Walking into the recruitment center with my new hair, new clothes and new identity, was the scariest thing I’d ever done. My bright skinny jeans and band tee shirts were switched with hunting garb and heavy boots. My hair, once long and shaggy had been shaved into a clean and ironically generic crew cut. Hidden in my terror was hope though, of a better me, and a better country. So as I walked up to the 20-something year old man behind the Marine Corps table I didn’t act like the person I had been, a gay 17 year old boy stuck in the bible belt with parents who thought that who I was, wasn’t to be respected, but to be demolished. Instead I gave him a stoic smile and a firm handshake telling him my name was Buck and that it had been my dream since childhood to be in the Corps and help keep my country safe. I said it with such conviction that it almost didn’t seem like this was my fathers dream, and my mothers quick fix to change my sexuality. Or at least it was enough for the marine Corps man to give me a sign up sheet and direct me to a folding card table on which I was supposed to pledge my will to my country. As I walked towards the table my father squeezed my shoulder, and for the first time since 3rd grade said “I’m proud of you, son.” My mother, as was her tendency sat wringing her hands and reciting hymns, for what I still don’t know.
After the paperwork was done, I, along with 100 or so other boys was led into a gymnasium and given army dress. We were rushed from doctor to doctor, being checked and checked again for any form of mutation. In those hours I prayed, or at least hoped that I had a tumor or disability that had been hidden until, for once I could be saved by one of my many deformities. Perhaps, I thought, there was something that I couldn’t hide that would keep me from the clutches of death. But alas as far as the eye could see, I was perfect. So I was ushered back out to spend a final night in my hometown of Heflin. That was the last time I saw you. The last time I let myself be unguarded, and not be the poster child of gays in the military. Do you remember what we did that night? Because as I spent those lonely hours in the dark you were all I could think of.
After I said goodbye to my parents, friends and you, I was packed onto a bus and brought to Camp Lejeune in Jacksonville, Alabama to carry out my training. It didn’t take very long for the veneer of my imagined personality to disappear, but it wasn’t until I met General B. that I found myself showing my true colors. He used terms like fag, and dyke to describe anyone who couldn’t run the mile in less than five minutes. Anywhere else he would have been the crazy man you would have avoided, but at camp, he was god. Every time he called me a name my heart would drop, stomach sink and identity set in.
At first I made small rebellions, my voice, which I had been repressing to a low monotone, regained its normal pitch. My hands, which had been firmly planted at my sides while I was speaking, once again started to move when I described anything. Every time General B would chastise me, my smile would return. Eventually I decided that my ‘toon deserved to know the truth about me. Most already knew that I had been sent by my parents, but most believed that drugs or alcohol had been the cause. At first I turned to my only friend, Remy, I figured that if anyone would have my back it would be him. As it turned out he didn’t. But I still had to honor myself, or at least the sexuality that I shared with so many like us.
Revealing yourself as who you are to a group of close-minded killers, is exactly what it seems to be, near impossible. So instead of dramatically dressing in pink or writing gay on my forehead, I did something much simpler. On the memo board I wrote a letter addressed to the camp informing them on exactly who I was and what that meant for them. The letter looked formal so at first very few people noticed it. But after a week of individuals coming up to me and getting a solid explanation, I got what I had, in a way been waiting for. General B. called me into his office. He read me the letter and asked for explanation, if given the opportunity, I guarantee at that time I could have run the mile in just about three minutes, just so long as it was away from the general. But I stood there and explained just what the letter did. “I am gay.” I said all I got was a look of distaste. And then I said, “Thank you. You are the person who gave me the courage to stand up for who I am.” It was the most sincere gratitude I had ever given, but for General B. it was also the worst he had ever received.
Word spread quickly about my identity. And my rendezvous with General B. it gained me a friend or two, but mostly the harshest enemies that I’ve ever known. It is no surprise to me that those boys did what they did or that their actions were given a blind eye. My murder was a hate crime. And I want you to know that, because you are the one true love that I have ever had.
~Buck
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