October 2017: the danger I was in at work became very apparent to me when I was presented with my yearly evaluation. More on that later, but suffice it to say that I was in a deep, dark hole and I was all alone. I suspect many of you know this feeling having been in such a hole yourself and you know how isolating it is, how that hole sucks the power and the life from anyone in it. Even if you have a wonderful support network of friends, family and therapists you are alone in the hole because your support network is on the surface, peering in from the edge of the hole. They can throw you a life-line and anchor their end in the hopes that eventually you will be able to pull yourself out, but no one will be down in that hole with you.
October 2017: the #MeToo movement was born and I began to see stories of friends who had experienced harassment and assault in their own careers as pro trombone players. They were telling their stories, climbing out of their pits of despair and now almost miraculously finding redemption and recognition. You might think that this would give me some hope and I would find some kinship with these women but it didn’t, and I’ll tell you why; I compared our situations and was left feeling much as I had walking into Walter Reed National Military Medical Center complaining of some chronic post-nasal drip after walking past young people who have lost arms, legs and parts of their faces “in service to the country.”
Doctor: “What seems to be the problem.”
Me: “My nose is running entirely too much.”
Doctor: “You should consider yourself lucky, my last patient didn’t have a nose at all. The next one might not either, but sure I’ll spend time on you so you don’t have to use so many tissues. Thank you for your service.”
I thought I had problems but now I’m confronted with REAL problems, REAL suffering of people I know, my colleagues, my peers. I am suffering, but my trauma is nothing compared to theirs. My story is the same in that I wasn't believed when I reported sexual misconduct, but that misconduct didn't happen to me and the issue of reporting is just the spark that lit the fuel of almost two decades of gaslighting and marginalization. I wasn't raped, I wasn't explicitly subjugated, I wasn't fondled, I had years of good reviews on paper. Sure I was aware of rumors that I slept with certain male colleagues that were close friends*, but those rumors made me laugh they were so ridiculous. Sure, the army band environment was heavily masculine, laden with motorcycle riders, big trucks, Sports Center, fantasy football, guns, free discussions about hot chicks and men who didn't try very hard to hide their philandering while on tour. Sure I had someone stick his instrument into my crotch as I ascended the stairs ahead of him and sure someone had put his hand under my shirt when he was too drunk to know what he was doing, but I wasn't assaulted. Nothing happened. And so it was that in October of 2017 I was in this dark hole all alone and I’m suffering, but not enough to be able to compete in the suffering competition that is playing out in my head; I’m not even worthy of my own misery.
During this time, I go to work and I cannot speak. It’s unsafe for me to be myself and I basically try to stay hidden as much as possible. I have never felt this unsafe in my life…and I’m a working musician. My freelance work takes me to workplaces where many might fear to tread, especially if you are female. I have been fairly fearless in going out on my own into places unknown in search of a rehearsal or a gig. I've played in many a strange person's basement, looked for the brightest spot on a dark street to park knowing that I will be returning to my vehicle in the wee hours of the morning and often perform in close proximity to people drunk and high who are really into my band. I’ve answered Craigslist ads for crying out loud! Some of the venues I work at can raise serious questions about the safety of the bathrooms in terms of pathogens alone. The club scene is notorious for being a good place to find trouble, yet I have never been assaulted in a club. Isn’t it strange that on the sketchiest avenues where music is made, I’ve had plenty of opportunity to be assaulted by people I’ve never met before in places that are strange to me and yet where I am actually unsafe is within the confines of the United States Army Band, “Pershing’s Own,” a place I’ve worked for sixteen years surrounded by people (I thought) I knew well? A place that teems with signs displaying “our” shared values of respect, honor, personal courage and self-sacrifice, a place with policies on the wall that purport to protect me (and “we” purport to protect the nation!). Everything is on display but it's only for show, it's all an illusion, a smokescreen. Nothing is real. I leave the service trusting strangers more than friends and anything more than the military. Funny this life.
* These rumors, of course, were the dynamite planted at the very pillars of what I thought were strong relationships with these men. As soon as that dynamite was ignited, it was like our friendships never happened.
