Sonya Contreras
Sergeant, U.S. Army (1998-2003)
“Raise your hand if you are gay and this offends you,” said my company commander during an Equal Opportunity class on the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy. I did not raise my hand during that class even though as a lesbian I was offended.
My younger sister, also a lesbian, and I enlisted in the Army in December 1997. My first encounter with prejudice against gays was during the entrance station briefing delivered by a Marine staff sergeant. He said that if we were gay for us to leave because “nobody wants faggots in the military.” I turned to leave and my sister squeezed my hand. I had talked her into joining with me, and she wasn’t about to go anywhere. Pride runs strong in my family; we will overcome any obstacles, at any cost.
The cost of being a lesbian in the military was hiding what I had so openly shared with everyone for five years. The second day of reception for basic training, while we were being fitted for uniforms a sergeant asked where I was from. I answered, “California, Sergeant.” He smirked and said, “Californians are all surfers and queers.”
I realized I would have to play dumb when I heard slanderous remarks and jokes about homosexuality. I made it through basic training. In advanced individual training, one of my drill sergeants was a lesbian. She inspired me to keep going, be a team player and be accepted. If only it were that easy.
My sister and I were stationed in Germany together — which was an experience I would not regret. I did back-to-back rotations in Kosovo in 1999. We both played for [a] champion softball team from Wuerzburg. Almost on a daily basis, she and I would have officers and non-commissioned offers ask if we were really sisters, of “family.” I had not known that phrase before my time in Germany.
I volunteered for recruiting in 2000, stationed close to my hometown. I was rolling along; the community was receptive to me; I had found my niche. I re-enlisted with the intention of staying in recruiting. The one day we got a new commander, and we were asked to introduce ourselves. After my introduction, the commander asked, “Are you married?” I responded, “No, sir,” and a male recruiter that had come on to me several times yelled out across the table to his buddy, “No, sir, I like girls.”
Within a week, tension flared. I went from being a “high roller” to being called a “dirty recruiter.” My name and ethics were dragged through the mud. It became clear to me then that no matter my accomplishments, I would never fit in. It was time to find a place in life where being all I could be would not mean losing myself.