It. What was the it I was looking for? As much as I tried to forget, as much as I tried not to bring it up, as much as I tried not to talk about it, as much as I tried to bury my pains and not think about my regrets, as much as I would tell my parents to take down the pictures, as much as I made my own family uncomfortable which in turn forced them not talk about or ask questions about my years of service, as much as I tried telling myself, “You’re a civilian now,” the reality was I wasn’t nor had I been since September 1996. For those who believe in a supreme being, you can say what happened that night occurred because of Divine intervention. For those who are still serving and have had the honor of serving in the best Army in the world, you can call it being a Soldier. That’s who I was and it was a part of me yearning to breathe free.

The Army changes you into a different person…and one for the better. It’s a different world that only a few and proud would ever understand. How many people can relate to arriving at Basic Training at 0100 and the moment you step one foot off the bus a burly Drill Sergeant “greets” you by yelling in your face, “Welcome to Hell. Grab your bags and head for the opened door!! I don’t see you moving!! You have two minutes, Private, and my timer started one minute ago!!” You have zero time to think about jet lag and sleep. Your only thought is, “WTF did I get myself into?”  But later down the road, moments such as these will become some of the best memories of your life.

The word family changes for you, too. That’s right; you become a part of the biggest family you could ever imagine. Your family becomes thousands of brothers and sisters, and thousands of fathers and mothers some of whom are glad to pass down the lessons they learned, and if you’re fortunate enough to be assigned with some of them, will help mentor and guide you down your path. I was one of the fortunate ones. I’ll never forget being a young Private First Class and as I was exiting the classroom of mandatory AA/EEO training my unit was attending I was immediately pulled to the side by a female Master Sergeant.

She was very tall and my attention was quickly drawn to the Drill Sergeant patch on her right pocket. It was clear to me that I had done something wrong and was about to find out exactly what that was. “PFC, do know what AR 670-1 states about how females should wear their hair?” I was so scared so details are a little bit of a blur, but what she said was something along those lines and I quickly learned that as much as I tried to bun my long hair, some of the strands were falling below my collar. “Yes, Sergeant,” I replied while standing at parade rest. “Good. I expect you’ll correct that by the time we’re back here after lunch. HOOAH!” I replied, “HOOAH, Sergeant.”

I’ll never forget running full speed to the latrine (aka bathroom) and fixing my hair. I’ll also never forget thinking at that moment that I wanted to be like her. I later learned that she was new to my unit and had just arrived from Korea. She wasn’t in my detachment, but she would become a mentor to me and would be one of the best First Sergeants that I ever had the privilege and the honor of working under. She wasn’t alone. There were many NCOs and Officers, both good and bad, who I had learned from.

“Always have a short term and long term goal…It doesn’t stop at one promotion, you have to keep driving on and competing…Celebrate your accomplishments…Know the standards and enforce them…Be Know Do…Everything won’t always be a success but after every failure you take from it what you can learn from it and drive on, HOOAH.” Some of these lessons reminded me of lessons my parents tried to teach me when I was younger. The only difference was I was now older and I was listening; they were all sinking in and making sense to me.

You are told by your Drill Sergeants that you will be broken down and built back up. And for me, the Army did just that. Of all the decisions that I ever made in my life, of all the times that I failed and wanted to do at least one thing to make my parents proud of me, I can say with pride serving in the Army of our great country was one of those things.

My parents did not have the opportunity to attend my basic training graduation ceremony, attend the Welcome Home ceremony when I returned from Bosnia, or attend any of my promotion ceremonies while I served, but in the spring of 2002 my father drove down to Columbia, SC to witness my graduation from the Adjutant General Corps’ Basic Noncommissioned Officer’s Course. I had already pinned on E6 by that time so he didn’t get to witness my pinning on, which is probably a good thing; seeing his daughter get pounded in the collar bone probably would have shocked him and bewildered him just the same.

However, my dad did get the opportunity to meet my cadre and speak with the Command Sergeant Major of the school. After the ceremony and after saying good-byes to my comrades, I met up with my dad who was patiently waiting for me to begin our drive up to New Jersey since I was on leave. There were no words at first, just silence. I could see his eyes were red so I didn’t have to ask if he had been crying, I just knew. Before we got in the car he gave me the tightest hug I had ever felt and I didn’t have to ask, “Dad, did I finally do something good?” I just knew.

We all have different reasons for leaving the service and about a year after my graduation I decided that it was my time and would leave the service when my contract expired. I loved the Army, and she had given me so much besides the benefits of travel, Tuition Assistance, etc. The places where I lived and all the places I’ve seen would not have happened had I not joined the Army. My one hope was that during my service I had given her just as much as she had given me. She transformed me into the woman I am now and for that I will always be eternally grateful to her for that gift. Have I had moments of regret since? Yes, and it was that regret that would become the chains that would bind me for six years.

That is until that night in 2010 when American Women Veterans was the first organization to appear in my google search. This was a new organization that hadn’t appeared in any of my searches before. I was surprised and inquisitive so of course I clicked on the link and arrived at their webpage. What I found was the it I had been searching for on my other late night perusing of the internet.

After reading their mission and vision statement, as well as some of the blogs posted under, Bras and Boots, I was literally in tears. I continued my way around the site, and then learned about the phenomenal founder of this organization, Genevieve Chase, and what motivated her to start this organization. Immediately and without hesitation, I liked their Facebook page and saw an event posted for the 2010 NYC Veterans Day Parade. I decided that night that marching with them would be my personal “coming out” ceremony.

On the day of the parade I headed to the staging area donning my red scarf and red gloves, signature traits of Team AWV. Before I knew it I was seeing women from all eras and branches of service in red. I saw a fellow female Army veteran in full uniform approach the meeting area in a wheelchair. There was so much to take in and introductions to make. As we waited for the go ahead from parade organizers, we chatted and learned almost everything about one another. By the time we stepped off and marched up 5th Avenue we were a quasi family. Imagine that, total strangers that had only known each other for a few short hours, yet shared a common bond: duty, honor, and service to country.

As I mentioned earlier, I had told my parents to take down the Army picture of me that they had proudly displaying in our house. I never talked about my service so I’m quite sure my dad was surprised to receive a photo text of me holding the American Women Veterans guidon. The text stated, “At the NYC Veterans Day Parade with American Women Veterans.” He replied immediately and quite simply, “So much pride.”

That would begin what has now been a year of volunteering with this incredible organization. I’ve met so many wonderful sisters and brothers in service through this organization and they have no idea how grateful I am for their friendship and camaraderie. I’ve reconnected with a part of my life that I never really wanted to be separated from. I just needed the right bridge to connect the soldier in me to the civilian I am now.

I’m not sure Genevieve had any idea how important American Women Veterans would be to so many women nationwide, especially me. Without her knowing it, she created something that all of us had been waiting and searching a long time for: a place where we could reconnect with an important part of our being and bond with our fellow sisters in arms who would understand all that we have gone through while serving our great nation, no matter the branch or era of service.

So on the eve of my second march with this extremely wonderful group of women, I want to say thank you from the bottom of my heart to all of you who are a part of AWV. I know my parents and grandfather would thank all of you as well because they have seen firsthand what this organization has done in my life since becoming a part of it one year ago. Not to mention, supporting our men and women in uniform is one of the few issues we agree on and I can discuss with them – lol.

Seriously though, all of my years serving in the Army were the best of my life thus far and I’m not quite sure how I can top them. I have never worked with or gotten to know a more professional and dedicated group of people, and that includes the family members of our Army men and women, Air Force, Navy, Marines, NATO, UN, Allied Forces, and civilian DoD personnel that I was fortunate to have been assigned with. I want to say a heartfelt thank you to all of you, as well.

To my biological Mom, my most wonderful Mom & Dad, and family, had it not been for the values that you taught me and your prayers I would not have succeeded in the Army. Your support and unconditional love was what gave me strength and motiviation during my years of service. Thank you, for those gifts. I know that I am very fortunate to have them in my life, and I love all of you more than you know.

To my friends, sisters and brothers who are smiling down from above, you are not forgotten and you never will be. I promise I will strive to live each day with you in mind and appreciate the small things that we often times can take for granted. And don’t worry dear friends, we will meet again and sing cadences, joke and laugh together as we once did before.

To everyone, Happy Veterans Day! “A Veteran – whether active duty, retired, National Guard or Reserve – is someone who, at one point in his or her life, wrote a blank check made payable to “The United States of America” for an amount “up to, and including my life.”

On this day and every day, may we be more loving, more tolerant of one another, and put our differences aside and honor all those who have kept our nation free. May we always remember and live in such a way that honors the sacrifices that our nation’s men and women in uniform, and their families, make for us 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.

“First to fight for the right,

And to build the Nation’s might,

And The Army Goes Rolling Along

Proud of all we have done,

Fighting till the battle’s won,

And the Army Goes Rolling Along.

Then it’s Hi! Hi! Hey!

The Army’s on its way.

Count off the cadence loud and strong (TWO! THREE!)

For where e’er we go,

You will always know

That The Army Goes Rolling Along.”

HOOAH!!!!!!

-Stella S.

Dear Luka,

I love that every time I get on Facebook or my blog and you see a picture of my book, you say, “Mommy that is your book!! Your book is on the computer!” I grin at this because I have always had the dream of writing the book and publishing it but I had never dreamed the way it would be a part of your life. That is important to me.

I had a woman at the Festival of the Book in Charlottesville, VA approach me after my reading and say, what a blessing this book will be for your children, someday. I told her I already had 2 boys. This is when it dawned on me that in some way, you will be affected by what I am doing now. My actions will encourage you to pursue many things that I can’t even conceptualize.

Yesterday, as we were riding to school, you were talking about my reading in Charlottesville. You made the connection that I read my book in Charlottesville. As any good 4 year old, the questions continued, “Mommy, who was the man on the cover of your book “and “was he pretend”. I told you he wasn’t pretend. That perplexed you.

I have been talking to you a lot about military lately. I am trying to explain what our Country is, that mommy and daddy fought in the military. I am trying to articulate who the bad guys and good guys are. The explanations always fall short. I feel like at this point, I don’t know how to teach this and I realized I feel this way for many reasons.

When you ask you say, “who are the bad guys and the good guys?” There doesn’t seem to be a division anymore. Then you pummel me with, “What is war and why are we fighting it?” “What is the Military and why do we have it?” “Why is Uncle Jonathan fighting the bad guys and why are ships called war ships?” The questions you ask are legitimate; somewhere, I fall short of giving you any clarifying answers.

Yet, the hardest question has been, “Is the young boy on the cover of your book pretend?” No. The next question, “Why not and who is he?” I fall silent, again and again. This young man died fighting to defend our country from the bad guys. That is the simple answer but it takes your innocence. Not that you would comprehend it but maybe you would and maybe it would shatter your innocence and I don’t think I can handle that-not yet!

The complicated answer is that this young man lost his life fighting a war on terrorism. He is a hero, a warrior. His mother is very sad. I have spoken with her and she has written beautiful words honoring him. His best friend captured this photo and made it one of my favorite pieces of art but it represents the loss of a best friend. This young man died before he was 25 and he has a child your age.

I really can’t describe the war we are in. Terrorism. That is what they say. However, I think when you are looking back, history is going to have a much deeper explanation of what is happening.

So, the complicated answer takes away your innocence but it also breaks my heart. We as a Nation are failing you and that devastates me. That is why I can’t describe the Military and serving our Country. That is why I can’t tell you what our Country means and the great things it is to so many people because I am heartbroken.

Luka, mommy wrote her book to make a difference. She wrote her book to pay it forward and to recognize the great honor it is to be a warrior for our Nation. Mommy wrote her book to give back to a charity that is trying hard to help veterans meet their mental health needs. Mommy wrote her book because her passion is in some way saving the world.

And now, mommy realizes the scope of her actions and how they will help you become brave. It will be common to you to think that mommy’s write books and fight for their Country. It will be common to you to reach out and help others. It will be common to you to be patriotic.

Mommy knows that her success doesn’t dictate yours. I know you can go and do whatever you want. However, I do believe if mommy and daddy live their dreams and tell you you can live yours; you will have opportunities that many people never get. I love you. Your father loves you and I pray many blessings over you and the world you will touch.

I have always known you will be a leader. You are a powerful, charismatic little man. My truest hopes are that you find this leadership and you use it to guide people to a higher purpose and that you always remain compassionate to others.

I love you! I hope I answered some of your questions.

~Charlie Palumbo

(Charlie’s book, “The Face of a Memory,” is available through her website Raising Awareness Through Art)

I finally couldn’t handle the pain anymore and went to Bagram’s hospital. After a few days they decided they wouldn’t be able to figure out what was wrong with me and sent me to Landstuhl hospital in Germany. After a month there and no closer to a diagnosis they sent me home to NJ.

I flew home on a medivac flight, but once I got home they just sent me home. I finally was able to get an appointment at the Clinic at McGuire AFB (my duty station). Since the clinic only has Family Practice and OBGYN, most my appointments were at civilian specialists around NJ. Seven months later, I still had no diagnosis, had a ton more symptoms, was in constant pain, and I even went to the VA’s War Related Illness and Injury Center.

My PCM decided to send me to Lackland AFB’s Willford Hall hospital. I spent a month and a half there as well. So far I have been diagnosed with 18 illnesses, but they have not been able to “cure” any of my symptoms and most importantly can’t reduce my constant pain to anything lower than an 8 out of 10.

I am going through the MEB process now to hopefully medically retire me and I will see what percentage disabled I am. I feel I am 100% since I can’t do anything since all movement causes my pain to increase.

My Mom is my caregiver and I live with her. When I do leave the house to go to a doctor’s appointment, I am in a wheelchair and have to have someone drive me since I can’t do that from the pain riding in a car gives me.

Doctors have told me they have seen a lot of people come back with autoimmune diseases, which I have a few as well, but they don’t know what is causing it or how to fix it. They think it is something in the dirt or burn pits.

So my life has been altered in a blink of an eye. I am now dependent on my Mom to help me with daily activities like cooking and even cutting my food since I have horrible pain in my spine and neck when I hold my hands at table level as well as I have pains in my joints so have a hard time holding silverware.

I will never regret my service and if I ever did get well, I would go back to Afghanistan in a heart beat. I just wish the DoD would admit something is happening over there with our health and look for the causes. I believe this is Gulf War Syndrome all over again. My doctors tell me my best hope is that one day I will just wake up and be all better….not the type of thing you want to hear your doctor say since that means they can do nothing for me medically. Daily I wake up with new symptoms or worse pain and I just have to live with it.

This is not how I thought my life would turn out. I was on the fast track to be a Commander in my Logistics Squadron at home when my current Commander retired and none of that will be now. I also was going to be promoted to Major last January, but that couldn’t happen when I am sick. How my life has changed!

~R.Shelby

He would always point out strong, independent women to me and encourage me to use them as role
models. I’m sure this is part of the reason why I joined the Marine Corps right out of high school and
part of the reason he sent me off willingly.

Outside of the Hell’s Angels I can’t think of a more male dominated organization in the country than the
Corps. The men outnumber the women eight to one. There aren’t lawyers and then female lawyers or
doctors and female doctors but I quickly discovered that there are Marines and then there are Female
Marines. That’s how we were always referred to and without even the slightest acknowledgement of
the divide this naturally caused. It illustrated how females were thought of. Different. Separate. Less
than. We were, without question, women in a man’s world. We dealt with it in different ways and
those ways ultimately defined us to ourselves and to the organization we had joined. This is what I did.

I didn’t want to be an outcast. I wanted to belong. To be accepted, I had to prove that I could be as
much of a man as they were. I worked hard at it. I talked like them, ran like them and busted my ass like
them. Sometimes I felt like a spy in enemy territory, camouflaged literally and metaphorically. I soaked
in knowledge about the male psyche and what they really thought about women, girlfriends and wives.
I used this information to reinforce the emotional armor I had built to protect me from my protectors.
I kept my mouth shut when bets were made regarding when new Female Marines would get pregnant
and when jokes were made like “What’s the difference between a Female Marine and a zebra? A Female
Marine earns her stripes on her back.”

I watched my female peers. I studied the ones who excelled and the ones that failed and tried to
emulate the former more than the latter. I learned the rules for success in this man’s world. Don’t get
married. Don’t get pregnant. Don’t get fat. Don’t go into debt. Do what you’re told. Don’t question.
Follow the rules. Use common sense. Keep your guard up.

I vowed to protect my comrades and kill for them and asked for the same in return. Eventually, it
worked. I admit, when you are accepted into a gang that is fully capable of damage on a worldwide
scale, you feel pretty damn invincible, pretty powerful, pretty safe, and pretty good.

I gained all that, but lost my voice. I justified my lack of action by telling myself that real feminists lived
the life of an equal, they didn’t just talk about it. I was part feminist, part coward.

Then, a change came. I’d proven myself competent and capable. I learned to lead and then was put in
charge of the very people I’d guarded myself against and adapted to. My camouflage didn’t serve me
anymore; I had to take it off and make hard decisions, in the open. My voice and actions mattered, it is
a part of who I was and what I had to offer to subordinates. I had to decide who I wanted to be.

If a Marine wasn’t measuring up to standards, it was my job to get them back in the game. If a male
peer was harassing a female subordinate, it was my job to correct him. I had to be unwavering in my
conviction. I had to be a woman and a leader. I grew isolated. I grew strong. I slowly grew into more of
the woman I idealized when I was younger.

I am 18 years old and standing by my rack towards the end of Boot Camp. I’m alone, which on Parris
Island is a rarity. I look through the space between my bunk and out the portholes and I see a platoon
marching by. You could tell they’re a senior platoon by the crisp boom that their heels make as they
strike the deck in unison. I was transported back to being four years old. I am afraid of Indians and
have a reoccurring nightmare where they are coming to attack my family. They are outside my bedroom
door and all I can hear is the bellowing “BOOM BOOM BOOM” of their war drums. I wake up with the

rhythm of it boring a pit into my stomach. It is the same sound I hear now, only I’m not afraid anymore.
The sound of fear has been replaced by a sound of pride.

This is how the Marine Corps saved me. This is how it saves a lot of people. It takes things in your life,
things that hurt you, things that you struggled with and turns them into medals; it makes them a source
of pride. Your success is ultimately defined by your ability to endure and to look inside yourself at your
weaknesses and turn them into strengths.

In the Marines I learned how to field strip an M16A2 and how to use it to fire a round through a target
the size of a man from 500 yards away. I learned how to use my pants to keep me afloat in the event a
ship I was on ever sunk. I learned how to don and clear a mask while choking on lungs full of tear gas.
I learned how to break bones with minimal effort. I learned that to survive in a man’s world you need
the same qualities you need anywhere else- integrity, honor and strength. I learned that for a woman to
succeed in a man’s world she has to be willing to go it alone, even when she’s surrounded.

Semper Fidelis

Beverly E.

Behind every enlistment into the military there is a story. Sometimes it is one of patriotism, sometimes is a decision made because of heartbreak. Rarely is it done, as some believe, in a state of drunkenness. The procedure takes too long and a person would sober up in the meantime.

For me it was more of a year-long decision. I had developed an interest in photography and wanted to head in the direction of documentary work. A good friend of mine, a professional photographer, suggested I join the Army. It was the summer of 1974. He said the Army could train me as well as give me the experience I needed along with housing, clothing and food. It would be a great way to put aside some money and when I got out I would have a great resume and get a great job. I remember laughing. There was no way I would join the Army. First off, I was a confirmed pacifist, a long-haired happy hippie living in Brooklyn. I’d been out on my own since I was 17, and worst of all the Vietnam conflict was still in full swing*. Many of my male friends had gotten drafted; none of those who ended up in Southeast Asia came back the same.

I knew little about the Army and thought that both men and women could end up in battle. Although the thought of documenting war was intriguing, I dismissed the idea. Instead I reapplied to the school I had attended right out of high school. I had been an art major with a focus on advertising design, but now four years later, the school was offering a degree in photography. Commuting to school in Manhattan seemed to be a better, safer and cooler option for a Brooklyn girl.

Going back to school full time meant replacing my full-time job with a part-time one and putting in long hours on homework. Money drained out of my bank account faster than it came in and a good night’s sleep was a thing of the past. At the end of the first year I was tired and very broke. I decided to apply for a scholarship which would make life much easier. It would be August before I would hear if I qualified, school would begin again in September. If I didn’t get the scholarship, I would have no choice but to drop out of school.

Hearing of my struggles, my friend once again mentioned the Army as a solution. It was the late spring of 1975. This time I thought about it more. To me the Army still was not an option, but what about the Navy? My dad retired from the Navy after 33 years of service. I had been a military officer’s daughter all of my life. At 22 I had only really known about four years of civilian life, which was so much different than life on and near the Naval bases we’d lived.

Growing up all my recreational activity had been on military bases. That’s where the movies were, the pool, the weekly dances, my medical care. All my friends had a parent in the military. Military life – at least as a dependent – had been all I had known. In all reality, I was actually finding civilian life a rather hard adjustment especially with both rent and tuition to pay. More and more civilian life was not making sense to me.

By July I still had not heard about my scholarship application and was told if I didn’t get a positive response by August 8, that I probably wouldn’t get it. It’s funny how you remember certain days and dates so very clearly. August 8 was a Friday, so there could still be mail delivery on Saturday. On Saturday, I went into Manhattan to see a photo exhibit. I ended up passing by the well-known recruiting station at Times Square. I remember thinking I can ask a few questions, no obligation. The Navy pulled me in.

The recruiter was great, not pushy. He explained everything. And, perhaps because I had mentioned growing up in the military I did not get the sugar-coated version of basic training. There was no mention of time on the beach, trips to Disney World (basic training for Navy women was in Orlando at the time), fancy condos, parties. There was also no mention of the fact that women made up about 1% of the military, or that sexual harassment and rape were prevalent, or that women were not yet eligible to receive healthcare services through the Veterans Administration. I was told about the education opportunities, and was interested in qualifying for what was then known as cartographer, or combination aerial photographer and map maker. It seemed to be the perfect job – incorporating photography, as well as art and both flying assignments and ground billets. He sent me home with lots of colorful brochures.

There was no scholarship information waiting for me when I got home. So instead of spending the evening filling out forms for school, I devoured the literature about the Navy. I called my friend and he told me that the Navy had the best photography school in the military. As an owner of a sailboat, he also knew my love of ships and being near the ocean and thought it would be a perfect match for me.

Monday morning, I called the recruiter and made an appointment to take the entrance exams later in the day. I waited while the tests were marked. The recruiter’s eyes lit up as the grades came back extremely high. I could qualify for “just about” anything (“Just about” meaning any job or training open to women, which were few). I was so careful before signing on the dotted line. I made sure my future assignment was in writing. I would come in under a delayed program, so there would be time to store furniture, finish up my lease on my apartment, withdraw from school, notify my family, etc. All the “t”s were crossed, all the “i”s were dotted. I had enlisted. I told my family. They were not happy.

The response to the application for the scholarship was waiting for me when I got home Monday. I was eligible for several thousand dollars. Sometimes the mail just doesn’t get there on time. It was too late. I was committed to the Navy now.

· * Although both the Paris Peace Accords took place and Case-Church Act was passed by the Senate in 1973, it was not until April 1975 that U.S. President Gerald Ford declared an end to the Vietnam War (an undeclared war). The military considers the cut-off date for being a Vietnam era veteran to be May 7, 1975.

- By Linda Fehrs

I met Jenny today for lunch after she returned from visiting Sara’s grave site at the cemetery. I asked her if I could post a writing of Sara’s. She agreed, so here are Sara’s words:

“It was September 12th 2006. This night seemed like any of the 100′s of nights I had been in Iraq. People were out on convoy, others were working the aid station. It was nearing the time I had to get start getting ready for guard duty which pissed me off because no other medics in other units pulled guard duty. As I was getting all my gear together I got the news one of our convoys had been hit, it spread though the company like wildfire. I sat there racking my brain trying to think of who went out that night. I knew some of our medics had, but who? I was pissed because we were running those gravel missions. Yet, I couldn’t think who went out that night. Then I saw my roommate walking up, it was the time of night where the sun had just set so you could still see. I was the one who told her our convoy got hit. Instant panic set in to this young kid. She knew who was on that convoy. My best friend Johnson, another good friend Truesdale, and LT Perez. She was in a state of shock just for a moment, then all of her emotions flowed out and she was a mess. I knew I had to take care of her, but I also knew I had to leave I couldn’t be late for guard duty. So as quickly as I could I threw on all my gear and grabbed her. I took her to my other friends and explained the situation, handed her off and took off sprinting, gravel crunching under each hit of my boot. I made it to duty. Then it seem as if time slowed. Minutes seemed like hours. They were getting the news of what truck and who was in it. LT Perez KIA. I couldn’t be emotional, I had duty. Finally I got to the tower I was assigned for my eight hour shift. I was emotionally numb and trying to be vigilant. I could feel the coolness of the night through my body armor. It seemed almost fitting, but then the female I was on duty with broke down. I didn’t even know this girl and here I was taking care of someone else. When my shift was over I had never been so glad to be out of uniform and sleep. That was the night my world changed forever.”

RIP Sara Leatherman your family misses you.

However, as one might imagine there are a few infantry males that have very shallow opinions of females in combat situations. This criticism is something we all endure and then use for motivation to continue our mission with even more strength and ability. We prepare ourselves by not only being physically fit and trained in all aspects on our mission, including weapons and first aid, but we also bring with us a strong mindset. Our focus enables us to not let criticism and the realities of this country affect our main overall goal. Its a joy to be a part of something like this and I wouldn’t change a thing.

Women in the military, whether you admit it or not, will always have something to prove to the males. Its not that we are seeking assurance from them, it’s the fact that we have to prove that we can stand side by side as equals. The 4BCT 101 Division Female Engagement Team was recently recognized by ISAF Command Sergeant Major Hill. He was eager to meet us at our FOB and presented each of us with a coin for our effectiveness as members of the FET attached to the infantry platoon.

I left my baby when he was just six weeks old to go to basic training and AIT. I came back just shy of his first birthday. I thought by joining the National Guard, I was safe from deployment. Wrong. Just before my son turned two, my unit was activated, and we left for Iraq. I was a 19 year old girl who had a son and had never left my Momma’s side. I was in theater for a year. I saw things that most teenagers will never see. I figured though, being that I got out unscathed, meaning I had all my limbs, etc., that I was fine.

My son turned three right after we came home. At first, life was great. As the months went on, however, I noticed I was really detached. Nothing, good or bad, had any affect on me. I became very angry about missing the time with my son and just everything in general. Simple things, such as the toaster burning my toast, would end with a toaster thrown across the room. All I wanted to do was find a way to be the sweet, happy girl I once was. I finally saw a doctor and was diagnosed with PTSD.

That was 7 years ago, and I still have some of these issues. People don’t realize that some war injuries are not visible to the eye. I once read a quote that seemed to bring it all together for me: “In war, there are no unwounded soldiers.” Now I am married with two children and making progress everyday. It takes time and understanding patience from the people in your life to deal with this. I don’t think it ever goes away, we just learn and educate ourselves on how to deal with it.

For a long time now, I’ve believed that the major problem with the public’s perception of women in the military, is that women who served in WWII, Korea, Vietnam, and the first Gulf war, and now OEF/OIF just haven’t talked about their experiences. Many have had problems with divorces, threatened loss of children while deployed, PTSD and other issues. We don’t talk about what is painful. I believe, as women we’re much more likely to say something like, “I was just helping out”. Men say “I served” while women are much more self deprecating. We are reluctant to own our experience.

One way I’ve fought back about this is to put a “Veteran” license plate on my vehicle. I too salute the flag when the National Anthem is played or sung. I’m going to be joining a local Veteran’s organization very soon.

If all of us who have served take even baby steps forward in owning our service as women soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines, we will promote a much more public and positive image of women in the military.

~tiredofpc

1) You and I both had our kids about 19 months apart. I can’t find anything that shows a recommended age spread between kids, but I could swear I read a credible source about a year ago when I felt I was on the verge of a very literal nervous breakdown from all the stress of work and motherhood, that clearly stated that it’s best to start trying for the second once the first reaches the age of 2. I sure can’t find anything that says it now- but I remember that reading that gave me some comfort when I felt like I was just overwhelmed by trying to care for both at the same time- racked with guilt that I neglected one over the other all the time, and feeling angry and tired and sad for so many other reasons. Wish I could find the article now, but maybe they’ve been beaten by all the relativists who now spout that it’s all about what’s right for each individual couple- What a crock of crap. Having a baby when you already have a baby who is going to continue to be a baby for some time while trying to grow the other baby is fucking hard. It’s harder than it would be if we had an established toddler who could talk and listen and do things for themselves, who didn’t need to be held and who didn’t cry incessantly while crapping their pants at inopportune times.

2) You and I are resilient women with a good amount of intelligence and integrity on our sides. You have a combat action badge and know what it’s like to work under adverse conditions without sleep or personal hygiene as the modern world knows it. I have jumped out of airplanes and helicopters and rucked 100 miles in 4 days. We both have advanced degrees that required perseverance to acquire. Yet, motherhood is completely kicking our ass on a daily basis. It’s because it is f***ing hard.

3) You and I are racked with guilt at our inability to either rise above it, deal with it more gracefully, or fear how our actions will somehow mold our children in a bad way. I have to remind myself that by regretting an action and wanting to be better, I am at least thinking about the consequences- and that, makes me a good parent. A bad parent, or a failure of a parent, doesn’t care about the repercussions of their bad judgment. We’re good because we feel bad when we suck as parents. And sometimes we suck as parents because motherhood is f****ing hard.

Do you see a recurring thread throughout my thoughts here?

There!

I know I feel better! I hope you feel better! See you tomorrow to go kill some more crops at the community garden!

Tricia