Jeffrey Kongslie
Senior Airman, U.S. Air Force (1992-1999)
I enlisted in the Air Force to get an education, to do something meaningful and to see the world. It was 1992 and I was 18 years old. I knew that I was different, but I thought the military would "make a man" of me.
After four years in the Air Force and a failed marriage, I accepted myself as a gay man. I even got up the courage to tell a few friends. I was stationed at RAF Mildenhall in the United Kingdom and the rumor of my sexuality spread overnight, faster than I ever thought possible. I was horrified and scared. Immediately, I felt the stares and heard the whispers at work. I no longer felt welcome at squadron events. I felt more alone than I ever had in my life.
One of my friends knew of someone gay who had been stationed at our base and got out of the Air Force. One night, we called him and he began to tell me about people I should get in touch with who would be able to help me.
The next day I walked into the base personnel office and introduced myself to the man behind the counter, letting him know that "Chris" had sent me. He immediately scribbled his number on a piece of paper and told me to call him that night.
That day was the first day of the rest of my life. Through that contact, I was introduced to a whole network of friends that took care of me, helped me understand what it meant to be who I was, and encouraged me at every bump in the road. We were united by our shared fear, and we turned that fear into supportive friendships that will last a lifetime.
Some of those friends are still in the service, some have left the military on their own, and a few have been kicked out because of their sexuality. We're spread out over the world now. But every couple of years we all get together to remember the good old days and share our lives with each another again.
The military may be able to take our careers away, our benefits or — even for a brief time — our freedom, but they can never deny us who we are. We all remain proud of the service we have given to our country. Once in a while, I come upon my old uniform in storage. I look down at my medals, run my hands across my shiny wings and remember how fun it all was.
I served with many great people, gay and straight, and we were all there to serve our country and give it everything we had. After a time, those people who whispered and stared stopped judging me and started to focus on how well I did my job.
By the time I left RAF Mildenhall, my commanding officer told me with a shake of my hand, "I learned more from you about people than I ever thought possible." And — with a sly smile on his face — we both knew what he was saying. He had never served with someone so "out" before, and he respected me nonetheless.
My country gave me a grand opportunity for six years to serve and do my part for freedom. I didn't hide my sexual orientation as well as others did, and didn't really try to after a point, but I was lucky. Many people do their best to hide but still are subjected to daily harassment and even physical abuse. This must end.
All of our citizens who step forward to raise their right hand and promise to defend their country should be respected for that commitment. All of those who proudly wear a uniform every day should have their service valued. And those who served in both times of war and peace should have their service counted, regardless of their sexual orientation.
Thank you for giving me the opportunity to tell my story, and to stand up and be counted.