In the Shadow of Greatness

by Joshua Welle

  It’s a lifestyle of service, in or out of the uniform, that I humbly and gladly accept. I’m all in.

  Rings of Courage and Love:

  Fighting for Gay Rights in the Military

  Gary Ross

  Naval Academy graduates are sometimes called “ring knockers” because of the large class rings they wear. The rings are sometimes knocked on a table to remind those around them that there is an Annapolis graduate in the room. In the Fleet, it is not necessarily a term of endearment, but at the Academy, especially for plebes, earning the name is an honor.

  My class ring was gold with an antique finish, a beautiful blue stone in the middle, and a diamond set on either side. The diamonds were my mother’s gift to me, which made me cherish the ring even more. On one side was the 2002 class crest, designed by Jason Chen, my friend in 28th Company, and on the other side were the Naval Academy seal and Ex Scentia Tridens, which translates as “Through knowledge, there is sea power.”

  A Naval Academy midshipman is first authorized to wear this ring at the end of junior year. The privilege is awarded at the Ring Dance, a century-old ceremony where midshipmen escort their significant others to a gala and dip their class ring into a grog of seawater collected from the seven seas.

  I remember my classmates eagerly counting down the days to our Ring Dance, yet I did not share their enjoyment. Since 1993, the military had adhered to the “don't ask, don't tell” law. Under its mandate, commanders could not ask about sexual orientation, and gays in military service could not acknowledge (or tell) their sexual preference. Like most monumental events in my Navy career, my participation in our Ring Dance could have potentially revealed that I am gay. I had to make a decision: Do I pretend to be someone I am not, by bringing a “date,” or do I find a plausible reason why I cannot go or why my “girlfriend” was unable to attend? I chose not to go.

  The Ring Dance would be one of the countless events I would miss in the decade that followed. It would be ten years of making up stories and being dishonest with my colleagues. I was a naval officer, an Annapolis graduate, and I was gay. The laws of the land, however, denied me the freedom to be myself and to enjoy equal opportunities. At graduation, I was commissioned and sworn to defend the Constitution, to protect liberties that I could not enjoy myself.

  I met Dan on a dating website during my sophomore year at the Academy. He was a flight attendant, and his schedule allowed us to spend most weekends together. He frequently planned his trips to meet me in various cities when I was on movement orders with the Yard Patrol Squadron, the training ships of the Academy. I also joined him on several of his trips during holiday breaks. He mailed me postcards every night he was away from home. By summer, we were hopelessly in love.

  When I deployed on my first ship, USS Valley Forge (CG 50), Dan dropped me off at the pier, shook my hand, and watched as I walked up the gangway. As other couples exchanged their goodbyes, he went back to our car and started sobbing. We had been together for three years by that point, and Dan stood by my side even though my career kept us from freely expressing the love we had for each other.

  While at sea, Dan wrote me daily emails and sent weekly care packages, but even these small gestures had to be “protected.” Dan used a special email address just for our correspondence and signed everything as “Danielle” or simply with the letter “D.” When I returned from weeks or months on patrol, Dan waited for me in off-base parking lots. I walked past my shipmates as they joyfully reunited with their loved ones. When I reached the parking lot, I threw my sea bag in the trunk, and we awkwardly saved our embrace until we got home, behind closed doors.

  Those moments hurt. I deployed for months, enduring the trials of the seas, working ungodly hours on the bridge, and standing the watch. To return home from harm’s way and not be allowed to show love for my boyfriend made me question everything. Who were my true friends? Who could I trust? Was military service worth this tremendous burden on my relationship?

  I was not the only one asking questions. Whether they knew it or not, my shipmates often asked personal questions that put me in a difficult position of having to choose between being antisocial or telling a lie. They would often ask, “Are you married?” or “What are you doing this weekend?” Being antisocial would not have been good for unit camaraderie or morale since officers have a duty to espouse good order, positive attitudes, and motivation to accomplish the mission. On the other hand, lying would break the trust we shared as shipmates. I did not want to live a lie or be deceptive with my shipmates.

  Unfortunately, I had to choose a combination of the two. For the good of my country and my passion to serve as an officer, I became somewhat abrasive toward intrusive questioning, while at the same time perfecting my ability to lie to those who had to trust me unconditionally in battle. I would not be rude to my department head or chiefs. I would instead tell “white lies.” If I could get away with only changing a pronoun here or there, that’s what I did: “Dan” was “Danielle”; “he” became “she.” While this worked on USS Valley Forge, it was not effective for those who had known me since Annapolis. If you were not married by thirty in the U.S. military, someone would begin to inquire if you were gay. That’s just the way it was. Everyone wanted to know why I hadn’t married Danielle.

  When I received new orders, Dan would fly to the area and search for a home. He specifically looked in communities that provided privacy and had few military residents. In some areas, this required a long commute. In others, it required two homes to minimize my commute a few nights per week. We rarely enjoyed dinner at restaurants or movies at theaters because we could not risk people seeing us together. Dan did most of the shopping by himself. There were a few times when we accidently encountered military people at the mall or grocery store. Dan would keep on walking while I stopped to talk to them.

  On December 22, 2010, President Barack Obama, with the support of Adm. Mike Mullen, the father of one of my classmates and chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, signed a bill into law that would repeal “don’t ask, don’t tell.” Dan and I saw a glimmer of hope. In the months that followed, the realities of the policy shift began taking effect as the military implemented repeal training. On July 22, 2011, the president certified and notified Congress that the requirements for repeal had been met. In sixty days, a discriminatory law that had been in place for more than eighteen years would end, once and for all. Gays and lesbians serving in the military would finally be granted the freedom to be themselves. On September 20, 2011, the Department of Defense announced the implementation of the repeal of the policy:

  The Services will no longer separate Service members under DADT. Service members who had an approved separation date forecasted after repeal that was based solely on DADT will have that separation cancelled. The Services have ceased all pending investigations, discharges, and administrative proceedings commenced solely under DADT. Statements about sexual orientation are no longer a bar to military service.

  When President Obama signed and certified the repeal, I was finally able to speak out against the law since previously even a simple gesture of protest might have jeopardized my career. When the laws finally changed, Dan and I wept with joy and could be married. We had wanted to get married for some time, so we quickly planned our wedding before the September implementation date.

  Gary and Dan Ross wed at the stroke of midnight on September 20, 2011. (Courtesy Gary Ross)

  We held our ceremony the first possible second we could—one minute after midnight on September 20, 2011, at the Moose Meadow Lodge in Burlington, Vermont. The location was perfect—a private and beautiful lodge on eighty-six secluded acres. When the day finally came, Dan and I arrived at the lodge full of hope. The fresh air and the smell of the woods were invigorating, and it gave me a feeling of newness for my upcoming life with Dan. We were saying goodbye to “Danielle” for good. It was wonderful; our marriage and unwavering love for one another were going to be recognized by the state of Vermont and,
more broadly, would not have to be hidden from the military community.

  Dan was asked if we would allow local media to attend our wedding, and he agreed. Our story was more than that, however; it became international news. On the morning of our ceremony, the Associated Press called Dan and me for an interview. Honestly, at the time, I only wanted to marry Dan, not to become the spokesman for gay and lesbian rights for the entire U.S. Navy. Dan and I talked about it and decided it was best to speak to the media instead of hiding. We changed into our tuxedos hours before the wedding and sat for several interviews. Dan looked sharp in his black tuxedo with white bow tie, and I was wearing my Formal Dress, with a white tie. Hundreds of media outlets, including major networks and cable stations, newspapers, and military publications, picked up our story. While we were apprehensive about the interest in our story, we were proud to be leaders in our country and to be the first same-sex military couple to marry legally.

  The theme of our wedding was “Two people fall in love. Two people get married. Simple.” We exchanged simple vows: “As I have promised before, I gladly promise again to give you my love, comfort, and support, and to be open and honest at all times. I renew this promise for the rest of my life as your husband.” We also exchanged the same rings we had worn for more than ten years as we swore, “With this ring, I pledge my love to you.”

  At that point the wedding officiate, Greg Trulson, said, “As we all know, by law, I cannot pronounce you married until one minute after midnight.” We anxiously watched a timer count down for thirty-nine seconds until he finally said, “I do hereby recognize, I certify, and I pronounce you legally married.” At long last, we were finally free to share our lives openly and honestly. It was an indescribable moment.

  Being married allowed us to live our lives openly and honestly. The first military event that Dan and I attended together was the annual command picnic, on October 14, 2011. From the moment we arrived, we felt accepted like everyone else at the command. From the commander to my coworkers, everyone seemed genuinely happy to meet my husband and exchange pleasantries.

  After the picnic, Dan’s involvement in the command grew. He helped with the annual chili cook-off and children’s Halloween party. We even attended the Marine Corps Ball together. The media believed that an openly gay couple attending the ball was another historic event, and we granted several more media interviews. Following the ball, Dan and I enjoyed the post’s Thanksgiving meal together. In every instance, Dan was accepted like any other spouse, and I was accepted like any other service member. No one seemed to care or mind that we were gay. Could it really be that easy? Could we finally have equal recognition, equal benefits, and equal pay for equal work and equal sacrifice?

  Not long after we were married, Dan and I went to the ID office to report our marriage and get a dependent’s card, just like other newly married military couples. We were treated like all the other applicants; for a moment, we thought that we finally really would be equal. Once we were called to the desk, however, the representative informed us that Dan could not be issued a dependent’s ID card, since he is the same gender as I. While this was discriminatory and upsetting, it was expected. The so-called Defense of Marriage Act prevents the military from extending equal treatment to gay and lesbian service members. Without the ID card, Dan was unable to receive equal spousal benefits.

  Sometimes we traveled to Davis-Monthan Air Force Base from my new duty station in Arizona. Since the military had not issued Dan a dependent’s ID card, each time we went to the base, the government ran a background check on Dan. It was humiliating for him and frustrating for me to be told that my husband could not accompany me onto the base unless we submitted to another lengthy background check.

  When I raised my right hand on Graduation Day in May 2002, I had sworn to defend the Constitution, against all enemies, foreign and domestic. Those who advocate the so-called Defense of Marriage Act are attacking my civil liberties, my freedom to marry and have a husband. They are also denying those same rights to thousands of gay and lesbian military members around the world. After Dan was denied equal military spousal benefits, I decided that it was my sworn obligation, as a leader, to bring this inequity to light.

  With the partnership of the Servicemembers Legal Defense Network (SLDN) and the law firm of Chadbourne & Parke LLP, I filed a federal lawsuit against the Offices of the Secretary of Defense, the Attorney General, and the Secretary of Veteran’s Affairs, as well as the United States of America, seeking equal recognition, benefits, and family support for equal sacrifice and service in the U.S. armed forces. Gay and lesbian military members deserve more than second-class citizenship. At a press conference in Washington, D.C., shortly after filing the complaint, I read the following from my note cards, with Dan standing at my side:

  Good morning. My name is Lieutenant Gary Ross and I’m a commissioned officer in the United States Navy. Today I am here with my husband, Dan. We’ve been together for nearly twelve years, but we weren’t allowed to be legally married in this country until just recently, right after the stroke of midnight, as the repeal of the Don't Ask, Don't Tell law took effect. For us to be married legally, and for our relationship to be publicly acknowledged for the first time has been an incredible experience for us. But allowing gays and lesbians to serve openly while at the same time treating their families unequally is simply not right! I’ve been in the Navy for more than 16 years, and I have spent my entire adult life serving this country. For the first time since service began, I am no longer required to stand by quietly and watch gay and lesbian service members be treated like second-class citizens. All service members deserve the same network of support! I would like to close with a quote that I recently read which I believe sums up our feelings quite well: "Inclusion without equality is incomplete. The job is not done."

  I held my note cards with both hands as I read my prepared statement. On my right hand was my Naval Academy ring, a reminder of the pride I have in being a naval officer and my love for the institution that gave me a commission. On my left hand was my wedding ring, purchased when I was twenty-two years old and serving as a symbol of our marriage and lifetime commitment to one another. Together, we are ready to fight for our rights.

  Command, Citizenship, and Government

  Seth Lynn

  To exit Camp al-Qa’im in Iraq, I remember we had to zigzag around a set of cement barriers staggered to prevent someone from driving into the camp at high speed. The names of famous battles were etched on the cement barriers so that whenever my Marines and I entered or exited the camp, we received a refresher in Marine Corps history and a reminder of the legacy of those who had gone before us.

  We would steer our vehicles around the first barrier, marked “Tripoli, Chapultepec, and Barbary Pirates”; the next barrier, stenciled “Philippines, Boxer Rebellion, and Belleau Wood”; another one, lettered “Guadalcanal, Iwo Jima, and Tarawa”; the next one, marked “Pusan, Inchon, and Chosin Reservoir”; the following one, showing “Khe Sanh, Da Nang, and Hue City”; and next to last, one marked “Beirut, Kuwait, and Somalia.” The final barrier carried the names of some of the Marine Corps’ most recent battles: “Nasiriyah, Baghdad, and Fallujah.” As we exited the wire, the battle names stopped abruptly, and we became part of history ourselves.

  In November 2005, whenever I led a convoy out of Camp al-Qa’im and toward the Corps’ current battle, upholding a legacy of honor was constantly on my mind and reinforced by the name of our destination—Camp Gannon. The position was named for the man most responsible for my becoming a Marine officer, and our mission was to take back the city where Capt. Richard Gannon had been killed.

  Years earlier, as a midshipman, I had argued about my summer plans with Captain Gannon, then my company officer. I had wanted to be a Navy pilot since age seven, but Captain Gannon had piqued my interest in selecting Marine Corps ground, which would require me to complete Leatherneck, a one-month training program in Quantico, Virginia, that mirrors the six-month Basi
c Officer Course that Marine lieutenants complete after commissioning. I wanted to attend Leatherneck to keep my options open and spend the second half of my summer with a naval aviation squadron. Captain Gannon predicted that I wouldn’t enjoy Quantico and, therefore, insisted that I spend the second half of my summer with a Marine unit in the operating forces, where I would see how rewarding my job would be once I had completed the officer course.

  Captain Gannon had been correct on both fronts. Leatherneck, because of its excessively restrictive nature, convinced me that I wanted to be a Navy pilot. The experience at Leatherneck was too much like plebe summer; it didn’t make me feel like the leader I envisioned a Marine officer to be. I had completed the program, but I didn’t put forth the effort I should have. Yet, spending the next half of my summer shadowing Marine officers convinced me that six more months in Quantico would be a small price to pay for the privilege of commanding a platoon of Marines.

  The following month brought 9/11. America was under attack and interest in the Marine Corps skyrocketed. More than one hundred of my classmates were turned down, despite impressive records and terrific potential. I remain convinced that I only made the cut because Captain Gannon, who knew me well, convinced the other decision makers to overlook my middling Leatherneck performance at Quantico.

  In April 2004, Captain Gannon was killed in a firefight in al-Qa’im, in the northwest of Iraq. The citation for his posthumously awarded Silver Star reads that while “maneuvering through the enemy fire, with complete disregard for his own safety, he entered the courtyard to search for [a] wounded Marine. Upon entering a house, he exchanged small arms fire and grenades with nine Mujahedeen fighters and fell mortally wounded.”