by Chely Wright
The body was loaded into the plane before any passengers could go aboard. Most of us were traveling with a backpack and a rolling computer bag, and we were instructed to avoid rolling any bags while passing by the body. They asked us to show respect by not listening to iPods or using laptop computers. We were expected to sit quietly during the flight, which we did.
There was a primitive wooden box draped with an American flag, strapped tightly to the floor at our feet. We were each buckled into a canvas seat that hung from one interior wall of the plane and from a steel divide in the center of the aircraft. Five of us on one side and five on the other, we were just six feet apart and between us was the body. The toes of my tennis shoes would have easily touched the wooden casket, but I pulled my feet back up under my seat.
As the wheels of our C-130 lifted off the paved runway, I looked around at our group and saw that not one of us was trying to hide our emotions—we were all crying.
After we landed in Kuwait, a colonel came aboard to tell us what was about to happen. Since we had picked up a few military personnel in Baghdad who were headed to Kuwait, he addressed them first. The last thing he said to them was, “Be advised that the deceased is a civilian, so it is not necessary to stand at attention.” I was relieved that Josh wasn’t in that casket, but on the other hand, I was also sad that it wasn’t Josh.
The casket was to be removed first and we were to follow. As soon as the big back hatch of the plane was opened and lowered to the ground, I saw about twenty uniformed men and women standing quietly. A few of them hopped up into the aircraft and removed the straps that had secured the casket to the hot steel floor. Several audible commands were given and, like choreographed dancers, they picked up the wooden box and began a slow walk down the ramp. The others in uniform positioned behind the C-130 created a human corridor which connected the path of the casket to the back of a white box truck. The door of the truck was rolled up and the engine was not running. I recall noticing that despite the fact that we were on a flight line, the setting was eerily quiet.
I followed behind the small procession and took a place next to the others on the ground. Everyone in uniform was standing at full attention as the men carrying the casket lifted it and slid it into the back of the truck. Then one man climbed inside the back of the truck and pulled the door down, shutting himself inside.
There is not a more appreciative audience in the world than our troops. Somewhere in the Middle East. 2004. (Clay Krasner, bass guitar; Steve Cudworth, acoustic guitar.)
Those in uniform relaxed their stance and walked away. The colonel was next to me and saw that I was crying. “Sir,” I asked him, “even though you told everyone that he was a civilian and that they didn’t need to stand at attention, why did they anyway?” “Ma’am, because he’s an American and he’s going home,” he said.
In the days to come, we would learn that man in the casket was Eugene Armstrong, an American contractor who was one of several men kidnapped and beheaded in Baghdad.
I was worn out by my ten-day trip to the Middle East.
I knew I would never be the same.
Judy Seale and I had a wonderful day with the kids in a town called Balad, Iraq. Most of these kids had never attended a day of school in their lives until this school was built by the Coalition forces. We showed up with school supplies, soap, and toys. The children were excited, and my heart was stolen a thousand times that day. 2004.
My Sister, Jeny
My journey to Iraq in 2004 had affected me so profoundly that I knew it was time to come out to my sister, Jeny. I felt that I’d been given a gift in seeing, firsthand, how delicate and precious life is, and although Josh Henry and others weren’t around any longer to live their lives, I was.
The moment I arrived home, I called Jeny and asked her to get in her car and head to Tennessee. After she arrived, we stayed up and talked for hours about the trip to Iraq, and she understood that it had been a life-changing experience for me. The next morning, we were sitting outside in my courtyard drinking coffee and I blurted out, “Jeny, I need to tell you something—I’m gay.” I started crying. She stood up and grabbed me out of my chair and hugged me.
We talked a lot during the next couple of days. My objective was for my sister to know me. I wanted her to know about my life and from that moment on, she has.
Jeny’s husband, a conservative Christian, believes homosexuality is a sin. Jeny and Mike’s kids are a big part of my life, and it would devastate me if that ever changed. I wasn’t willing to risk his judgment of me, so I begged Jeny not to tell him.
Mike is a wonderful person, a good father and good husband to my sister. I knew it was a lot to ask her to keep a secret from her husband, but I suppose we both felt a similar uneasiness about what his reaction might be.
Jeny is my best friend, and our friendship became even stronger once I confided in her about my sexuality. When I told her, I was surprised that she didn’t say, “Chel, I knew the whole time.” Instead, she told me that she’d wondered about it before but then decided otherwise. Most of all, she said that she was happy and relieved to know that I wasn’t living my life alone.
Jeny and I were born fifteen months apart, and like most siblings that close in age, we fought like wild animals once we got past the ages of seven or eight. During our school years, we were quite different. She was tough and seemed self-assured and didn’t need to be popular or accepted by the other kids at school like I did.
I’d confront her and ask her why she had to be so tough, why couldn’t she just try to be friends with everyone. She’d tell me that I was a scared follower and would probably never stand up for myself. Prophetic, in a way, I suppose. It would take me some twenty-five years to stand up for what I believe.
Jeny and me in Santorini, Greece, in 2006. We have a great time anywhere we go.
After high school, we became friends again. We’d both grown up quite a bit and realized that we were lucky to have each other. I was on the road most of the time, but we talked almost every day.
In the years following my coming out to Jeny, our relationship has continued to deepen. I value the comfort of her undying friendship and unconditional love. We keep each other in check, cheer each other on, and encourage each other to become better people every day. My sister is an inspiration to me in so many ways.
A Great American
My manager informed me that Vice President Dick Cheney’s office had called and asked if I would come do an event for him. I declined a couple of times. I had made it a personal policy not to participate in political events. The vice president’s office assured my manager that it was not a political event, but rather a private party. The Cheneys were going to have some of the wounded and recovering troops from Walter Reed Army Medical Center and Bethesda National Naval Medical Center bused over to their residence for a poolside barbecue. Once I learned what the gathering was about, I said that I would love to be involved, and soon plans were under way for the event.
I visit Walter Reed and Bethesda frequently, so there was a good chance that I had already met a number of the folks who would be in attendance. They were invited to bring their families to the party, and I was looking forward to catching up with the loved ones as well. Often, during those bedside visits, the wounded are not conscious, or if they are, the doctors have them on so much morphine to control pain levels that they’re not quite lucid. So it wasn’t unusual to spend visiting time talking to a mom, a dad, a wife, or a sibling. The families with whom I’ve visited are steadfast and special. I was definitely eager to see them all.
The day of the show was busy. I needed to be in Nashville for meetings until two o’clock that afternoon. I arrived at the Nashville airport only to learn that my flight to D.C. was delayed due to heavy thunderstorms in the area and I was told that the storms were hitting many areas of the Northeast, including Washington. The schedule for the day was tight to begin with, but given the weather situation, I started to wonder if I’d make it to Wa
shington at all.
My manager suggested I do my hair and makeup in the bathroom on the plane to save a little time. The folks in D.C., my manager, and I were trying to figure out a way to pull this show off. My band and crew had been at the vice president’s residence all day long, setting up the production and doing sound checks, so if I could just get there on time, the show could go on.
I finally landed in Washington in an airplane that held about twenty-five passengers. I was able to get ready in the bathroom on the plane. I hadn’t checked any luggage, but because the plane was so small, even the carry-on bags wouldn’t fit in the cabin. The passengers, including me, stood outside the plane waiting for the crew to give us our briefcases, purses, and small duffel bags. It was raining and the area where we were instructed to stand and wait was flooded. So there I was, in full drag—ready for a performance—in just enough rain for my hair to be a wreck. I was soaked, head to toe. The drive to the vice president’s residence was supposed to take about thirty minutes. I was confident that I could fix my hair and clean up my makeup while I was in the backseat of the car.
I finally got my bag and, once I entered the airport from the tarmac, was greeted by a professional military man. He introduced himself to me and said, “Miss Wright, this way. We’re in quite a hurry, but we’ll get you there for your show.”
The rain continued to pour down, causing water to flow over some of the roads and slowing traffic to a crawl. While I was rummaging through my hair and makeup kit, I overheard the driver talking on his cell phone. The second he’d hang up from one call, his phone would ring again. I could tell there was something being coordinated that sounded urgent.
From out of nowhere came a fleet of emergency vehicles. Some appeared to be standard metro police cars, but there were also several unmarked, large black sport utility vehicles with blue lights flashing from every crack and crevice. My driver needed to pull over to make way for the vehicles. Perhaps he was distracted by his phone calls and didn’t realize he needed to get over, so I told him that we should pull over and let them by. He laughed and told me that they were here for us, to escort our car to the vice president’s residence.
At every exit and overpass we came upon, I could see there were several emergency vehicles at those points as well, and I realized that there had to be fifty vehicles involved in this effort. I asked my driver if this was a typical day for him. It wasn’t, but when Vice President and Mrs. Cheney got word that I was stuck in traffic and might not make it to the performance, they gave the order for me to have a full escort.
The barbecue at the residence had been moved indoors due to the rain. The troops and their families had already enjoyed their hot dogs, hamburgers, and steaks and were patiently waiting for me to show up. As soon as my driver pulled up to the front door of the vice president’s residence, several people just inside the building introduced themselves and began to give me the timeline of the evening’s events. The Cheneys’ right-hand gal informed me that Vice President and Mrs. Cheney wanted to speak with me before the performance.
I was taken to a small room that was crowded with production equipment. Once I was put in the room, my band guys and crew checked in with me. We discussed the usual pre-show details, and they gave me the information I would need for the event.
Then I was escorted to a bright, busy hallway, and less than a minute later Vice President and Mrs. Cheney greeted me. Mrs. Cheney was friendly, thanking me repeatedly for agreeing to come play for the troops, and then the vice president made a lighthearted comment about how happy he was that his people were able to get me through the crazy weather and traffic situation outside. He laughed and suggested that a disaster had been averted because the wounded troops certainly didn’t want to hear him sing. All the while, the official photographer continued to snap photos of us as Vice President Cheney asked me about my trips to the Middle East. He also mentioned that he knew my brother, Chris, was a Marine who’d served in Iraq and Kuwait. “Tell him hi and thank you, will ya?” he said.
I don’t care who you are, when you’re engaged in a conversation with the second-most-powerful man in the world, it’s notable. Regardless of what I thought about his judgment, his decisions, or his policies, he has a commanding presence that is undeniable. I was having visions of my great inquisition of the vice president. At the same time, I was noticing the pattern of his speech and the way his top lip curved upward on one side. I was being forced to exercise mild amounts of restraint to fight off the urge to spill my inappropriate rant. I wanted to say, “Mr. Vice President, I have questions about KBR. I have questions about interrogation of prisoners. I want to know how you can sleep at night knowing that the policies that your party creates and supports deny so many people their basic freedoms. AND—your daughter is GAY, for God’s sake. What are you thinking?!”
He asked me a question that required a direct answer. I felt a twinge of arrogance and excitement, because the answer to his question required specific knowledge of a particular military base and its proximity to a border, and I was ready to deliver my clever response. Just as he punctuated the inquiry with his vocal inflection and the lifting of the one eyebrow, I had the answer beautifully formed in my head, ready to pass through my lips.
Suddenly I felt an odd sensation on my right foot. I had to look down, breaking contact with the vice president to see what was going on.
The worst had happened. The entire front half of my boot had exploded and my size 11 foot, covered in its white athletic sponge of a sock, had slid out of the boot at least two inches. Once I had stepped off the airplane, I had been forced to stand in that deep puddle of rainwater and my black patent leather boots were soaked. Because my duffel bag had been out of reach on the plane, I couldn’t put on my black dress socks, which would’ve been more comfortable to wear with those delicate boots and wouldn’t have sopped up all of that water. Instead I had to continue wearing the thick socks that I’d had on with my other shoes.
There was actually a tiny puddle of water on the floor. I knew that I couldn’t just ignore my exploded boot. Even if I could sneak away without anyone noticing that my big white foot was not in my boot, I couldn’t allow a puddle of water to be standing on a marble floor in a hallway that was being traveled by wounded and recovering men and women, men and women who were learning to get around on crutches and new prosthetic limbs. I couldn’t do that.
I directed the Cheneys’ attention to my boot and said, “Mr. Vice President, Mrs. Cheney, it seems as though my boot has exploded.” They quickly looked and they both said, at the exact same time, “Wow!” Mrs. Cheney asked if there was anything she could do to help and even offered to have someone go retrieve a pair of her boots for me to wear. I laughed and told her that I wear a size 11 shoe. She exclaimed, “Oh, my!” I excused myself and sent someone to ask Rookie, my production manager, to meet me back in that little room behind the stage. When he arrived I told him that I had a wardrobe emergency and that I needed him to get a roll of gaff tape. “Sure thing, Chief.”
After I dried everything as best I could, Rookie and I propped my foot up on a rolling anvil case and wrapped my boot all the way around until there was no leather showing. Just a boot made of black gaff tape.
The crowd was eager to begin and so was I. The Cheneys gave me a beautiful introduction and I took the stage. After my second song, I glanced over about six feet to my right, where the vice president and his wife were sitting attentively, and caught them both staring at my boot. They quickly looked up at me and each gave me the thumbs-up. Vice President Cheney mouthed the words “Looks good.” I shared the story with the crowd and summed it up by thanking the vice president for acting as my wardrobe consultant.
It was an amazing night. My favorite part was signing autographs and visiting after the performance with the troops and their families. There was even a Marine in attendance whom I had met just hours after he’d been severely wounded in Baghdad. We hadn’t met on a base, but rather in a hospital in the center
of Baghdad where the Coalition forces had set up shop. On the afternoon we met, we were both scared to death—it was nice to be with him again, in a vastly different circumstance.
During one of my trips to Baghdad, in 2004, I met this young Marine named Jake. We still e-mail each other from time to time.
I stayed in D.C. that night and struggled to fall asleep. I was tired, but my mind raced with the details of such a crazy yet fulfilling day. I thought for a long time about the vice president and how I could make all of the pieces of my experience with him fit. I still had fundamental differences with him on a number of levels, but now I’d had this fun, quirky interpersonal exchange with him that was lighthearted. He was charming, funny, polite, and appreciative of my relationship with the troops.
Then I thought about the things he said to the audience before I took the stage. He called me an “all-American gal from the heartland” whose family had a long history of military service. And once again I was called a “good American.” I thought of Mary, the Cheneys’ daughter. Her father, one of the most powerful political figures in the world, aligns himself with and is a leader in the Republican Party—the very group of people who collectively denounce homosexuals and suggest that we are a tear in the moral fabric of society. They are the very party that leads the fight to prohibit any policy that would allow real equality and freedom. Furthermore, Vice President Cheney’s party actively seeks to create new laws and legislation that specifically deny equality and protection for gays.