This weekend I accompanied Ryan on one of his Airsoft adventures. The game was a a simulation of a British invasion of a Chinese village.
I was reluctant to go on this adventure but, Ryan told me I didn't have to participate this time. Last time he handed me gun, some beebees, and told me it would hurt really bad if I got shot. He said this game was being played in a beautiful field. I imagined a remarkable field in a valley, nestled in the mountains. We would set up camp in this idyll and I would frolic in knee high flowers with purple petals so vibrant that they would stop in me in my tracks. I would whisper to myself, "This is breathtaking! I am so lucky to see all this magnificent beauty!" After my stroll I would roll around in our tent, eating sandwiches and fruit while Ryan commanded the British forces to march into the Chinese village.
To my surprise my fantasy was grossly out of touch with the reality of the weekend. Friday night we winded our way up the side of a mountain. The temperature dropped as we made are way up the switchbacks at a speedy clip. At the camp we met up with Ryan's teammates. We were in the "enemy" camp; a bad idea the night before the game. Giacomo, one of Ryan's teammates that we socialize with away from Airsoft, saw me and gasped in horror. "What on earth are you doing here? He brought you here?!" He said it as though I was a newborn baby wearing nothing but a diaper and summer bonnet. I smiled nervously as Ryan hurried me into the car.
At the proper camp, with the correct team, Ryan quickly set up our tent. We would sleep here tonight and head to the game site, AKA my idyll, in the morning. The British forces, they numbered 120, were preparing for the brief. Everyone was already dressed in their fatigues. Some of them practiced their British accents on me. I smiled politely.
Once Ryan set up the tent. I crawled in and got comfy while Ryan went to the briefing. There was a babbling brook nearby. The sound made me feel cold although I was perfectly warm. The next morning I woke up to distinctly male voices chanting, "Vafancullo!" It translates loosely to go fuck yourself up the ass. The guys were posing for pictures and instead of saying cheese, they said go fuck yourself..up the ass. It made them laugh because, as I later found out, their 120 voices echoed through the entire valley.
When Ryan and his buddies were done posing, it was time to pack up and get moving. I was still in the haze of the early morning when I stumbled out of the tent to look for a place to pee. When I got back Ryan was dismantling the tent. A few of his friends were within earshot when he found my bra. "There's a bra in here..." He said it as if he wasn't married and his wife hadn't spent the night snuggled tightly against him in a 8ftx8ft tent. Yes Ryan, it's my bra. He looked around and cradled it as if it was something illegal, yet precious and should be hidden from view when he handed it to me.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Saturday, April 23, 2011
They flinch when I say vagina
Who knew saying the word vagina would make people so uncomfortable. By people I mean male soldiers. Every Tuesday at 9:30 you can find me briefing 10 to 50 soldiers who are new to the installation about the importance of obtaining consent before sexual activity, and dispelling myths about sexual assault. I wish I could tell you these guys, and a few girls, are excited to hear what I have to say. I can't though, because they are not. They have heard this information countless times before. At least one of them doses off while I am talking. I have sought to make the 45 minutes they spend with me more interesting for them and for me.
They snicker and complain when I emphasize the importance of consent. "Do I need girls to sign a contract before I sleep with them?", one soldier asked. His battle buddies high-fived him in approval. Their outrageous responses to sexual violence often challenge my authority and control of the room. Some of them mistakenly take my femaleness as shyness. Luckily for me I am not easily embarrassed, but to their surprise they are.
Last week I had a large class. There were about 45 soldiers, of these about four of them were women. The female soldiers tend to be very quiet during my briefs. I think the topic of sexual assault is to close to home for most. I got to the part of my presentation where I tell them there were 4 male-on-male sexual assaults on this installation last year. This week that fact got their attention. Many of them stared at me bewildered. "But how?", they said to me silently with their eyes wide. The female soldiers making eye contact with me for the first time. The sleepy fellow in the front row straightening himself out of his slumped over position.
I had their attention, and I intended to keep it. That's when I said it,"You don't have to have a vagina to be raped." A few of them flinched at the word vagina. Many of them blinked at me in quick succession. The women cautiously looked around prepared for a sign of potential danger. I responded to the tension in the room with my personal brand of candor,"Oops, I said the 'v' word." I looked around, "Is everyone ok?" The women were smirking. A few of them smiled at me. Yeah, I definitely have their attention now.
They snicker and complain when I emphasize the importance of consent. "Do I need girls to sign a contract before I sleep with them?", one soldier asked. His battle buddies high-fived him in approval. Their outrageous responses to sexual violence often challenge my authority and control of the room. Some of them mistakenly take my femaleness as shyness. Luckily for me I am not easily embarrassed, but to their surprise they are.
Last week I had a large class. There were about 45 soldiers, of these about four of them were women. The female soldiers tend to be very quiet during my briefs. I think the topic of sexual assault is to close to home for most. I got to the part of my presentation where I tell them there were 4 male-on-male sexual assaults on this installation last year. This week that fact got their attention. Many of them stared at me bewildered. "But how?", they said to me silently with their eyes wide. The female soldiers making eye contact with me for the first time. The sleepy fellow in the front row straightening himself out of his slumped over position.
I had their attention, and I intended to keep it. That's when I said it,"You don't have to have a vagina to be raped." A few of them flinched at the word vagina. Many of them blinked at me in quick succession. The women cautiously looked around prepared for a sign of potential danger. I responded to the tension in the room with my personal brand of candor,"Oops, I said the 'v' word." I looked around, "Is everyone ok?" The women were smirking. A few of them smiled at me. Yeah, I definitely have their attention now.
Friday, April 1, 2011
And then there were four
April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month. In my role I am responsible for using this month to spearhead activities to raise awareness of this issue in the community. I have a number of initiatives happening, but none of them as controversial as the Public Serve Announcement on AFN is turning out to be.
For those of you unfamiliar with AFN, it's the Armed Forces Network. It is the military's TV station. They show the most popular shows from home. For example Dancing with the Stars, Glee, NCIS, Grey's Anatomy, Oprah and Dr. Phil are on heavy rotation. Instead of commercials for detergent, cars or cell phones I see information relevant to Soldiers, Airmen, Seamen and Marines. PSAs on how to deal with PTSD, Stop-loss pay, suicide prevention and messages from the field.
I was given the green light to produce a PSA to address sexual assault in Army. Sexual assault is no less important than PTSD. That's where the post High School students come in. I thought it would be exciting to work them. Most of these kids have lived all over the world. I am interested in their perspective.
Not as many as I thought jumped at the opportunity to be on AFN. My core group is four young men. That was a surprise. I expected more girls would be interested, but the subject matter may have intimidated them.
I assembled my group and tasked them with coming up with a solid idea to present to the Chief of AFN at our installation. Our meeting was yesterday. My group of young men have chosen to write and act in a skit about a male-on-male sexual assault. I don't know if this community is ready for this but, so far all the powers that be (full bird colonels and the like) are impressed with these young men as well as their idea. I wait with baited breath for the script. It's due on Monday.
For those of you unfamiliar with AFN, it's the Armed Forces Network. It is the military's TV station. They show the most popular shows from home. For example Dancing with the Stars, Glee, NCIS, Grey's Anatomy, Oprah and Dr. Phil are on heavy rotation. Instead of commercials for detergent, cars or cell phones I see information relevant to Soldiers, Airmen, Seamen and Marines. PSAs on how to deal with PTSD, Stop-loss pay, suicide prevention and messages from the field.
I was given the green light to produce a PSA to address sexual assault in Army. Sexual assault is no less important than PTSD. That's where the post High School students come in. I thought it would be exciting to work them. Most of these kids have lived all over the world. I am interested in their perspective.
Not as many as I thought jumped at the opportunity to be on AFN. My core group is four young men. That was a surprise. I expected more girls would be interested, but the subject matter may have intimidated them.
I assembled my group and tasked them with coming up with a solid idea to present to the Chief of AFN at our installation. Our meeting was yesterday. My group of young men have chosen to write and act in a skit about a male-on-male sexual assault. I don't know if this community is ready for this but, so far all the powers that be (full bird colonels and the like) are impressed with these young men as well as their idea. I wait with baited breath for the script. It's due on Monday.
Monday, March 14, 2011
My chain of command voluntold me to be here
I'm teaching a class on sexual assault prevention this week. There are seven soldiers in my class, and it's my job to teach them how to be an emotional support for soldiers who are victims of sexual assault. They were voluntold to be here. It's extra work for them. Work most of them do not want to do. Work that their chain of command has tasked them to do.
I spent the afternoon teaching soldiers who are taught not to have feelings to empathize with victims who have experienced sexual trauma. Each time I say "feelings" they look like deer caught in headlights; ready to make a break for it in any direction where I am not. It looks like they receive a jolt of electric shock every time I ask them how something makes them feel.
Getting them to see the difference between sex offenders and homosexuals is a challenge. They see them as equals. They say the repeal of Don't Ask, Don't Tell will put them in peril. They are terrified to be objectified by men. Welcome to the real world gentleman. The fairer half of the species lives with the reality of being objectified by men all of our childbearing years. And it may come as a great shock to many of them, but most of the gay boys will NOT be beating down the doors to sleep with most of them.
One soldier told me that he dreaded the moment his daughter would see two women holding hands at Army family functions. Curious about the depth of what I perceived to be his ignorance, I asked if he thought his daughter would become gay if she saw two women hold hands. His answer surprised me. He was concerned she would see women holding hands and she would think it was right to be gay. I asked if he thought it was wrong to be gay. He said, "Yes it is. At least in my house." His classmates chimed in their affirmations. "Yes, I agree. I'm Catholic," said one.
I have my work cut out for me.
I spent the afternoon teaching soldiers who are taught not to have feelings to empathize with victims who have experienced sexual trauma. Each time I say "feelings" they look like deer caught in headlights; ready to make a break for it in any direction where I am not. It looks like they receive a jolt of electric shock every time I ask them how something makes them feel.
Getting them to see the difference between sex offenders and homosexuals is a challenge. They see them as equals. They say the repeal of Don't Ask, Don't Tell will put them in peril. They are terrified to be objectified by men. Welcome to the real world gentleman. The fairer half of the species lives with the reality of being objectified by men all of our childbearing years. And it may come as a great shock to many of them, but most of the gay boys will NOT be beating down the doors to sleep with most of them.
One soldier told me that he dreaded the moment his daughter would see two women holding hands at Army family functions. Curious about the depth of what I perceived to be his ignorance, I asked if he thought his daughter would become gay if she saw two women hold hands. His answer surprised me. He was concerned she would see women holding hands and she would think it was right to be gay. I asked if he thought it was wrong to be gay. He said, "Yes it is. At least in my house." His classmates chimed in their affirmations. "Yes, I agree. I'm Catholic," said one.
I have my work cut out for me.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Married woman seeks effervescent gay boyfriend
I miss a lot of things about New York. Most of them food, friends and family related. The food component is fairly easy to fix. If we can't find it, we make it. The friends and family I miss can't be replaced, but calling (have free long distance) and writing (this blog, email, Face Book) helps a great deal.
But what of the the special sparkle only a gay boyfriend can spread upon your path? There isn't really a replacement for that. I miss the drama filled, mimosa soaked brunches we shared on the Lower East Side. There's no equivalent for that kind of joy and comfort. I have been forced to actively seek new gay boyfriends. The old ones have no replacements. Replacements for someone who at a moments notice agrees to sing at your wedding is a tall order.
Finding new gay boyfriends is no easy task given my current location. Distinguishing straight Italian boys from gay boys has not been easy. Italian men don't have the natural American aggressive stance. They are disturbingly comfortable with kissing each other on the cheek in public, and personal space is non existent by New York standards. Don't ask how I know but, most of them wear briefs. It's long story that involves a camping trip with Ryan a few weeks after I got here. I was the only girl and 25 of his friends had to change their clothes in the woods. I only pretended not to look.
I think I may be on the right track with a lovely chap at the office. I have been courting him for obvious reasons. He watches Glee and is in the upcoming Godspell production at the Post Theater.
But what of the the special sparkle only a gay boyfriend can spread upon your path? There isn't really a replacement for that. I miss the drama filled, mimosa soaked brunches we shared on the Lower East Side. There's no equivalent for that kind of joy and comfort. I have been forced to actively seek new gay boyfriends. The old ones have no replacements. Replacements for someone who at a moments notice agrees to sing at your wedding is a tall order.
Finding new gay boyfriends is no easy task given my current location. Distinguishing straight Italian boys from gay boys has not been easy. Italian men don't have the natural American aggressive stance. They are disturbingly comfortable with kissing each other on the cheek in public, and personal space is non existent by New York standards. Don't ask how I know but, most of them wear briefs. It's long story that involves a camping trip with Ryan a few weeks after I got here. I was the only girl and 25 of his friends had to change their clothes in the woods. I only pretended not to look.
I think I may be on the right track with a lovely chap at the office. I have been courting him for obvious reasons. He watches Glee and is in the upcoming Godspell production at the Post Theater.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
DADT ruined my champagne buzz
Yesterday President Obama repealed Don't Ask Don't Tell. This is one of those issues where location makes a difference. Before I became an Army wife I believed that gays and lesbians suffered tragically under DADT, but when I came here and began spending my days on an American military installation I realized that those living with DADT, didn't share my fervor. If they did, they couldn't tell me and I couldn't ask.
I was eager to find new gay boyfriends. I had so many in New York; my life was missing their special sparkle. Those who know me well, know that although the law stated I could not ask, I asked.
One night at a house party a few weeks into my arrival in Vicenza my gaydar went off. I sauntered over to the source and struck up a conversation. He was petite, smart and funny, but not well dressed. A new import to Italy, he had trouble finding affordable clothing in his size. I shared a few secrets of my own. Then he said it. He looked deep into my eyes as he said it, but there was very little emotion. The words that ruined my champagne buzz, "I am not going to risk my career to bond with you."
Over dinner the other night, one of my friends compared Don't Ask Don't Tell (DADT) to segregation and the prohibition of women in the military. She said the idea of black, whites and women serving together in the military seemed impossible, but now it happens all the time. She hopes it will be the same for gays and lesbians in the military. "Someday," she said, "We will look back at this moment and wonder what all the fuss was about."
Sharing the details about your partner, crush, your most recent one night stand or whatever, are the stuff of long lasting friendships. DADT made this bonding experience impossible. Although my new friend trusted me, he would not risk sharing the details of his most intimate/interesting relationships with me because coming out to me would put his career in jeopardy.
I am looking forward to seeing the changes the new law will bring. I cannot wait for gay nights at the bowling alley and the Pride Parade in June on post. For now my dreams remain the punchlines of jokes.
Veterans of military life tell me change happens slowly in the military. I remind them that June is just enough time to plan a fanciful parade to celebrate Pride in the armed forces.
Happy Pride y'all! Happy Pride.
I was eager to find new gay boyfriends. I had so many in New York; my life was missing their special sparkle. Those who know me well, know that although the law stated I could not ask, I asked.
One night at a house party a few weeks into my arrival in Vicenza my gaydar went off. I sauntered over to the source and struck up a conversation. He was petite, smart and funny, but not well dressed. A new import to Italy, he had trouble finding affordable clothing in his size. I shared a few secrets of my own. Then he said it. He looked deep into my eyes as he said it, but there was very little emotion. The words that ruined my champagne buzz, "I am not going to risk my career to bond with you."
Over dinner the other night, one of my friends compared Don't Ask Don't Tell (DADT) to segregation and the prohibition of women in the military. She said the idea of black, whites and women serving together in the military seemed impossible, but now it happens all the time. She hopes it will be the same for gays and lesbians in the military. "Someday," she said, "We will look back at this moment and wonder what all the fuss was about."
Sharing the details about your partner, crush, your most recent one night stand or whatever, are the stuff of long lasting friendships. DADT made this bonding experience impossible. Although my new friend trusted me, he would not risk sharing the details of his most intimate/interesting relationships with me because coming out to me would put his career in jeopardy.
I am looking forward to seeing the changes the new law will bring. I cannot wait for gay nights at the bowling alley and the Pride Parade in June on post. For now my dreams remain the punchlines of jokes.
Veterans of military life tell me change happens slowly in the military. I remind them that June is just enough time to plan a fanciful parade to celebrate Pride in the armed forces.
Happy Pride y'all! Happy Pride.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Natural Italian drama
I had my first fried turkey last night. It was better than everyone says it is, but the evening was not devoid of the natural Italian drama.
Erica, one of Ryan's co-workers, hosted dinner at her house in a small town just outside of Vicenza where she is the only American. I have met quite a few Americans here who choose to live in small towns outside of the city center where they are the only Americans for miles around. I don't get the appeal. I'm more of a city girl. Hustle and bustle course through my veins.
We were met with unusually heavy traffic on our way to Erica's small town. Unusual for two reasons: Thanksgiving is not an Italian holiday and it was 15:00 (3:00pm). Most Italians were at work. Eventually we came to the source of the traffic: Erica's town was having a HUGE fest. Fests happen in towns all across Europe to celebrate saints and other holidays. Town residents parade the interiors of the town's grandest church, drink wine and socialize in the street. Most of fests happen with very little notice. The ride that was supposed to take 20 minutes took almost an hour including the winding detour through the hills. At least one native was not prepared for the altitude. He pulled over to the side of the road to vomit.
Erica lives in a lovely house in a quaint cul de sac in a small valley on the side of the hills. The first turkey had been frying for 10 minutes when we got there. The fryer uses 5 gallons of oil and cooks a 12 pound turkey in 40 minutes. Erica informed us that she had injected jalapeno butter strategically throughout the bird. How interesting!
We stood around the fryer staring at the plume of fragrant steam rushing out. Curious Italians drove into the dead end street presumably to see what the crazy Americans were up to. Before long the police paid us a friendly visit. They skillfully played good cop/bad cop. Bad Cop boldly announced that we could not cook on the sidewalk. "The side walk belongs to the town not, you. If you want to do this you must do it on your property. Who's property is this?" He threw the question out to all of us. I quickly surmised that no one understood Italian from the blank stares. I translated. Erica said it was her house and Bad Cop asked for documents to prove that she indeed lived there. Meanwhile the jalapeno butter infused turkey fried away furiously in the fryer. Good Cop moved closer to catch a wiff. "But," he said tentatively, "What is it?", complete with the famous Italian hand gesture, the jutting out jaw and downturned smile. We all dramatically whispered, "It's turkey..fried turkey." Good Cop stepped back carefully as if the turkey were still alive in the fryer and might try to make a break for it.
By this this time Erica had successfully charmed Bad Cop and they returned to the turkey circle on the sidewalk all smiles. Bad Cop admitted to just needing to know what we were doing. Good Cop stared distrustingly at the fryer before telling us to have fun and driving off.
Erica, one of Ryan's co-workers, hosted dinner at her house in a small town just outside of Vicenza where she is the only American. I have met quite a few Americans here who choose to live in small towns outside of the city center where they are the only Americans for miles around. I don't get the appeal. I'm more of a city girl. Hustle and bustle course through my veins.
We were met with unusually heavy traffic on our way to Erica's small town. Unusual for two reasons: Thanksgiving is not an Italian holiday and it was 15:00 (3:00pm). Most Italians were at work. Eventually we came to the source of the traffic: Erica's town was having a HUGE fest. Fests happen in towns all across Europe to celebrate saints and other holidays. Town residents parade the interiors of the town's grandest church, drink wine and socialize in the street. Most of fests happen with very little notice. The ride that was supposed to take 20 minutes took almost an hour including the winding detour through the hills. At least one native was not prepared for the altitude. He pulled over to the side of the road to vomit.
Erica lives in a lovely house in a quaint cul de sac in a small valley on the side of the hills. The first turkey had been frying for 10 minutes when we got there. The fryer uses 5 gallons of oil and cooks a 12 pound turkey in 40 minutes. Erica informed us that she had injected jalapeno butter strategically throughout the bird. How interesting!
We stood around the fryer staring at the plume of fragrant steam rushing out. Curious Italians drove into the dead end street presumably to see what the crazy Americans were up to. Before long the police paid us a friendly visit. They skillfully played good cop/bad cop. Bad Cop boldly announced that we could not cook on the sidewalk. "The side walk belongs to the town not, you. If you want to do this you must do it on your property. Who's property is this?" He threw the question out to all of us. I quickly surmised that no one understood Italian from the blank stares. I translated. Erica said it was her house and Bad Cop asked for documents to prove that she indeed lived there. Meanwhile the jalapeno butter infused turkey fried away furiously in the fryer. Good Cop moved closer to catch a wiff. "But," he said tentatively, "What is it?", complete with the famous Italian hand gesture, the jutting out jaw and downturned smile. We all dramatically whispered, "It's turkey..fried turkey." Good Cop stepped back carefully as if the turkey were still alive in the fryer and might try to make a break for it.
By this this time Erica had successfully charmed Bad Cop and they returned to the turkey circle on the sidewalk all smiles. Bad Cop admitted to just needing to know what we were doing. Good Cop stared distrustingly at the fryer before telling us to have fun and driving off.
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