From the Anthology
Emending Service: 2026 Veterans' Anthology
I don’t know
but I’ve been told
Airforce Wings
are made of gold.
In 1978, NASA introduced the first group of female astronauts. I marveled at their achievement. However, the patriarchal southern culture in Tennessee that formed my consciousness barred me from such aspirations. Men were breadwinners, and women subservient nurturers. As I moved toward adulthood, messages about what I should and should not do—what I could and could not be—exerted this hold over me.
I made the decision to get married as other women broke barriers in part because it seemed pragmatic but also because it was expected. I met my first husband, Alan Hall, in 1975 while attending the University of Tennessee. We were in a college-based Christian music group called Dayspring. Supported by local churches, we traveled around in a van; Alan played guitar, and I sang vocals. He was handsome, talented, and interested in dating me. Not to be deterred from academic goals, I agreed to see him only casually. Three years later, he graduated and delivered an ultimatum: accept his marriage proposal, or I would not see him again.
Years of struggling to work full-time while attending school had not resulted in a degree. With no parental support, I had to work all night and attend classes in the day. Still, I could not cover living expenses on minimum wage. But here was a young man promising that if I married him, I could finish college. I did not love him, but that did not concern me. Love, I had decided, was a myth anyway.
What I should have considered, however, was mental illness. Baptist Student Union directors Ken and LindaBowie warned me, but I did not li sten. The Bowies were missionaries on furlough from Peru. After that ended, they arranged for me to live with Ken's parents in Lawrence, Kansas and finish college at KSU. My friends were certain that Alan would bring me harm but could not articulate why. That lifeline might have spared me what followed, but I dclined their offer. Perhaps I feltunworthy of kindness or was afraid of disappointing them.
Alan's parents doted on him, their only child. Despite being 23 years old, having an apartment and a nice car, he had never been employed. Once out of school, he quickly determined that the work-a-day world did not suit him and became embittered. Instead of completing my undergraduate degree, Alan decided that I should support him as he pursued a master's. Though I qualified for only entry-level positions, I got a job in the insurance department at Fort Lauderdale’s Holy Cross Hospital and tried to make the best of it.
Alan asked his parents to pay for graduate school, but they countered that a married man should support himself. He concluded that I was the source of his unhappiness. A natural athlete, I bested Alan in sports. One day, we played tennis, and he zinged a shot well outside the line. When I called it, he motioned me to the net. Alan was 6'5" and 250 lbs. I was a little over 5'6" and weighed 130lbs. We argued. He reached over the net, picked me up, and positioned me horizontally. Smiling down at me, he swiftly withdrew his arms. A fleeting image crossed my mind: a magician pulling a tablecloth out from underneath dishes that remained undisturbed.
Crashing hard against the court, I injured my back. Months of physical therapy followed. The spasms were so intense that my fingers felt numb. Amidst the pain, I wondered if my life was worth saving. However, my Inner Voice sent a clear message: "Get out while you can." Quietly, I planned my escape.
Each time Alan abused me, he said it would never happen again. After the tennis court incident, he was solicitous, deciding we should start a family. Secretly, I continued oral contraception, biding time until I could get to a recruiter. A few months later, a Post-It note informed him of my departure and the end of our four-year marriage.
On my birthday, August 4, 1982, I was 26, marching in formation at USAF boot camp in San Antonio, Texas. In cadence with the call-response, 75 pairs of boots struck pavement: "I don't know, but I've been told. Airforce wings are made of gold!" For the first time in my life, I had employment that adequately fed and clothed me, in addition to providing access to healthcare and a career path.
But it almost wasn't so.
After a thorough entrance exam, the military physician declared me unfit. He explained that X-rays ordered to diagnose the cause of my wheezing revealed scarred lungs and a dual-deviated septum. This was common, he said, in adults who had chronic childhood bronchitis left untreated. Though lungs generally heal post-infection, a prolonged illness leaves scars that restrict inflation capacity.
He pointed to the scan of my face and jokingly he inquired if I was a pugilist. I did not know what that meant. Sighing, he said, “I am sorry, young lady, but between the lung problem and the nasal restriction, running in Texas heat could prove life-threatening. I cannot clear you to begin Basic Training.”
When he used the phrase, life threatening, I broke down. Through tears, I explained circumstances were already threatening my survival. Military service was my way out.
Silently, he held up the scans to the light again—now as evidence of my claim. Removing them from the file, he stamped it "Fit for Service." As I turned to leave the exam room, he added: "Good luck. You have made it this far. If you can pass PT, you deserve to become a USAF Airman."
As he suspected, basic training was a challenge. By the end of six weeks, I had excelled in every other category but the 1.5-mile run. On the last day, it was pouring rain, but the drill sergeant gave me one last chance. My flight mate, Cheryl, had already passed the test. But she volunteered to run beside me, shouting encouragement with every step: "Keep going. You can do it. Don't give up!"
Though rain-cooled air passed more easily through my lungs, my breathing became increasingly labored with each lap. When we finally crossed the finish line, Cheryl put an arm around my shoulder as we braced for bad news. The sergeant looked at his stopwatch, then at me — drenched, muddy, and wheezing. He hesitated, then said, "Congratulations, Airman!"
Later that day, I marched beneath a bright blue Texas sky, divorce papers like a passport in my pocket. My voice rose in response to the cadence call: Airforce wings are made of gold! The combined generosity of strangers — a doctor, a sergeant, and a flight mate altered the direction of my life that day. A future was once again possible.
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Angela Chaffin is a veteran who served in the Air Force as a Russian Linguist. She went on to have a career in Social Services. In retirement, she founded a CDC to bring about the economic revitalization of her neighborhood. She now lives in Akron, OH with her wife Stacy, a Navy veteran, their two dogs, and a very old and sassy cat.
