Like Me (24 page)

Although Dick Cheney has stated his support for his daughter and his opinion that “people ought to be free to enter into any kind of relationship they want to,” I am less than moved. In fact, I feel that his words are halfhearted and insulting—not to mention a day late and a dollar short. For the most part, he kept quiet about the topic during the years when he could have been most effective for change. He failed to use his power to do the right thing.

“Historically,” he said, “the way marriage has been regulated
is at the state level.” C’mon, Dick, we all know that this is a cop-out. We all know that sometimes the states cannot be relied upon to make decisions like that—creating legislation that is fair and constitutional in a timely fashion.

Surely it hasn’t slipped Mr. Cheney’s mind that the U.S. Supreme Court had to intervene to make interracial marriage legal in all fifty states back in 1967. Had it been left to the states to decide, it wouldn’t have happened—and if it ever did, I wouldn’t have seen it in my lifetime.

In 1958 Mildred and Richard Loving (a black woman and a white man) had been arrested and criminally charged under a Virginia state statute that banned interracial unions.

Robert F. Kennedy, the attorney general at the time, stepped in and referred the Lovings to the American Civil Liberties Union. The ACLU, on the Lovings’ behalf, presented their complaint to the Virginia Supreme Court of Appeals. The result: the criminal convictions of the Lovings leveled by the Commonwealth of Virginia were upheld—they were still not allowed to legally reside in their home state and were sentenced to a year in prison, which was suspended for twenty-five years on the condition that they leave the state. The state of Virginia had the chance to recognize that a statute written in 1924 was unconstitutional, but in its wise statehood, it upheld the archaic law.

The ACLU and the Lovings appealed to the U.S. Supreme Court, which finally overturned their convictions and ruled that the state of Virginia’s statute was unconstitutional. The rest is history.

So, in my opinion, Vice President Cheney’s stance that “states should decide” is hollow. It’s merely a way to placate his daughter and those of us who believe that gay marriage should be mandated at the federal level and that anything short of that is unconstitutional.

•  •  •  

I
had not come out to my father yet, but I cried as I lay on the bed that night in a Washington, D.C., hotel room. I thought about how hard it would be to have my dad behave like Vice President Cheney if I ever did have the courage to tell him that I’m gay. I imagined what it would feel like to be Mary. If my dad were ever the second-most-powerful man in the world and he could do something to preserve and establish my rights of equality but instead chose to pass the buck, I would be really hurt and disappointed.

At a National Press Club gathering in 2009, Mr. Cheney said, “As many of you know, one of my daughters is gay, and it is something we have lived with for a long time in our family.”

It’s not cancer. It’s not drug addiction. It’s not domestic abuse.

There in my hotel room, I realized that just hours before, I had stood with the vice president of the United States and wished that he were something he wasn’t. The irony is, if he had known who I am, he’d probably have wished the same about me.

S
o often, people ask me about my brother and his service in the military. I’m incredibly impressed and proud of all that he’s accomplished. But sometimes, I can’t help but think of him as a little boy—that’s when I knew him best. Chris was a fifth grader and had been coming home from school with bumps and bruises and sometimes a low-hung head. When my folks asked Chris who’d been picking on him, he told them the name of the boy: Matt Collier. My parents demanded that my brother stick up for himself and tell that boy and any other boy that might give him a hard time to back off or else. I’m not sure if Chris attempted the suggested two-party talks with Matt, but a day or so later, my brother came trudging down the sidewalk once again with the telltale signs of another school yard rumble that hadn’t gone his way. Later that evening, my dad arrived home from work and stepped into the chaos that met him every single time he walked through the door. He was usually greeted by my mother’s harsh recap of what one, both, or all of us kids had done, and she’d often follow with the question, “What are
you
going to do about it?” In the few seconds it took for him to throw his Botsford Ready Mix ball cap to the floor and commence a defeated, exaggerated expulsion of air—perhaps trying to force from his skull what must have been a decade-long
headache from which I knew both of my parents to suffer—my mom told my dad
exactly
what he was going to do about it.

In this instance, in regards to my brother getting roughed up at school again, my mom had come up with a dandy of a plan, which my father followed to the letter. Mom stayed in the kitchen and smoked cigarettes, while Jeny and I went to the front porch. Within minutes, my dad and my brother both got into the cab of the pickup truck, backed out of the driveway onto Main Street, and slowly pulled away.

Not quite an hour later, just after the sky had stopped bouncing pinks and purples around, the truck barreled into the driveway and skidded to a halt. Dad got out and slammed his door. He didn’t go into the house. I think he went directly to the dog kennels that were in the far backyard. I wasn’t sure that Chris was even in the truck until I heard the creaking of steel on steel as he opened his door. I was watching him from the side porch and wondered why he wasn’t getting out. Finally, I saw him exit the truck.

I don’t know where our mother had gone, but Jeny and I stood together as Chris came through the screen door and walked into the glow of a single fluorescent light that hung above the kitchen sink. He was bloody. Real bloody. He was dirty too, and his short-sleeved plaid shirt was missing its top couple of buttons. I didn’t recognize the look of his face. At least one of his eyes was already swollen. I don’t remember if it was his top lip or lower lip that was split open, but one of them looked like ground round. He was crying. My big brother, whom I’d always known to be pretty emotionally static, was making noises that sounded like a dog who’d been hit by a car.

Jeny and I were crying too, but we immediately snapped into action. We sat Chris down in the back part of the kitchen while he mumbled in a stupor, trying to tell us what happened and that he’d “gotten in a couple of good licks too” on our father. My sister and I got butter knives, stood on a chair, and chipped ice
from the inside walls of the freezer. We harvested enough to put into dish towels and gently placed our two homemade ice packs on our combat buddy’s face.

In the days that followed, we learned that our father was instructed by our mother to take their son to a cornfield and beat him up. To teach him how to fight. So he wouldn’t be a
sissy
. He was eleven.

God only knows if the plan to de-sissify my brother by beating him like that could have been successful, but Jeny and I decided to take matters into our own hands. We plotted for a couple of days and then put our own plan into action.

We staked out our victim after school, and then we ambushed. My sister and I jumped Matt Collier when he was all alone, knocked him down, took our shoes off, and beat him from head to toe, while warning him never, ever to touch our brother again. It worked.

I
have been given awards for work that I have done on behalf of our troops, public school children, and other groups of people in need. Although these awards and titles were certainly not necessary, I am proud of them.

I have been named Kansan of the Year and the American Legion’s Woman of the Year. I have received the FAME Award from the Music Educators National Conference in Washington, D.C., and numerous other accolades. Typically, before I walk up onstage to accept an award, someone reads a prepared speech that highlights reasons why they have chosen to honor me. More often than not, at some point in the speech, the declaration is made: “Chely Wright is a great person and a fine American.”

If those people reading their speeches knew that I am a gay woman, would they say that about me? I doubt that Vice President Dick Cheney and Mrs. Cheney would have invited me to their home in Washington, D.C., to entertain. I doubt that I would have been invited by President and Mrs. Bush to sing before our commander in chief took the stage for a speech in Seoul, South Korea. I wonder, if the world had known that I was gay, would I have been invited to be the grand marshal of the Veterans Day Parade in New York City? If I were known to be a gay woman, would I have ever been invited to do the things for
the community and the troops in the first place? Maybe not. The “maybe not” has held me back my entire life.

I am still in contact with men and women I have met while on tour to perform for the troops. I have sat in foreign and domestic military dining facilities, fitness centers, and makeshift lounges with these folks as they show me pictures they keep in their wallets. Pictures tattered by miles and faded by sweat.

There are often newer pictures that find their place in the pile of memories—a photo of a new baby or a snapshot from a wedding that happened back home during leave. I have watched these families grow; in some cases, I’ve watched them fall apart. Deployment is hard on families.

There are many stereotypes about people in the military. I have met troops who are blue-collar-type guys and gals and I know our military simply could not function without their hard work and specific areas of training. On the other hand, I’ve met folks who graduated from major universities and colleges with degrees in math, science, literature, medicine—you name it—and they are in our U.S. military. Our service personnel represent a cross section of society just like any other group of people does. They are individuals, each to be understood and recognized.

There is a specific group of men and women in the armed services, however, who are not recognized. Not only are they not recognized, they are ignored. The gays who serve our country are forced to endure and participate in the “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. It is a ridiculous charade. We’re all taught at a young age that telling half-truths is lying and that lies by omission are still lies. Our government endorses, encourages, and requires such lies.

The military places a high value on honor, integrity, honesty, and valor. The policy of “don’t ask, don’t tell” seems to be the antithesis of those ideals. Often, when I’ve spent time with troops, I’ve gotten a sense that I’m speaking with a gay service
member. I just want to hug that person and whisper in his or her ear, “You are like me and I am like you.”

While their straight comrades get the luxury of saying out loud that they are homesick for their wife, their girlfriend, their husband, or their boyfriend, gay service members are mandated to keep quiet. If their partner has a car wreck and dies back home while they’re deployed, they don’t get to go home. Gay service members endure the same hardships, but are forced to keep their mouths shut or lose their career.

The point in this policy, as I understand it, is that the policymakers believe that gays won’t be able to serve with same-sex troops without wanting to have sexual intercourse with them, so
it’s best to not declare sexuality. That makes no sense to me. I am gay. I am attracted to women, but not all women. Homosexuality does not make a person promiscuous, perverted, unprofessional, or without judgment.

Having the chance to learn about the guys and gals in uniform and what their day-to-day lives are like is my favorite part of going to see the troops. This young man (part of a Stryker Brigade) was telling me about having been in a fierce battle just weeks before. 2004
.

Once I tell the world that I am a lesbian, I wonder if I will be invited back or welcomed to entertain the troops.

I
n 2003, just days after I returned from my first trip into Iraq, I wrote a song called “Bumper of My S.U.V.” It was inspired by a real incident in which another driver flipped me off when she saw the Marine Corps bumper sticker on my car. The song wasn’t meant as a political ballad but a statement from my heart: it’s important to honor those who serve.

Although I hadn’t released “Bumper of My S.U.V.” to radio on a record label, fans of country music—many of them in the military or with family members in the service—loved the song. The record got played on radio stations around the country, and reached #1 on the Billboard singles chart. Its success surprised me, but the reaction of some on the political right surprised me even more. The song was never intended to be out on the airwaves and it was certainly never meant to be an endorsement of the Iraq war or the policies of the Bush administration. But that’s not how some heard it.

When “Bumper of My S.U.V.” became a hit record, not only was it being played on radio stations of all genres, but it created quite a stir in the media as well. This accidental hit record was plainly and simply a phenomenon.