A Handful of Flags, Part 2

Five hundred flags, and the sun is keeping pace with my movements. Or perhaps I’m keeping pace with the sun. I suppose when finding an appropriate rhythm it’s not necessarily important who establishes the beat, so long as you stay in step.

At eighteen, the Army rhythm was pretty easy for me to find, owing largely to the thunderous beat constantly kept by a millions-large percussion - a good many playing their drums longer than I had been alive. Still, it quickly became apparent that I had a knack for the trade, and was soon rewarded for my talents with recognition in the forms of leadership positions where I had the opportunity to aid other soldiers in staying in formation and keeping pace with my own achievements. There was a distraction, however, which only became louder the longer I marched, no matter how I tried to ignore it.

Plainly said, I was coming closer and closer to the inevitable conclusion that my sexuality wasn’t something I could self-determine or suppress, and refusing to deal with the issue was making it increasingly difficult to keep the tempo I had established.

When others are watching your feet to keep their own pace, they notice when you falter. An explanation was necessary, though one I wasn’t legally supposed to provide. But provide I did, with the knowledge that the alternative was to let the whole formation suffer from either dishonesty or personal distance and subsequent discord. The risk overwhelmingly panned out for the positive, as my peers soon incorporated this new aspect of my personality into the overall movement of the unit.

The beat had changed - or rather, the beat was different than I had understood it to be. And I had found that this deeper rhythm much more closely matched my own, as well as that of my peers. We soon realized that the older leadership may have set the base pattern, but it is those marching that interpret that pattern in accordance to their own view of reality.

Anyone can enjoy the military, much as one can appreciate the smooth hum of a cello without understanding completely the complexity of strings and sound waves. It takes a soldier, however, to understand the nuances of the percussion, and it takes a soldier to translate the beat for observers watching the formation march by.

Here’s the beat, if you’ll hear it:

I am openly gay, as I’ve been for the past seven years. I served in the Army for five of those years, proudly and more than competently. It is the latter that defined me in the military, with my peers recognizing the former as irrelevant.

Does the beat feel stronger now? I hope it does. I've been spending the past two years interpreting this beat for anyone with an ear to listen.

3000 flags and we’ve still a long way to go. The sun is moving faster than I can move, though I have no choice but to continue.

And I know it’s better to try and catch up than demand the sun slow down.