FINDING THE GREEN

“People always ask you, if they see the military thing on your license plate, ‘Oh, was your husband in the Army?’ No boo, those are my plates,” says Christian Turner, a 30-year-old sergeant in the U.S. Army Reserves who’s served for the last 10 years. Along with Turner, there are roughly a dozen other women around the table at Clearview Golf Club in East Canton, Ohio, veterans of the Army, Navy, Air Force and Coast Guard.

With service careers spanning from 1959 to the present, each is nodding her head as Turner talks about what it’s like to feel disregarded, if not disrespected, as a woman in uniform; and it goes far beyond the parking lot. Stories of sexual trauma, suicide attempts, isolation, and lives redefined by Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) seem too numerous for a group this small—though not all of the women here had bad experiences in the military. Still, of the nine women at the table who are sharing their stories, three have children as a result of being raped while they were serving. At least two members of the group locked themselves in their own homes for more than a year after returning to civilian life. Several had their military careers cut short before they were ready to leave. And yet none of the women here is a victim, in the sense that not a single woman here has been ultimately broken by her challenges. On the contrary: the women here are stronger because they’re together, and they’re together in this room because of golf.

The golf comes via Clearview HOPE (Helping Our Patriots Everywhere), a women-specific veterans program started by LPGA legend Renee Powell and housed at the club that her father, WWII Army veteran William Powell, designed and built. There are other veterans groups that use golf as therapy—PGA HOPE from the PGA of America (for both men and women) and Combat Wounded Women Veterans Golf, part of Operation Game On in Southern California, to name but two—but for 50 or so women in Northern Ohio, few if any of whom held a golf club before coming here, Clearview is a kind of home, and at least one veteran credits it with saving her life.

As it does for many, the game gives veterans an individual sport that can be played in a group, or alone. It provides an opportunity for Zen-like focus, which can help to train the mind away from pain and distractions. And crucially, it provides camaraderie. For this group, that last bit is the most important benefit of Clearview HOPE: being welcomed into an understanding community free of judgement. That aspect of the program stands in particularly stark contrast to how most of the women reported being received into the military. According to the group, the first message they heard after joining was “keep up,” and it didn’t get much more encouraging from there. Few of their families supported their decisions to join and few of the women found support inside the military either. As Margaret Delillo-Storey, an officer in the Army from 1981 to 2003, puts it, “You cry in your pillow or whatever. You manage and you build up a tolerance and a resiliency to manage things on your own.”

As for your heart, “You lock it in a box,” another woman says.

All of the women report being hit on by their fellow male (often married) soldiers. Most report issues with being passed over for promotion due to their gender, being harshly evaluated for displaying emotions and routinely being caught in uncomfortable damned-if-you-do social conundrums.

“They would invite me along, and you just had to go with the flow,” says Mindy Cooper, 56, who served in the Army from 1983 to 1990. “We would go to the auxiliary officer’s club with the striptease dancers. They’re putting dollars in the bikinis and playing drinking games. And if you played along, you did well. I think I got a great job because I was one of the couple of women who would go and put up with it. Be one of the guys. That sort of was my perception. If they can forget you’re a woman and just see you as one of the guys, then you’re okay. It actually helps to be not too attractive and stay low on their radar.”

That seemed to sum up the experience of most of the women at the table, from the Vietnam era clear through to the present day, though it’s apparent that things have improved. The military has made great strides in integrating women over the years—combat positions are open to women as of last December—and it continues to push forward and to become more inclusive every day. But collectively the women here carry a specific kind of weight, one that women in uniform have carried for millennia and to which their male counterparts, no less heroes, certainly, nonetheless cannot relate.

When they come home, for some, that individual weight can seem too much to bear. But shared among the group, and with the game of golf, it is more than manageable. 

When I came back, “it was just hard to fit in,” says Ahrlinda Mitchell, an Army specialist from 1988 to 2000. “I felt like I was an outsider from another world or planet. It didn’t feel like I belonged anymore. I know I was here, but I wasn’t here. I was somewhere else. It took me years to feel like I was back.”

“Camaraderie,” says one woman, and it’s echoed by the others, who start completing each other’s thoughts for not the first time tonight: “Camaraderie—yes—we had that, sort of, when we were in the service. We did have it. That’s what golf, what this program gave us is, we’re not alone anymore. It’s a rebirth.”

“I never had a golf club in my hand,” says Dorothy Bell, 78, an Army specialist in 1959-1960. “Every time I drive down that driveway and come in here now, it’s like coming back home. It’s special.”

Barbara Hickman, a chief warrant officer and technical expert in communications in the Army from 1967 to 1989, stops me at the end of the night, an hour or so after the roundtable has concluded, and offers one more thought: “I loved my time in the service—we all did. I don’t think there’s one of us that wouldn’t enlist again.”

The following profiles have been adapted from individual interviews with three members of Clearview HOPE. Note that names marked with an * have been changed.

ARHLINDA MITCHELL

SPECIALIST

Army, 1988-2000

i got drafted while I was in high school. On my birth certificate it said “Aldo,” and so they thought I was a male. They had to redo my birth certificate to say Arhlinda. You remember the attorney Louis Stokes [the former U.S. Congressman]? They had to get him to get me out of the draft, to prove I was a female. And so years later when I decided to go into the Army, my parents weren’t too happy.

They reminded me of the money they paid to get me out the first time. I was bored with life. Divorced. I needed more money, like everybody. I wanted another career. And I went to do a little patriotic duty. I was deployed in the first Gulf War. I had some concerns… It’s the men. When you get there, they’re all like they’ve never been married or like they’ve never seen a female before. It’s like their first day in high school where they see a woman.

They disconnect with their family at home until they make that phone call, and you hear them, and they’re, “Oh, honey, how are you? How are the kids? How are they doing in school?” Once they hang up that phone, they’re back in high school again. That’s the most disheartening thing, when you hear that.

And then, your own troops sometimes… you feel pressured. Some men are like, “You’re over here all alone. Aren’t you lonely? Don’t you need somebody?” And you’re, “No, no, leave me alone.” You have to do your job, because it’s 24 hours, so a lot of times you’re out at night and you’re looking ahead, but then you’re constantly looking behind you to make sure nobody else is behind you, because you’re alone and you’re out in the desert.

When I got back, I worked at a hospital from 5:30am to 2pm. So I would get up at 4am, I get to work, and I come home, and I shut myself in. I would not go out of the house. I felt protected when I was inside.

I felt secure. The whole thing—drawn curtains. You couldn’t see, couldn’t see in. I shut myself in, and then I would go out at probably 11 at night and do grocery shopping. The neighbors, they thought the house was empty because I’d leave early in the morning. People are asleep. I’d come back home, they’re at work, I put my car in the garage. They never knew it. They thought the house was empty for five years.

Then I remember I went outside one day, and my one neighbor next door wondered how long I had been living there. I’d been living there nine years. And there were kids that lived to the side of me. They were playing in the yard as I happened to be watering the flowers, and they looked up at me and they went home screaming: “Mommy, there’s an old lady!"

They were like three or four. They were scared because they saw somebody on the porch. They weren’t used to a female there.

First day here [at Clearview HOPE], I was a little scared. Didn’t know what it was going to be like. I knew it was going to be golf, just for female veterans, and that made me feel a little more comfortable because there’s nowhere to go for just females. There are places for males, and they don’t make you feel comfortable at all.

Renee had to show us how to hold the club. I was frightened, but I was more comfortable after the first year, and this is so good. It’s the game, but it’s more the camaraderie.

I didn’t go out until I came down here. Then after coming here, which was six years ago, I went out. So if you think about it, after the service—I got out in 2000—it took me 16 years pretty much to go out. They would call, and I’d go out. Or after here I go out with a couple of the girls.

Part of that is trust; I trust these people. You have so much space. It’s freedom. You can hit that little ball. You go whack it and get your anxiety out. It’s beautiful out here, it’s calming. You can look up at the sky. Every now and then you hear a train whistle go by.

CATHY*

Logistics
Army, 1991-2013

i was at the [Army] school in Columbus, and the school was in a hotel. It was all guys and just me, we were all captains. And… yeah. One of the guys came into my room behind me… I reported it, but let’s just say he had a very common name, and when the school was over they couldn’t find him.

[Cathy stayed in the Army following the rape and was eventually deployed to Iraq.]

In Iraq, I was in charge of a construction yard there and it was all men. There were Iraqis there as well. There was this one night where the Iraqis were going to cook for us and I thought, “great, good.” But somebody pulled me aside and said, well you know who has to break the meat: the woman has to serve. And so we go in and I felt pressured to do it. I was in charge, but here I am breaking up the meat and handing it out to people before I could eat. I felt embarrassed, ashamed, like I’m somehow less of a person. The Iraqis, they thought it was normal. But my military guys, I don’t think liked it very much, I think they had my back. 

It was New Year’s Eve, and we had made a ball out of wood that would drop. We were construction, you know, and we built it. It was like “the New Year’s Eve ball.” We got mortared and the ball flew right over our heads. Then the next mortar came and hit our headquarters; it didn’t explode, but we had people working in there. I wasn’t physically injured, but I would say that’s when emotionally, mentally I was injured. I talked with the chaplain, who was very helpful. The chaplains don’t tell the command anything—they can’t.

I attempted suicide in Iraq probably five times, but I didn’t tell anyone. I had a bunch of over-the-counter pills. I had no idea what would kill me and what wouldn’t. To me, if I took all of them… The night I was about to take them the chaplain knocked on the door and asked if I was ok. I said yes and closed the door. But he knocked again and said why don’t you come out and talk. He saved my life that night.

Another night I had taken a bunch of muscle relaxers. I almost passed out, and someone took me to medical. I asked, “Can you die from taking a bunch of muscle relaxers?” They were like no, you’ll be ok. But then they asked, “You didn’t try to attempt suicide, did you?” I said no, and walked out. That was the one time that my chaplain told command. I don’t think he ever has to, but thank God he did; for my safety that’s what needed to happen. They discharged me for PTSD and I spent two years at Walter Reed [Army Medical Center for psychological treatment].

[Cathy says she was sexually assaulted again while at Walter Reed, this time by a civilian. She says the result of this assault was that they put her on a curfew, which she says felt like punishment even if it was meant as protection. After two years in the hospital she retired in 2013 and went home, where she stayed for more than a year inside.]

I found [Clearview HOPE] in May of 2014. I’d never been around women veterans. I thought I was the only one in this area, near Canton. I was so shocked when I came here—10 people! Wow, they’re all veterans. Learning golf was a little scary because I’d never held a golf club before, but Renee made it so easy.

I don’t think I’d be here today without this program. I truly believe it saved my life. Being out here, the space, out around people you can talk to and they would actually listen and understand what you’ve been through without fear of shame…

We even get together in the winter and fall when there’s no golf, but with golf itself, there’s something about it. You’re in control of that ball and that club and nobody else. It gives you kind of a sense of power, and it doesn’t matter if you hit it or not, you get another shot.

JANE*

rescue Swimmer

U.S. Coast Guard 2000-2010

I turned down a full-ride scholarship to a Division 1 school for swimming to join the military. I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to do with my life, and so I looked at the military.

I initially wanted to be a Marine, but I was such an exceptional swimmer and I got caught by a recruiter for the Coast Guard: “You can be catching drug dealers!” It sounded so exciting. I grew up one town over from here, I wanted to do something exciting, and so I joined.

I didn’t know what to expect. I went in pretty blind. I grew up in a town that was all white, all upper-middle class. We never really went out of state for vacation; we might’ve gone to Niagara Falls, I think that’s the furthest we ever left from here. I had a really good relationship with my parents. I was the oldest of three kids and the only girl. They weren’t real thrilled, but they loved me and they supported whatever I chose.

I felt very isolated to begin with. I went in very sheltered, very religious. I had never had an alcoholic drink before I joined the service. I get onto my first unit, and the first thing they want to do is take me out to a bar. There were maybe eight of us that night. I was the only girl. I felt the pressure straight up: we’re going to a bar, I’m going to have to drink. I’ve never had a drink, I’m underage. I’m 19 years old, this is what I was trying to avoid. This is why I didn’t go to college, because I didn’t want this.

It wasn’t a choice at that point. It was, “well, this is going to be my life. I’m assigned here until I make the next rank.” And so I made rank very quickly. Career-wise, I made a lot more transfers than most people because when it got uncomfortable, I found a way to be transferred out. Whether it was going to advanced medic school, whether it was getting training on the next size helicopter… Anything.

[Jane was raped and it led to her leaving the USCG.]

I didn’t get out of the military by choice. When I got out of the military I was a zombie. I don’t remember the first two years after I got out. I fought for a really long time just accepting that my service was going to end. I am exceptionally proud of the things that I’ve done—I could count on my fingers and toes how many women have done the job that I’ve done. 

Just about a year and a half ago, the first woman made warrant officer from that job, and I actually went through the school with her. It was hard because I looked at this article that I read about her and I’m like, that could’ve been me had things been different. Because I loved my job. I loved what I did. And the bottom just kind of fell out because of really asshole men. 

Coming home was defeating. I lost my sense of purpose. I didn’t know who I was. I came home pregnant. I have a beautiful daughter. But my career was destroyed. Who I thought I was was destroyed. And here’s this baby that’s dependent on me. Thank God for my parents, for backing me up the first few years. 

It took me a year and a half to accept the invitation to show up [to Clearview HOPE]. Never had a golf club in my hand. Being here has helped me tremendously. It is the only place in my life right now where I can go. There’s no judgement, I can unwind. I don’t have to be guarded in any way. I can just completely let my hair down. I can be 100 percent who I am. This group is amazing. I could pull any one of them as my partner in the cart for the night to golf and we can talk about anything. We can talk about nothing. Sometimes nothing is the best thing in the whole wide world. To just be out there, to hit things. To be away from all of the noise. I have a lot of anxiety problems, and so to be… Just be.

But I just want to reiterate: I really,  believe it or not, through all the horrors, I really miss my time in the military, and I really enjoyed it. It’s something that I’m proud of. But until I joined this group I wasn’t willing to preach it from the mountain tops that I’d served at all. This is really a special group of ladies.