Baby Killer

I was at a conference today. Federal Reserve Bank in San Francisco. Talk about security; when you’ve got millions of dollars under one roof you tend to be protective. Anyway, it was one of those conferences that I felt I should participate in. Call it obligation, call it duty, whatever. So I was scheduled to speak in the afternoon. A half-hour out of a whole day’s grueling seminar. I had felt uneasy about it from the beginning, when I made the commitment weeks earlier. The big corporate/government guys were coming in to show us how to do things right.

It started badly. Older white men in suits trying to tell liberal San Franciscan’s how to do it. I looked at the workbook; over 100 PowerPoint slides, each one filled with small print. The presenters were well meaning, but these were my people. These guys didn’t understand them. I felt a responsibility to do right by them. This wasn’t a model I supported, and I became agitated as the audience got restless. I went out in the hall for air. My stomach in knots. My head swimming. What can I do? I’m partly responsible.

Coworkers came to me; maybe they saw my frustration, turning to anger, turning toward tears. I was visibly aggravated, and they tried to calm me. I love them for it. But my many guilts return to haunt me in periods like this. One of my friends sat me down and talked of other things, trying to calm me, no doubt. We began to talk about all the security there; all the guns. She looked at me and remarked about how I’d been in the military—that I was some kind of marksman myself. I looked at her with raised eyebrows. “In the Air Force?” I said. “Well....didn’t you carry a gun?” “Yes, I had to as a flight crew member during the war. But I never shot anybody.” “You were in the war? Which war?” “The first Gulf War?” “Yes,” I answered and hesitated. “And Vietnam.” After she remarked that I didn’t look old enough to be in Vietnam she added, “You didn’t bomb any babies anyway.” I looked at the floor, sick to my stomach. This was turning into a bad day. I didn’t answer, and we moved on to the subject of how to repair the damage being done in the seminar.

So there I was, guilty about helping put on a sub-par event, and all my other guilts haunting me. My guilt about changing gender and losing my family, guilt about hurting my parents over it, my friends, my coworkers—and guilt about my role as a B-52 crew chief in the Vietnam War so many years ago, in another life.

At that time I was simply a teenager who got drafted and was doing what I was told. I loaded fuel and bombs and fixed the planes for their endless bomb runs—day after day, week after week, year after year. At that time I didn’t think about my role. I simply did my duty. But it hit me afterward, years later. I didn’t drop the bombs, I didn’t even fly in the planes. But I had a role. And I’ve often wondered where does the responsibility for killing stop? Is the pilot as guilty as the bombardier? The navigator? The people who planned the mission? The crew chief who loaded the bombs and fueled the planes?

I always saw the bombs come out of the sheds ready to be loaded with all sorts of epithets written on them. “Fuck you Gooks.” “Up your Ass.” And many more creative ones. I didn’t have the heart to add my own, and I look back now and am thankful for that much. But there are times, like today, when I’m forced to look back—and I don’t like what I see.

It was time for my presentation. I went to the podium, took the mic, and began talking. I attempted to redeem myself to the group sitting in those seats. Despite my anxiety, I put in an extra effort. I owed them. And for this group, at least, I could do something positive.