Pictured Cammermeyer alone and with fellow activists in Philadelphia for a history celebration.
It could be said that Grethe Cammermeyer deserves a quiet retirement. The career Army nurse who rose to international prominence for challenging the U.S. military's ban on homosexuals could choose to spend her days enjoying the serenity of the large modern house with the beautiful island view she shares with partner Diane Divelbess and one Scottie, one shih tzu, and one white shepherd.
But that's not Cammermeyer's way. Fortunately for us, the colonel's still fighting.
These days Cammermeyer, 63, leaves her home on Whidbey Island, Wash., to lecture at universities and national gatherings, often speaking on the evolution of social causes and civil liberties. She's also working on a book, a successor to the autobiographical Serving In Silence. Additionally, for the last five years she has chaired the Island County Democratic Party.
Her chairperson position meant that, during the unfortunate election of 2004, she was focused on local races. And since Washington didn't have a constitutional ban on gay marriage on the ballot, and since she and Divelbess had seized the opportunity to marry in Oregon, 'there was a certain denial of this being a year of loss,' she says. 'I was in denial about it because it wasn't directly affecting us here in the state of Washington.'
Months after the disheartening national election results, gays in Washington took a direct hit, a one-vote defeat of the bill forbidding discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation. To Cammermeyer, that 'felt like a kick in the gut.' She fumes over gays and lesbians contributing so much to society, only to see 'some jerk' vote against civil rights for us because of his religious beliefs or fear of having to defend his vote to the home folks.
'It makes me angry, it makes me frustrated, and it makes me feel that we've been demeaned by someone who's no better than us.'
Add to that the nullification of the Oregon marriages around the same time, and she says simply, 'It was not a good year.'
Her civil marriage in Oregon took place on March 19, 2004, in Portland. 'We actually eloped,' she says. 'Our reception was that we had a bagel and a latte.'
Later on they also held a religious wedding. At their house on July 24, in front of friends and their entire families, Cammermeyer and Divelbess were married by two Episcopal priests.
'That cannot be taken away,' says the colonel.
'We are indeed married, because the church did it.' She says it's nice that her eight-year-old granddaughter doesn't know that the civil marriage was nullified. 'Your wedding was so beautiful,' her granddaughter tells her. 'And she's a Mormon,' Cammermeyer adds with a wee smile.
It's impossible for Cammermeyer to forget her marriage was nullified. 'It reminded me very much of being thrown out of the military. Of that same sense of negation, of being less than, of being devalued.' She says, 'That one I'm not over,' and notes how she choked up at Harvard recently talking about it. 'That is a core, gut feeling that comes up even as I sit here and talk with you about it.'
Cammermeyer says that they just received a refund for the marriage license. That $60 Divelbess suggests they give to a group fighting for marriage rights.
On the defeat of the anti-discrimination bill in Olympia, Cammermeyer says we need to learn from the experience and figure out to how to succeed next time. She says, 'I continue to wonder how I can do more.' She believes, 'First, you live your truth. And you do that with dignity, with grace, and with visibility. Then you're active in your community,' whether that's the gay community, your workplace, or any other sort. As you live your truth, she feels, the misconceptions others have of you because you're gay, or former military, or a Democrat, weaken.
This larger question of how to budge people from a narrow world view—and we're all raised with bias, she points out—is one she's tackling in her book, tentatively called Living With Ambiguity. Cammermeyer says, 'What I've realized is all of the things I thought I knew for sure are not reality.' She's using her own experiences and those of other folks in chapters on 'taboo' subjects like religion, sexuality, the military, and family. 'What we ought to be looking at are the possibilities,' she says. 'How we change the dialogue. How we challenge people to think outside their familiar biases.'
A tall order. 'It will be a challenge to incorporate all those grandiose ideas into something readable,' she allows. Each time she thinks she's done with a section, more questions crop up, along with 'more ways of exploring a similar issue, which I think is healthy in terms of growth. It makes you realize that no matter how old you are there's still room to learn, to become better.'
Cammermeyer, who ran for Congress in 1998, is happy with her district's current representative, Rick Larsen. But she isn't ruling out the possibility of running for state office.
She has the shaking hands part down. At last year's Seattle Pride, she marched in uniform and carried the American flag with American Veterans for Equal Rights ( AVER ) . When the parade stopped at various points, individuals came out of the crowd to shake her hand. She theorizes, 'They know me, even though they don't know me. I think the other part is they know I'm speaking on their behalf when I can.'
She's well aware the movie made from her book, which starred Glenn Close as Cammermeyer, is used as a coming-out tool in families. She has many letters from people who relate to part or parts of her story, like losing a job, coming out to kids, or going through a divorce.
All this attention, even veneration, could make an officer's head swell. But Cammermeyer believes she's a symbol. 'From my perspective, it really isn't about me. It's about what they perceive, and what society and the media have created, and how they relate to that.'
Besides, she can still hear her mother saying, 'Come down to earth, prima donna.'
This year Seattle Pride conflicts with her spouse's new art show opening on Whidbey Island—otherwise Cammermeyer would be happy to don her uniform and march with AVER again.
'I wear my uniform at every inappropriate moment,' she says.
'To remind people of gays and lesbians who have to serve in silence in the military.'
As long as 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell' exists and people can't serve openly, and as long as gays and lesbians in the state of Washington can be fired from their jobs simply because of their orientation, Cammermeyer has a mission.
'Until that changes, those are the issues that I will be speaking out on behalf of,' she says.
As she girds herself for the next round of the struggle, the colonel is also having fun. She and Divelbess recently left their art-filled home and journeyed to San Francisco to attend the National Center for Lesbian Rights' gala. Cammermeyer was been asked to present an award to Glenn Close. Not the toughest duty the Bronze-Star winning soldier has ever drawn.
