(I am at an Army National Guard Field Band concert, and after the show, we get to talk to some of the band members. As I am there with my band friends who all play flute with me, we go to find the man who plays the flute in the band, since he was very energetic on stage. We get to take pictures with him, and eventually, we start talking about our futures.)

Flute Player: “When I get out of the army, I’m going to dye my hair that color.” *points to my blue hair*

Me: “I wish I could join the army, but I can’t.”

Flute Player: “Sure, you can; anyone can.”

Me: “No… I can’t. I’m trans.”

Flute Player: “Oh… See, that’s why I’m fighting. I’m fighting so that every American has the freedom to live their lives as they want. When I joined, it was under the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell agreement, and when I learned the union was going to lift it, I got scared. Every day I see people who are in the army and have to re-hide themselves since they aren’t allowed to be who they are. But that is why I joined. I joined so that people like us can be just as free as the people that aren’t us.”

(His little speech made one of my friends cry, and all of my friends that were there surrounded her in a group hug. After that, I no longer felt sad about the fact that I can’t join the military; knowing that there are people like him makes me feel safe. Maybe one day I will be able to join. I made sure to thank him, and I gave him the best handshake I could with my small hands.)

(I work as a contractor for the U.S. Military in the Middle East. One of the positions I hold in the division is called the Motor Pool. Several times a day we will have military personnel come in and try and get a vehicle even though they do not have orders allowing them to get one. This is what happens one time after I explain the policy to one soldier:)

Sergeant: “What do you mean, I can’t have a vehicle? Do you know who I am?”

Me: “Yes, sir. Your name and rank are very visible on your uniform.”

Sergeant: “Well?”

Me: “Well, what, Sergeant? I’ve already explained the procedure to you.”

Sergeant: “Give me a d*** vehicle!”

Me: “Sergeant. I have already explained the procedure to you. You have not been authorized to have a vehicle, but since you feel so vehemently that you should have one outside of the military rules and regulations, I would be happy to call the General’s office and let them know that you, by name and rank, feel that they do not know what they are doing and that you feel that the rules should not apply to you.”

Sergeant: *storms out*

(I go about helping the other soldiers in line who have all been, and continue to be, respectful and follow the regulations. The door opens and the sergeant walks back in looking like he just had his butt chewed out. He is escorted by a colonel that I have dealt with many times before.)

Colonel: “Ma’am, this soldier has something he would like to say to you.”

Sergeant: “Ma’am, I was out of line. I should not have spoken to you in that way, especially since you never raised your voice and politely explained the rules and regulations to me.”

Me: *a little stunned* “Thank you, Sergeant.”

Sargent: *turns and walks quietly out of the office*

Me: “Colonel? Were you in here when this happened?”

Colonel: “Yes, ma’am. I saw the whole thing. He had no reason to take his anger out on you.”

Me: “Sir, he was mad at the situation, not at me, but thank you for doing that.”

(Colonel, if you are reading this, once again I would like to say thank you. You made that day brighter.)

In 1936, my great-grandfather left the Royal Navy with the rank of Chief Petty Officer after 22 years of service. He then joined the Admiralty as a Naval Paymaster. During the war, he was posted to Ceylon, now Sri Lanka. Much to his chagrin, the authorities insisted that he be given a formal rank and appointed him Lieutenant-Commander. Although he had a uniform, he swore that he would never wear it.

One day, a US Sub-Lieutenant needed some information from him and demanded that he presented it to him on board his vessel the following morning. My great-grandfather went home and asked his wife to lay out his dress uniform.

“But [Great-Grandfather], you said you would never wear it.”

“[Great-Grandmother], tomorrow, I am making an exception.”

The following morning he arrived at the US vessel, in uniform, and was piped aboard. The vessel’s captain, being massively out-ranked by a Naval Lieutenant-Commander, asked very respectfully what he wanted. My great-grandfather said that Mr. [US Sub-Lieutenant] had demanded that he bring this information to him and therefore he was doing so.

One hopes that the US Sub-Lieutenant was never again quite so high-handed with a “civilian” worker, and also that he recovered from the chewing-out that he will have received from his captain.

(I attended one of the Military Academies where I earned my bachelors. After exiting the military and taking a year off, I am ready to return to school. One of the schools I’m applying to asks for a copy of my degree. Here’s the thing about Military Academy degrees: they’re the size of a poster! Not something easily scanned. I call the Registrar’s Office at the Academy to ask if they have a smaller size or a digital version they can send me.)

Receptionist: “Hello. May I help you?”

(I get no identification or confirmation of what office this is; they just pick up and say hello.)

Me: “Ah, is this the Registrar’s Office?”

Receptionist: “It is. What do you need?”

Me: *explains* “So, do you have a digital version or smaller, easily-scanned copy?”

Receptionist: “I don’t do that.”

Me: “Okay… Do you know who does?”

Receptionist: “Yes.”

Me: “Okay… Could you please give me the number?”

Receptionist: “Sure. It’s [rattles off the number at high speed].”

Me: “Sorry, could you repeat that?”

Receptionist: *sighs* “Yes, it’s [still extremely fast]”

Me: “Okay, just to check, the number is [number]?”

Receptionist: *sounding very much annoyed* “Yes, that’s correct. What else do you need?”

Me: “Nothing. Goodbye!”

(I called the number, only to be informed the Academies do not make smaller copies for graduates. I ended up taking a picture and pasting it to an 8×11 paper via Word. Luckily, it worked.)

(I’m manning the register at a chain drug store. It’s usually slow, but today two customers — a man and a woman — come in and they look over the newspapers for a while until they finally come up to me to buy one. The woman slams the newspaper onto the counter and jabs her finger at the headline. It’s something about the armed forces.)

Female Customer: “We’re in there. That’s us.”

Me: *confused, but ringing them up anyway* “In the article, the picture?” *tells them the total*

Female Customer: *starts to look upset and gestures angrily at the page* “I’m in the armed forces; I served.”

Me: *giving her her change, visibly confused but smiling* “T-Thank you for your service. Would you like your receipt?”

Female Customer: *scoffs, snatches the paper, and starts to walk away* “You have no clue what I’m saying, do you?”

(No. And to this day, I still don’t.)