I’m Trans and Queer and I Served My Country
What the Fourth of July Means to Me
Today is the Fourth of July. Fireworks will light the sky tonight, families will gather around grills, and flags will wave from porches and pickup trucks. For many Americans, this is a day of celebration—freedom, independence, national pride.
But I’m not one of them. For me, this day lands heavy.
I served six years in the United States Army Reserve, from 1983 to 1989 (yes, I’m that old). I come from a long line of white, working-class Americans who wore the uniform. Enlisting wasn’t some noble, wide-eyed dream of patriotism—it was survival. In the absence of affordable education, healthcare, or a stable job market, the military was one of the only “opportunities” available.
This is how the U.S. fills the ranks of its “volunteer” army: not with the children of the wealthy, but by preying on the poor and working class—especially Black, Brown, and Indigenous youth. And also kids like me.
I Served. I Still Don’t Belong.
I volunteered to serve my country. I’m supposed to be celebrated on days like today—thanked for my service, honored for my sacrifice.
But the truth is, even in uniform, I was never safe. Sexual assault of AFAB (assigned female at birth) people was as rampant back then as it is now, with little or no accountability.
As a queer person, I had to hide who I was. Long before “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” queer service members who were found out were forcibly separated from service with dishonorable discharges—some after a stint in Leavenworth military prison.
“Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” offered limited protections but also codified the imperative that we stay invisible. It may be gone, but its shadow still lingers.
For a brief time, queer and trans people were able to serve openly in the military. But now, we’re watching in real time as our rights are being rolled back across the country—and trans service members are once again being forcibly separated from duty. The government is issuing discharge code JDK, citing so-called “security reasons.”
Let me be clear: this code follows you. It affects your eligibility for jobs in federal, state, and local government, military contracting, and even public schools. It is a mark—a scarlet letter—that punishes people not for misconduct, but for being trans.
America’s Promises Are a Lie
This country loves to talk about “freedom.” But what kind of freedom demands you erase yourself to earn it? What kind of liberty cages immigrants, bans books, and throws millions of poor, elderly, and disabled people off of financial support and health care? What kind of democracy legislates people like me out of public life—or forces trans youth and trans elders alike to choose between safety and authenticity?
The answer is: a freedom for the few. A freedom based on whiteness, wealth, and compliance. A freedom that was never designed to include us.
Yes, I know I’m “lucky” compared to many living under more overtly oppressive regimes. But that doesn’t make the United States just. It makes it powerful. And that power has always been used to exploit, extract, and erase—at home and abroad.
The Exploited Backbone of the Military
Poor and working-class people—especially Black, Indigenous, and other people of color—are the U.S. military. We’re the engine behind its global reach and endless wars. We’re recruited with promises of college, career, and care—and often left with trauma, poverty, and betrayal.
Many of us, especially queer and trans folks, were told we should be grateful just to be there. We learned to self-police. To disappear parts of ourselves for “unit cohesion” or “national security.”
We were trained to see silence as strength. But now I see it for what it was: survival under coercion.
Grateful, But Not Proud
I’m not ungrateful. I know I have privileges that many others don’t. I can speak out. I can transition. I can vote—at least for now. And I don’t take those freedoms lightly.
But gratitude is not the same as pride. And I refuse to conflate the two.
To be proud of America would mean ignoring its foundation on stolen land and stolen people. It would mean pretending that mass incarceration isn’t the continuation of slavery. It would mean turning a blind eye to refugee children in cages—and to the Black and Brown lives systematically policed, punished, and pushed aside.
No Fireworks, Only Fire
So no, I won’t be celebrating the Fourth of July. I won’t pledge allegiance to a flag that has flown over occupied lands, internment camps, and prisons built to hold the descendants of slaves. I won’t sing the praises of a country that separates trans people from military service while pretending to honor our sacrifice.
Instead, I’ll mourn.
I’ll mourn for the migrants imprisoned at the border—and now all over the country, and even deported to El Salvador. I’ll mourn for the trans kids growing up terrified, and for our trans elders aging in isolation. I’ll mourn for the soldiers who died believing they were defending a freedom they would never get to live.
And I’ll rage.
I’ll rage at the institutions that disguise exploitation as patriotism. I’ll rage at a country that forces poor people into service, then treats them as disposable. I’ll rage—because rage is holy when people suffer.
What Does This Day Mean?
So what does the Fourth of July mean to me?
It’s not a day of celebration. It’s a day of mourning—for the people this country has harmed, the promises it’s broken, and the freedoms it denies. It’s a day of reckoning. A reminder that patriotism without accountability is just propaganda.
But it’s also a day of radical hope.
Hope that the people this country has tried to silence will keep rising. That our communities—especially when united—will always be stronger than nationalism. That love will outlast hate. That liberation is not a gift from the state, but a right we fight for together.
Toward a Different Kind of Freedom
I still believe in freedom. But it doesn’t come draped in red, white, and blue.
It comes from mutual care. From solidarity. From justice. It comes when we refuse to be silent. It comes when we protect each other—not just with words, but with action.
So no, I won’t be lighting fireworks tonight. I’ll be lighting a candle—for the migrants who never made it across, for the trans people of every age fighting to live, for the ancestors who dreamed of freedom, and for the descendants still demanding it.
And I’ll keep imagining a country that’s worth celebrating.
Not just for the few.
But for all of us.
Even if we have to build it ourselves.
Thanks for reading. If this resonated with you, share it. If you’re holding grief, anger, or exhaustion today, you’re not alone. There are more of us than they want us to believe. 🕯️🏳️⚧️✊