Nine Years Apparently Wasn’t Enough
Veterans Day, Freedom, and the Right to Be Myself
Tomorrow is Veterans Day.
For most people, that means flags, patriotic posts on social media, and the occasional free meal at a restaurant. There will be speeches thanking veterans for their service, pictures of soldiers in uniform, and plenty of reminders about the sacrifices made by the men and women who served this country.
And I’ll be sitting here wondering something. What, exactly, did I serve for?
I spent nine years in the United States Navy. Nine years of my life. I served aboard submarines, worked as a nuclear electrician, learned skills I never imagined I’d possess, and experienced things most people never will. I learned discipline, responsibility, how to work with people I didn’t necessarily like, how to trust the person standing next to me, and how to be someone they could trust in return. I learned that the world is much bigger than the little corner of it where I grew up.
And I’m proud of those years. I really am.
But somewhere along the way, someone told me I wasn’t allowed to call myself a veteran. Apparently, nine years wasn’t enough. I hadn’t retired from the military. I hadn’t made it a twenty-year career. I had served, completed my time, and moved on with my life. Evidently, that wasn’t sufficient.
It’s a strange thing, having someone else decide whether the years you gave to your country count. And honestly, that attitude seems to extend beyond one person’s opinion.
Look at all those wonderful military and veteran discounts advertised everywhere. Except when you actually look at the requirements, some of them are only available to retired military personnel. Twenty years. That’s the magic number. Nine years? Thank you for your service. That’ll be full price, please.
And even when a discount or service is technically available to veterans like me, there’s often another little hurdle to jump over. Proof. Not just any proof, mind you. Frequently, they want a military ID.
Which is wonderful if you’re still serving or retired from the military. But those of us who served our time and separated don’t necessarily have one of those shiny little cards sitting in our wallets.
Sometimes they’ll accept a DD214. Ah, yes. The DD214. For those unfamiliar with military paperwork, that’s the document that proves you actually served. Your discharge papers. The magical piece of paper that says, yes, this person really did spend years of their life in the military.
And when I separated, I received ONE precious copy. ONE.
Mine is practically a religious artifact. It lives alone in a giant three-ring binder, with DD214 written across the front in enormous black Sharpie letters. Not tucked into a drawer. Not mixed in with old tax returns. Not casually tossed into a filing cabinet. Nope. It has its own home.
Because you do NOT want to find yourself standing in line somewhere trying to replace that thing. I could probably locate my DD214 faster than I could locate my birth certificate, my car title, or possibly one of my children.
And yet, there are places where the expectation seems to be that I should casually produce this sacred document to prove that I deserve ten percent off a sandwich. Sure. Let me just run home, retrieve the Holy Binder of Military Service, and bring you the paperwork that documents nine years of my life.
Would you like my submarine qualifications while I’m at it? Perhaps a performance evaluation? I might still have a few.
And here’s the really ridiculous part. Texas actually lets me put “Navy Veteran” on my driver’s license. Right there, on an official government-issued ID. They verified my military service before putting it there. So I can pull out my license, point to the words “Navy Veteran,” and apparently that still isn’t enough for some places.
Think about that. The government has already examined my documentation, verified my service, and issued me an identification card declaring that I’m a veteran. But somehow, that’s not sufficient proof for a ten-percent discount.
Apparently, the Texas Department of Public Safety has lower standards of evidence than the local sandwich shop.
The absurdity would be funny if it weren’t part of a larger problem. Because accessing veteran services and benefits can be a confusing maze of eligibility requirements, documentation, applications, and distinctions between active-duty personnel, retirees, disabled veterans, and those of us who simply served and separated.
Some benefits are available. Others aren’t. Some require particular service histories or circumstances. And figuring out which ones apply to you can feel like another assignment from the military, except this time nobody bothered to give you the instruction manual.
I’m not suggesting every veteran should receive every benefit. I understand that different programs exist for different reasons. But there is something frustrating about being thanked for your service and then having to repeatedly prove that your service actually counts.
Now, don’t misunderstand me. I don’t think anyone owes me a free cheeseburger because I wore a uniform. I don’t expect special treatment, and I certainly don’t think my service makes me more important than anyone else.
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But I do find it interesting how easily we celebrate veterans as a concept while drawing little lines around which veterans actually count.
And lately, I’ve been thinking about those lines a lot. Because there’s another part of my life where people seem awfully comfortable deciding what I’m allowed to be.
I’m a transgender woman.
I’ve known who I am for most of my life, even when I didn’t have the language or the courage to say it aloud. I spent decades hiding that part of myself. I built a career, raised a family, served my country, and did my best to be the person everyone expected me to be.
And now, at 54 years old, I’m finally trying to live as myself. You would think that would be a fairly simple request.
I’m not asking anyone to surrender their freedom so I can have mine. I’m not asking for special privileges. I’m not demanding that everyone understand me, agree with me, or even particularly like me. I just want to live my life as the woman I am.
I want to go to work, buy groceries, walk my dog, spend time with my children, and occasionally put on a pretty dress and go dancing. That’s it. That’s the grand, terrifying agenda.
And yet, here I am, still having to hide who I am in parts of my life. Still calculating where I can safely be myself. Still worrying about what might happen to my career, my relationships, and my future if I stop pretending. Still hearing, in one form or another, that who I am is somehow unacceptable.
Which brings me back to that question. What did I serve for?
When I was in the Navy, we talked about defending freedom. Defending our country. Defending the rights and liberties that supposedly make America special. I believed in those things. I still do.
But I find myself wondering why those freedoms seem so much harder to claim when you’re different.
I served a country that celebrates individual liberty, yet I live in a world where people feel entitled to tell me how I must dress, what name I should use, and whether I’m allowed to live openly as myself. A country that tells me to be proud of my service, while some people would prefer that I remain invisible. A country that thanks me for defending freedom, while I find myself wondering whether that freedom includes me.
And I know the answer should be yes. Of course it should. But there’s a difference between having a right on paper and feeling free to exercise it. I know that difference intimately.
I live it every time I put on clothes that don’t feel like mine. Every time I answer to a name that no longer represents me. Every time I look in the mirror before work and prepare to become someone everyone else is more comfortable seeing.
I spent nine years serving my country. And decades serving everyone else’s expectations. I think I’ve done enough of both.
The funny thing is, I don’t regret my military service. Not for a moment. Those years helped shape the person I became. The skills, the friendships, the experiences, the challenges; they are a part of me. I wouldn’t trade them away.
The Navy taught me that I could do difficult things. That I could survive situations I never thought I’d face. That I was capable of more than I believed. Those lessons are still with me.
They’re part of what gives me the strength to do something that, in many ways, has been harder than anything I did in uniform. To finally be myself.
And maybe that’s why this Veterans Day feels different.
I’m not looking for applause. I don’t need someone to thank me for my service. I certainly don’t need a discounted appetizer to validate nine years of my life.
But I would like to feel that the freedom I helped defend belongs to me, too. Not just to the people who look the right way, love the right people, or fit comfortably into someone else’s idea of normal. To all of us. Including the woman who once wore a Navy uniform and spent far too many years believing she had to hide.
Tomorrow, I’ll remember my service with pride. I’ll remember the people I served alongside, the lessons I learned, and the years I gave. And I’ll keep working toward the day when I can live openly, without apology, without fear, and without asking anyone’s permission.
Because nine years was enough to make me a veteran. And fifty-four years is more than enough time to have earned the right to be myself.
I served my country. Now I’d really like to be allowed to live in it.
Happy. Moving. Consistent.
As me.
