A Good Gift

The Master Chief, who is transferring in one week, was smitten with his scarf. He modeled it several ways, smiling the whole time and told me he loved the colors. Then he asked about the stitch pattern. I couldn’t believe it; I was so flattered that he took a moment to think about the gift and not the giving. Then he shook my hand and I told him, “It’s been a pleasure.” I said it with meaning. He smiled and replied, “Believe me, the pleasure has been all mine. I’ll never forget you.”

Right. Because he’s got a new kick-ass scarf.

If It Feels Good...

Some things feel really wrong. Like when an Army Captain kissed me. Or when my boss, the operations officer, wanted me to go on a quiet camping trip for four. I put the Captain in his place and didn’t go on the trip, but I still felt dirty and like I’d done something wrong. Those sorts of things make me miserable.

Tomorrow morning I’m gifting a scarf I knit to the Operations Chief and it feels great. His questions, thoughts, and goofy smile have always made me feel at home, which is something that I almost never feel with my hair pulled back tightly and my steel-toed boots weighing me down. I made a side comment on the FEX that I could knit him a hat out of the yarn from the terrain model kit and, to my genuine surprise, he told me several times that he would really like it. That was months ago. In the time that has passed I've tried to go the hat route: I knit the beginnings of a hat and ripped it out several times but was never satisfied. So I decided to gift him a scarf that I adore. It was meant for another, but neither one of them will ever know the difference.

I’ve wrapped it in tissue, made a bow of yarn, and tucked care instructions in a small flowered envelope that I made out of richly textured paper from my stash. I’m proud of it, I hope he loves it, and the idea of the whole thing makes me feel great.

World Cup Fever

Now that I’m on a Det, and away from Head Quarters Company, I suffer fewer group runs and play a lot more sports. This morning was the first time we played soccer instead of football. Call it World Cup Fever.

The battalion Operations Officer, S3, was in my office after hours.



S3: Do you like soccer?

EA2: I love soccer. You know why? Because when we play football, it doesn’t matter that I’m open and that I can catch the ball, no one throws to me. But in soccer I can just take it. And I like it.

S3:Yea, I can tell. I saw you this morning and you looked like you were really enjoying yourself.

EA2: I was.

S3: Yea. I love soccer, too.



Of twenty-four personnel on my Det I am one of two women. And every time we play football, we’re always open. No one covers us, because no one throws to us. And we can catch. And we can pass. Sure, they’re short passes, but that’s how you win the game.

And that’s the way it goes. For some reason there is a misconception that women in the military get anything they want. And while it’s true that we do catch a few breaks here and there the allowances are trivial and I would gladly give them up if it meant that the guys would think to pass me the ball.

Every morning I pull my hair back into a tight bun and get dressed in a boxy green comofage uniform and black steel-toed boots. I am stripped of my femininity, of my identity. But when I walk into our spaces the only thing they see is a woman. And to them it’s not a good thing. So it’s really the worst of both worlds: all I want is to feel like a girl, and I can't, while all they want is for me to be a guy, and I'm not. It leads to a lot of discomfort on both ends.

But this morning, after I stole the ball from a guy on the other team, I scored a goal. It felt really good.

I Can't Give In

It’s a little after 10 and I’m tired. If I go to bed now, and I love bed, I’ll get six and a half hours of sleep. I love sleep, too. But tonight is like every Sunday night: I’m doing whatever I can to procrastinate going to bed because I know that when my head hits the pillow my weekend stops. Only moments will pass and it will be time to go to work. I’ve been having mild anxiety attacks every Sunday night, and sometimes they start as early as the afternoon, for four years. I’m ready for this part of my life to be over.