill of marching in step
with 4,000 other cadets, the sound of
John Phillip Sousa on the air, the
tourists gaping and clapping on the

Losing the Wild Blue

chapel wall as we marched to lunch.
Taking swim class in the pool where
Greg Louganis had trained on the
high platform. where hejumped so
high they had to make a special bay
in the ceiling to accommodatehim.
Ironing and starching the hospital
corners of my sheets, and rolling my

. socks so they had perfect smiles

lined up the drawer. Losing my peri-
od to weight loss and stress.
Standing in the back of the class-
room rocking on my heels to stay
awake, because it was a military
offense to fall asleep in class.
Showing my little brother how I
could disassemble and ‘reassemble
my M-1 rifle with my eyes closed in
under a minute  and how they’d
plugged the barrel because too many
cadets had committed suicide with
them. I '
We had to greet everyone:
Good morning sir, good afternoon
ma’am. I can tell_ you the story of
blanking on my favorite f1rstie’s
name right in front of her parents,
the dry tongue, blank mind, heart-
pounding fear and beseeching eyes
hoping to be able to read her
nametag in time to prevent her from
having to embarrass the both of us
by dressing me down, knowing she
couldn’t let it go but really didn’t
want to be in a position of having to
yell at me in front of her parents, this
brilliant amazon who was triple-
majoring in electrical engineering,
mechanical engineering, and history
and was the first woman to be num-
ber one in her class. I can tell you
that we were both relieved when I

 

managed to spit it out. But can I tell
you why it mattered, or why I still
remember so vividly?

I can tell you that the day
we were “liberated” from our
“POW"‘ camp during our survival
training, they raised the American
flag and played Lee Greenwood’s
‘‘I’m proud to be an American.” and
it brought tears to our eyes. But
when we doolies were finally recog-
nized as full members of the Corps
of Cadets, in May, after 10 months of
grueling mental and physical stress. I
can’t begin to tell you what it meant
to have those shoulder boards pinned
on by our upperclassmen, to again
hear Lee Greenwood, the anthem of
our pride.

I can tell you that when, at
my older brother’s police academy
graduation, they played the song, I
had to leave, in rib-wracking tears 
no longer a source of pride, but a
mocking weapon to tear me apart —
“and I’d gladly stand up, next to you,
and defend her still today” (yeah,
sure  that was before you knew I
was queer). That after 9/ II, it
received so much airplay, it didn’t

h'urt anymore, itjust made me angry. ;

I can tell you that I no longer salute
our flag for the national anthem, but
that over the years I have gotten to
the point where I will stand and not
make a public point of remaining
seated. I haven’t forgotten, and I
haven’t yet completely forgiven
either.

I can tell you what they
took from me, and how long it took
me to regain some semblance of
pride in my country. But I can’t take
you there with me. The words will
never be enough. V

Amy Gamble is an engineer for the
State of Vermont. She lives in
Montpelier with her partner.

Easter I

cont’d from previous page

named Ostara and remember, every-
thing changes.

Note: This column is the
last of eight in a series on the pagan
sabbats: Beltaine, Litha, Lammas,
Mabon, Samhain, Yule, Imbolc and
Ostara. The columns appeared indi-

vidually in Out in the Mountains
over the last two years. I have great-
ly enjoyed writing them. The essays
have been reprinted on the web in
various forms as far away as
Australia, and it has been wonderful
to be able to write about the rele-
vance of these holidays to queer peo-
ple. Sometime this summer, I will be
creating a chapbook containing all
eight essays. If you are interested in

receiving a copy when it is available,
email me at Pippin@sover.net. V

Pippin is a Radical Faerie who tries
hard not to count his eggs before
they are hatched; sometimes_he is
successful. He is also known as
Christopher Kaufman, Executive
Director ofR. U. 1.2? Queer
Community Center.

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