Nikolov / Ph.D. One Foot In, One Foot Out

The Continued Struggle with Coming Out in a Hyper-Masculine U.S. Military
1. Auflage 2021
ISBN: 978-1-0983-8114-1
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet/DL/kein Kopierschutz

E-Book, Englisch, 178 Seiten

Dr. Nikolov brings to light through his interviews and experiences as a former Army drill sergeant leader, some of the issues that gay, lesbian, bisexual, and lesbian U.S. military service members faced during the often-dismissed, discriminatory Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy. Many in the closet were outed, and those who were suspected or known to be gay were harassed and discriminated against, and some committed suicide as a result of the torment. He also makes recommendations on how to come out for those who have one foot in and one foot out of the closet and how to improve the organizational relationship between LGBT service members and leaders in today's modern U.S. military.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Nikolov, Marin

Ph.D.,

Leseproben

Basic Training When I asked people I knew were gay why they didn’t join the military, they told me that the requirements for basic training were too tough (in the military, we combine this to mean physical and mental toughness). For some gays, requiring them to traverse obstacle courses, shoot all sorts of military weapons, do miles of rucksack marches, jump out of airplanes (for specific jobs), and fight the country’s wars would require too much manliness in this hyper-masculine military. Some were just afraid to consider the physical requirements or how they would appear to others while executing physical tasks. Some also feared getting bullied or kicked out of the service because they were gay and wanted to prevent that from ever taking place. For me, basic training required more mental solidity than physical exertion. Most people who join and meet the initial (abbreviated) physical fitness test, which measures strength and endurance, are selected for enlistment. When I reported to Fort Jackson for basic training, I realized that the other recruits were just as curious and anxious about basic training as I. Most were eager to see what the Army was about and didn’t know how to feel or what to anticipate when the drill sergeants began to yell; for many, I think the shock of the military lifestyle threw them off, especially if they were raised in more private or relaxed households. I found that not expecting anything and remaining open-minded allowed for the best experience. Those who thought they knew everything about the military, or went to the school-sponsored Reserve Officers Training Corps (ROTC) without signing a contract, or were military brats, found out that Army basic training wasn’t cut out to be the know-it-all’s place. Drill sergeants loved to target recruits who thought they knew everything by putting them on the spot, in leadership roles, and publicly humiliating them when they failed. Those who made a fool of themselves were shamed and made to do pushups in front of the formation as we stood there watching them take the torment. At Fort Jackson, recruits were housed in open-bay, 100-man rooms within the three-story barracks called “starships”—notably receiving their name from their shape. The middle of the room was the “kill zone,” where recruits cannot set foot. The kill zone was a painted section on the floor that we were to treat as a field filled with landmines. Drill sergeants were the only ones authorized to walk in the kill zone. Privates who stepped in the kill zone were disciplined by the drill sergeant, also known as getting “smoked,” or endless pushups and whatever other physically draining cocktail (smoking session) the drill sergeant came up with to ensure that the recruit didn’t screw up again. The Army no longer allows their drill sergeants to use the words “smoking session.” The terminology has changed several times over the years and was later changed from “corrective training” to “concurrent training” to reject the reality of strict and cruel treatment and its soldiers’ mass castigation. The concurrent training, i.e., punishment, was usually given when the recruits were in the barracks and out of sight and out of mind from others. For the most part, I got along with my battle buddies and fellow recruits. One, in particular, Private Minnett, was excited to be my bunk-mate and battle buddy. Because our last names were sequential on the platoon roster, we were selected to be battle buddies, which meant that we were to share the same bunk. Everywhere I went, he was to follow—and vice-versa. On the firing range, while on ruck marches, on the obstacle course, during physical readiness training, modern Army combatives, and all things basic training, we were to be no more than one arm’s length from each other. This ensured accountability of each soldier and their assigned equipment. Though I always thought him to be straight, he constantly beamed his bright smile at me, something I found disturbing, and he would not leave me alone when I needed time to myself. It seemed that he would sometimes purposely aggravate me; some might become angry or suicidal with as much hip attachment that he pursued. I think he was a loner who needed attention and pursued me because I was friendly and got along with the other recruits, though they generally stayed away from him. I am almost 100 percent sure he didn’t suspect that I was gay. We got along because we had to, but sometimes I tried to avoid him. When I asked for time away from him, he would look at me inquisitively and dejected as if I were asking that he stay away from me. If Minnett asked me if I were gay, I would quickly refute him and anyone else of any such misnomer. I was undeniably hidden and afraid of being found out, mainly since all the recruits worked and trained within close proximity of each other. As many struggled with this in the military, the closet was our safe place. I did not want to sacrifice my friendships, image, or ability to inculcate or assimilate with the straight crowd. Minnett asked once if I had a girlfriend, and I fabricated the truth by claiming that I did but was unsure what my girlfriend and I ultimately wanted. Our relationship was more of a summer-fling thing than anything substantial; it was shaky at best. I preferred that I play on a perception of impropriety than a story that I would have to tell every time someone didn’t mind their own business. I even bragged once and displayed a pretty girl’s picture, my friend Jessica, who had a crush on me while we were in high school. Jessica and I maintained our friendship throughout my basic training. I went with the story of deceit, of being involved in a relationship with her to dispel possible questions about being bisexual or gay. I never told Jessica about my sexual orientation. She sent me letters with lipstick-smeared lips tattooed onto the envelope and care packages filled with goodies, which the drill sergeant indiscriminately took to be his own since sweets were considered contraband and were not authorized. Some of the drill sergeants ate our treats in front of us. It may have been that we were so entangled with training that no one asked me about my sexual orientation, or I was good at hiding it. Preoccupation with graduation requirements and other daily minutiae was my savior. I listened, laughed, and played along with guys who spat out gay and “your mama” jokes. Not all guys are perverts or perverted in how they talk, but it appeared to be a general stop-and-laugh moment that brought about a common ground for guffawing and bonding. When we received packages in the mail, privates would gawk and stare at the other recruits’ photos of girlfriends or boyfriends. Envelopes stained with the lips of someone who found it entertaining to kiss the envelope with caked lipstick, and envelopes saturated with perfume, were amusing and a pick-me-up moment during mail call. Anything that we could make fun of added inspiration and positivity in an otherwise grueling training environment. Drill Sergeant Bryant initiated and participated in mockery and jokes when he saw lipstick on recruits’ mail. He required that we open our mail in front of him. There were packages containing sweets, alcohol, heat-guns used for shining boots, and porn-related paraphernalia—appalling that some parents and friends sent sex toys, gag gifts, and liquor to their recruit if they were in basic training for reasons other than to become soldiers. Heat guns were not permitted because recruits were to spit-shine their boots with Kiwi shoe-shine and a brush or cotton ball. Sunday Protestant church services were held at the Solomon Center—an events center at Fort Jackson where basic training graduations were held when it was too hot or wet outside to accommodate the graduates’ families. Most recruits who did not want to spend their day with the charge-of-quarters drill sergeant found any excuse to stay away from the training area. Religious services were the answer. Many recruits did not attend church back home or had no motivation to attend Sunday service for what churchgoers might generally consider being the right reasons but found the reprieve to be a reason to go anyway. Some quickly became believers as if devoted Christians and trailed their battle buddies to church service to avoid barracks maintenance and the barrage of drill sergeant shouting and area beautification. For some reason, barracks tended to be void of life as recruits found any excuse to find religion as a way to escape the endless torment of drill sergeant in-cadence demands, scrubbing bathroom floors, and buffing and polishing the living quarters. Those who chose to avoid religion had no choice but to stay at the company and perform the Sunday chores—after the first couple of weeks of basic training; we quickly found out who the religious folks were; the nonbelievers cleaned the barracks. I remember returning from church service one Sunday and witnessing recruits edging the grass along the sidewalks with spoons leading to the barracks. Others used scissors to trim the grass because the lawnmower wasn’t working, or the drill sergeant ordered that the grass be cut that way. The summer heat and humidity at Fort Jackson seemed to come from a plague. I wouldn’t dare skip a distraction that would keep me away from the training environment. Anything to help me to reset mentally was a blessing. Recruits found lying in their bunks by their drill sergeants during barracks maintenance were tasked to the dining facility to scrub pots and pans. Others who lacked discipline had to move mounds of dirt with a spoon to motivate them to behave. ...