6:34 p.m. - Monday, Oct. 28, 2002
Ms Leslie and veteran's poker
On Friday, I�ll be attending the PTSD Clinic Gulfport Annual Potluck Picnic. This is bound to be an interesting day for us all.
I�ve been seen at the PTD clinic for what, three years now? But I�ve not been a joiner when it came to participating in the group sessions there. I may have seen some of these guys in passing, but never have met any of them. Now we�re going to sit on blankets under the trees and eat fried chicken. And we�re going to play veteran�s poker. I hate that game.
There are no written rules for veteran�s poker. Mostly, the players don�t even know they are in the game. But the game always takes place, and it always goes pretty much the same way. You, a veteran, ask me when I was in �Nam. Not knowing you very well, and feeling very inferior anyway, I hate to admit that I was there for less than six months and that I was wounded even before I had a chance to go on R&R. I was there for Christmas and New Years though, so I�m not quite lying when I tell you I was there in �67 AND �68. See how it works? Now you�re intimidated, because you spent maybe only nine months there and you seem to be in the presence of one who spent perhaps multiple tours in �nam� a real gung-ho warrior. So you tell me you were there for two tours, just so I�ll respect you. (Never believe that testosterone isn�t poison). So then the next question might be �who were you with?� Oh, this time I have the trump suit. I was with an airborne unit, and in the infantry to boot. So I puff out my chest just a little bit as I report I was with the 101st airborne. Then he, sensing a loss in status and not wanting me to think less of him for having been a supply clerk in an artillery unit, feels obligated to say that he was a ranger, or recon, or maybe that he was in a secret unit and really can�t talk about it too much. Now honestly, if I had a dollar for every member of an elite or secret unit I�ve met, I�d have, well��. several dollars. I sometimes find myself wondering if I was in the wrong country and that the entire war was secretly fought in Cambodia by ghost soldiers who aren�t allowed to talk about it.
But do I call �bullshit� and express my disbelief? No. not at all. I keep my doubts to myself out of a mixture of respect for decorum, a sense of my own inadequacy, and the fear that he just might be telling the truth. And so the game goes, like an ever escalating round of liars poker in which no player ever has the confidence to end the game by demanding proof. The game of veteran�s poker goes on until the party ends. The only exception is if alcohol is sanctioned. If there�s booze, then the end stage of the game comes early the following morning when enough alcohol is consumed to dissolve all the testosterone and transform it into tears. That seldom happens, but when it does, it�s both touching and revolting to see.
Anyway, there�s no booze at the PTSD Clinic-Gulfport Annual Potluck Picnic. Just chicken, possibly Ms Leslie�s famous carpetbagger potato salad, and whatever chips, rolls or cokes the other vets bring. I have to admit, I�m a little nervous about the whole thing. I don�t think I�m nervous about the vets poker. I think I�ve stepped out of that game. I think I can listen to it without actually joining in. No, I�m more nervous because this will be the first time I�ve exposed myself (so to speak) to a group of men. Aside from the VA staff, I�ll be the only woman there, and I�ll darn sure be the only female combat veteran there. And gosh�. I�m going to be the only known transsexual there. How will they know? Well, there just aren�t any born genetic women who fought with an infantry unit in Vietnam. My very presence at the picnic will raise ten pounds of bushy eyebrows.
Worst case scenario isn�t so bad. In the worst case, since the staff is there, no one will offer to beat me to death. At worst, I�ll be ignored or perhaps be the object of a fair amount of snickering. That in itself would be disappointing. So far, I�ve had nothing but respect and the best of behavior coming my way. It would be a shame if my �brothers in arms� were the first to deprive me of respect and courtesy. If they do, though, I intend to stay for all of it. I�ll simply plant myself out of the way and pull out my cross stitching. The light will be good there. I won�t need to be sociable. I can just work my way through the afternoon.
Best case scenario is why I�m going in the first place. In the best case scenario, I find that men can be and are as understanding and accepting as women. In the best case, I�ll find one or two new friends there, and they�ll be male friends. I think I�d like that. No; I know I would. Not because I�m looking for romance, etc.; but just because I�d like to be able to talk to a guy sometimes. All my friends are women. That leaves me feeling out of balance.
And then, of course, you never know, you know what I mean?
Wish me luck. Better yet, wish me the best case of the best case scenario, OK?
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