I (finally) Met Chelsea Manning

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I’ve always wanted to meet Chelsea Manning. I, like pretty much everyone else on Earth, have been following her story for many years. But unlike most people, she and I share a very similar history. She and I both worked in military intelligence and we both watched the events following 9/11 in real time. Most people have no idea what it’s like to work in military intelligence. I’d go even further to say that most Americans have no idea what military intelligence is. People in this career field, spend years of their life watching war happening on screens and through satellite photos. Those images never leave you and they never left me. The government keeps secrets that affect the entire world and if you knew about them you’d be out, protesting, in the streets--TODAY.

From my experience as a veteran, I can say without a shadow of a doubt that the US Government does not have the best interest of the average American at heart. They have even less concern for people living in the deserts of Iraq and Afghanistan. The military exists to protect corporate interests. It exists to build wealth using the bodies of the poor. The lives of people like myself, my father, and my grandfather who all have suffered from PTSD and other various lifelong injuries—hold very little value to them.

As I walked into the Three Dollar Bill—a queer bar in Bushwick—disgruntled queers were outside plotting alternative places to spend the evening. Apparently, the ticket price of $50 was higher than they were willing to spend on Chelsea Manning’s DJ set and a signed copy of her memoir. Admittedly, I was lucky to have been placed on the guest list. Inside, the smell of sweat and Brut aftershave emanated from a burly security guard. He patted me and my friend down and led us through a metal detector. Security was understandably high for Manning’s appearance. She is—after all—a controversial figure to anyone who had ever watched the news in the past decade.

The dance floor in the Three Dollar Bill is the size of a gymnasium. It was filled with green neon lights and a smoke machine. A small hive of mostly white trans feminine fan girls huddled together, waiting for Manning to arrive. I stood in the hallway and met eyes with her on as she walked to her DJ booth. I wanted to tell her about how I watched the screens too. The black and white, grainy footage in Iraq and Afghanistan. I wanted to tell her about my nightmares and maybe find some sort of connection. I was finally face-to-face with her.

She was two feet away from me and I stopped. I didn’t say a word.

She was small. Very small. Tiny. It was clear that she had a very small frame based on her television appearances. What I wasn’t prepared for was how frail she was. How vulnerable she must have been in military prison and in everyday life. As I started to close the distance her arms went up defensively, as if to guard herself against a physical attack. I decided to look away and walk to the bar. She was afraid of me. She was afraid of everyone in the room.

I was never the strongest person or the most physically imposing. Estrogen and the lack of testosterone in my body have taken me further into physical vulnerability. But the reality is, in many situations because of my fitness level and martial arts training, I can kick some ass. Still, even now, if I had the opportunity to do what Chelsea Manning did, I wouldn’t. I’d be too scared to pull the trigger. I’m scared of how powerful these people are. Chelsea was too. And she didn’t care. Maybe I shouldn’t care? Maybe from now on, I won’t care. If Chelsea can stand up to the world, I can too. Next time I have the chance, I will.