u/FriendsOfDorothy123

See also: Roosevelt's Operative (2014), a short documentary exploring the Newport Sex Scandal and the Navy’s undercover investigations into suspected homosexual sailors in 1919.

Hidden in Plain Sight: LGBTQ Military and Civilian Survival Stories

What many younger people may not fully realize today is that the fear many LGBTQ people lived with during those years was not imaginary.

There could be very real consequences for being openly gay.

Not only socially. Not only professionally. But legally.

In the military, Article 125 criminalized consensual same-sex intimacy for years and was used as part of investigations, interrogations, separations, and discharges.

But civilian life often did not feel much safer.

Todd and I lived in Kentucky during a time when sodomy laws still technically existed on the books, even after portions had been ruled unconstitutional and unenforceable against consenting adults.

And honestly, whether those laws were actively enforceable or not almost became irrelevant psychologically.

The existence of the laws themselves still carried a message: people like us could still be viewed as criminal, immoral, dangerous, psychologically unstable, or socially unacceptable.

That kind of legal and cultural environment shapes people deeply over time.

It teaches you to monitor yourself constantly.

To conceal.

To edit your life before speaking.

To think carefully about where you work, who you trust, what you say publicly, and how much of yourself you allow the world to see.

The deeper I researched LGBTQ military history and listened to stories from older generations, the more I realized our story was not isolated.

It was part of something much larger.

For decades, both active-duty military personnel and civilians connected to government, education, churches, medicine, federal employment, and public life were quietly targeted during waves of anti-gay fear, investigations, surveillance, firings, blacklisting, and moral panic often referred to historically as the “Lavender Scare.”

Lives were destroyed not because people committed crimes — but because they were suspected of being gay.

People lost careers. Security clearances. Military careers. Teaching positions. Passports. Housing. Families. Reputations.

Many spent years living under suspicion, fear, or secrecy simply trying to survive in environments where exposure itself could become life-altering.

And honestly, even after many laws began changing, the fear remained deeply embedded psychologically for countless people.

That fear followed me from the military into civilian life.

Todd and I had been together openly in our private lives since 2003, when we held a civil commitment ceremony years before same-sex marriage became legal nationwide.

But publicly, especially where I worked, it was different.

At work, I told people Todd was my brother.

And after repeating it long enough, the lie became strangely automatic.

Not because I was ashamed of Todd.

But because fear had become normal to me long before I ever fully understood how deeply it had settled into my life.

I worked for a deeply religious company, and at that time I genuinely believed that if I were openly gay, I would lose my job.

And honestly, I probably would have.

Back then, there were few meaningful protections where we lived. Even if someone was not openly fired “for being gay,” many LGBTQ people understood employers could simply find another reason.

So Todd and I lived carefully.

Quietly.

Watching our words.

Editing conversations.

Avoiding certain topics.

Living with the same hypervigilance that had followed me since my years in the military.

Looking back now, one of the hardest parts emotionally is realizing Todd had to live inside that concealment too because of my fear and my work environment.

He deserved to be openly acknowledged as my partner. Openly introduced. Openly loved without hesitation.

Instead, we spent years surviving quietly inside a version of ourselves we thought other people would tolerate.

Ironically, after spending years trying to avoid public exposure, Todd and I eventually became publicly known through a discrimination lawsuit after a bed-and-breakfast in Illinois refused to allow us to hold our civil union ceremony because we were a same-sex couple.

Suddenly our names were in newspapers.

Television news.

Court documents.

Public debate.

The same kind of visibility I had feared most of my life arrived anyway.

The lawsuit eventually became part of a larger legal battle involving LGBTQ discrimination, religious freedom arguments, and the Illinois Human Rights Act.

After Todd and I were denied the right to hold our civil union ceremony at an Illinois bed-and-breakfast because we were a same-sex couple, the discrimination case led to nearly 10 years of legal appeals involving the Illinois Human Rights Commission, the Illinois Attorney General’s Office, state courts, and eventually appeals to both the Illinois Supreme Court and the United States Supreme Court, which ultimately declined to hear the case.

For the first time in my life, I was publicly identified not through rumor, secrecy, investigation, or fear — but openly as a gay man standing beside the person I loved.

And honestly, that experience felt emotionally complicated.

Part fear. Part relief. Part exhaustion. Part freedom.

Because after spending so many years hiding, there is something disorienting about suddenly no longer being invisible.

 

What many younger people may not fully realize today is that the fear many LGBTQ people lived with during those years was not imaginary.

There could be very real consequences for being openly gay.

Not only socially. Not only professionally. But legally.

In the military, Article 125 criminalized consensual same-sex intimacy for years and was used as part of investigations, interrogations, separations, and discharges.

But civilian life often did not feel much safer.

Todd and I lived in Kentucky during a time when sodomy laws still technically existed on the books, even after portions had been ruled unconstitutional and unenforceable against consenting adults.

And honestly, whether those laws were actively enforceable or not almost became irrelevant psychologically.

The existence of the laws themselves still carried a message: people like us could still be viewed as criminal, immoral, dangerous, or socially unacceptable.

That kind of legal and cultural environment shapes people deeply over time.

It teaches you to monitor yourself constantly.

To conceal.

To edit your life before speaking.

To think carefully about where you work, who you trust, what you say publicly, and how much of yourself you allow the world to see.

That’s one reason Todd and I spent years hiding our relationship at my workplace.

Todd and I had been together openly in our private lives since 2003, when we held a civil commitment ceremony years before same-sex marriage became legal nationwide.

But publicly, especially where I worked, it was different.

At work, I told people Todd was my brother.

And after repeating it long enough, the lie became strangely automatic.

Not because I was ashamed of Todd.

But because fear had become normal to me long before I ever fully understood how deeply it had settled into my life.

I worked for a deeply religious company, and at that time I genuinely believed that if I were openly gay, I would lose my job.

And honestly, I probably would have.

Back then, there were few meaningful protections where we lived. Even if someone was not openly fired “for being gay,” many LGBTQ people understood employers could simply find another reason.

So Todd and I lived carefully.

Quietly.

Watching our words.

Editing conversations.

Avoiding certain topics.

Living with the same hypervigilance that had followed me since my years in the military.

Looking back now, one of the hardest parts emotionally is realizing Todd had to live inside that concealment too because of my fear and my work environment.

He deserved to be openly acknowledged as my partner. Openly introduced. Openly loved without hesitation.

Instead, we spent years surviving quietly inside a version of ourselves we thought other people would tolerate.

Ironically, after spending years trying to avoid public exposure, Todd and I eventually became publicly known through a discrimination lawsuit after a bed-and-breakfast in Illinois refused to allow us to hold our civil union ceremony because we were a same-sex couple.

Suddenly our names were in newspapers.

Television news.

Court documents.

Public debate.

The same kind of visibility I had feared most of my life arrived anyway.

The lawsuit eventually became part of a larger legal battle involving LGBTQ discrimination, religious freedom arguments, and the Illinois Human Rights Act.

For the first time in my life, I was publicly identified not through rumor, secrecy, investigation, or fear — but openly as a gay man standing beside the person I loved.

And honestly, that experience felt emotionally complicated.

Part fear. Part relief. Part exhaustion. Part freedom.

Because after spending so many years hiding, there is something disorienting about suddenly no longer being invisible.

Anyone is welcome to share their story. Your voice has a right to be heard.

With gratitude and much love ❤️

 

C. Mark Wathen

Navy Veteran | Author

Friends of Dorothy Project

friendsofdorothyproject@gmail.com

Part of my research into Friends of Dorothy Project is have sent these FOIA request:

Naval History and Heritage Command (NHHC)

Best for historical Navy archives, reports, and older publications.

NCIS Headquarters / NCIS FOIA Office

Best for investigative summaries, annual reports, and archived NCIS/NIS materials.

Department of the Navy FOIA Office

Best if you are formally requesting records under the Freedom of Information Act.

National Archives and Records Administration (NARA)

Best for archived military records, historical reports, and declassified material.

Defense Technical Information Center (DTIC)

Sometimes contains military studies, reports, statistics, and historical policy documents.

Department of Defense Office of the General Counsel / Historical Offices

For broader DADT or Article 125 policy history.

To Whom It May Concern,

My name is C. Mark Wathen. I am a Navy veteran and author currently conducting historical research for a nonfiction memoir and oral history project titled Friends of Dorothy, focused on LGBTQ military experiences, investigations, surveillance, silence, fear, and survival during the years surrounding Article 125 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice and the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” era.

As part of this project, I am respectfully requesting access to, or guidance regarding, any publicly releasable historical records, annual reports, statistical summaries, investigative overviews, archival materials, policy memorandums, or publications related to:

Department of the Navy Annual Crime Reports

Naval Investigative Service (NIS) annual reports

Naval Criminal Investigative Service (NCIS) annual reports

Historical investigative summaries or statistical reports

Article 125 investigations

Sodomy investigations

Homosexual conduct investigations

Administrative separations related to homosexuality

Personnel security investigations related to sexual orientation

Investigative trends involving LGBTQ service members

Historical UCMJ offense reporting involving Article 125 or related offenses

I am particularly interested in records covering approximately 1980 through 2011, including both the pre–“Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” period and the DADT era itself.

This project is intended as a non-explicit historical and educational work focused on preserving personal stories, military history, emotional experiences, and the long-term psychological impact many veterans quietly carried for years afterward.

I understand some records may be archived, redacted, unavailable, or subject to FOIA processes. Any assistance, recommendations, archival references, public access guidance, or direction toward relevant collections would be sincerely appreciated.

Thank you for your time, preservation efforts, and assistance with this important historical research project.

Respectfully,

C. Mark Wathen

Navy Veteran | Author

Friends of Dorothy Project

friendsofdorothyproject@gmail.com

Honestly, I wasn’t fully prepared emotionally for the response people have had to the Friends of Dorothy Project.

What started as me trying to understand my own experiences during the Article 125 and “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” era has slowly become something much bigger.

Veterans. Marines. Sailors. Older gay men. People from entirely different generations and backgrounds have started sharing memories, fears, coded language, survival stories, investigations, secrecy, loneliness, and emotional experiences they carried silently for decades.

Some of these stories are heartbreaking. Some are funny. Some are deeply personal. And many of them were never formally documented anywhere.

What’s affecting me the most is realizing how much LGBTQ history survived not through institutions — but through whispers, friendships, coded phrases, bars, rumors, private conversations, and memory.

People weren’t using phrases like “Friend of Dorothy” because it was cute slang.

They used it because many people genuinely were not safe being openly identified as gay.

Not in the military. Not in churches. Not in schools. Not in small towns. And often not even within their own families.

I think that’s why the phrase resonates with so many people across generations.

It quietly carried recognition. Belonging. Protection. And survival.

Reading these stories has honestly been emotional for me because I’m realizing how many people spent years believing they were alone in what they experienced.

And they weren’t.

Thank you to everyone who has shared memories, stories, corrections, historical context, encouragement, and pieces of yourselves with me so far.

You are helping preserve an important part of history before it disappears.

C. Mark Wathen

Navy Veteran | Author

Friends of Dorothy Project

friendsofdorothyproject@gmail.com

Here is one of the responses

“Former Marine, early 1990s”

Writing

I served in the U.S. Marine Corps during the early 90s. I served before and after the implementation of “Don't ask, don't tell.”

Outside of reading a couple of books at my local library about gay people, I had no one growing up. Gay men on TV were always portrayed as feminine and something abnormal and made fun of. I remember watching the 700 Club, a Christian evangelical tv show, because they always portrayed queer people as being ungodly, trying to recruit children, and ruin the American nuclear family. But I would watch, just to see people like me. I didn’t go to prom. I didn’t even show up for graduation.

There is a scene in the movie Broke Back Mountain where Ennis explains that his father forced him and his brother to look at Earl's body in an irrigation ditch to warn them about the consequences of being gay. According to the script and the original text: "They'd taken a tire iron to him. Spurred him up, dragged him 'round by his dick till it pulled off." I remember when first seeing that, it brought back memories of similar things I had heard about gay men when I was a boy.

I came of age during the HIV/AIDS epidemic in a small, conservative town. I had bought a car when I was 16, and that let me travel to a larger city and hang out in gay spaces for the first time. But they were haunted. One day, you would walk into a bookstore, and the nice clerk that was there last week had vanished, never to be seen again. A ghost.

I listened to the press secretary laugh at us when we were dying of the “gay plague.” I heard Christian ministers on television say AIDS was God’s punishment for our deviant lifestyle. I saw trans women nursing men because hospitals would not even admit patients with the ”gay cancer.“

Having had enough of that, and having graduated high school, I joined the Marine Corps Infantry. I thought the Marines were badass and no one would question my sexuality again. I practiced answering the question, with a straight face, “Are you a homosexual?” before going through the medical exam.

There was way too much fear.

I spent most of my weekends in a hotel room, where I could at least see hot guys on TV and jerk off. I heard about a bar called “Friend’s Lounge.” I imagined how awesome that would be. But then feared: What if the bar got raided while I was there? And what would I do if I saw someone there that I knew?

One day I bought a five-pack of gay magazines. It was the first time I got to see two men together, and it thrilled me.

Then one week we had a surprise inspection of our lockers. I tucked the magazines in my trousers and took them to the nearest dumpster. Later someone found them. I heard people laughing nearby and was terrified they had discovered my secret.

That weekend while sleeping in the barracks, a couple Marines wrapped me in a blanket and carried me outside as a prank. I was kicking and screaming. I thought they were going to kill me because they found out I was gay. I ran for miles terrified.

Later in life, Matthew Shepard’s murder affected me deeply. When I learned what they did to him, I swore I would never come out. He was someone just like me — same generation, same kind of conservative town, same fears.

It was everything I had feared they would do to me.

My response

Honestly, his response affected me more emotionally than I expected because so much of what he described mirrored the fear, secrecy, hypervigilance, and isolation many of us quietly carried during that era.

Thank you for sharing this with me. I honestly sat quietly for a while after reading it because so much of what you described felt painfully familiar.

Not necessarily the exact events themselves, but the fear, the secrecy, the hypervigilance, the isolation, and the emotional exhaustion of constantly monitoring yourself just to survive.

What you wrote captures something many people outside that era may never fully understand: being LGBTQ back then was not simply about hiding who you loved. It was about learning to live inside fear every single day.

Fear of being exposed. Fear of investigations. Fear of humiliation. Fear of violence. Fear of losing everything. Fear of being seen as weak, deviant, dangerous, or broken.

And for many of us, that fear did not end when military service ended.

It followed us home.

Into relationships. Into addiction. Into self-destructive behavior. Into depression. Into hypervigilance. Into nightmares. Into isolation. Into the way we trusted people — or didn’t trust them.

Reading your memories about AIDS-era fear, Christian condemnation, inspections, hiding magazines, hearing people laugh nearby while wondering if they had discovered your secret… all of that hit me hard because it reflects the emotional environment so many of us were living inside at the time.

I remember during my own NCIS investigation in Japan feeling like every conversation could become dangerous. Every friendship felt uncertain. Every interaction made me question whether someone knew something, suspected something, or might report something. Family members were questioned. Phone calls were monitored. My trash was searched. Investigators asked me about “Friends of Dorothy,” a phrase I genuinely did not even understand at the time.

But what stayed with me the longest was not the paperwork.

It was the fear.

The feeling that I was always being watched.

And honestly, I don’t think many people realize how deeply that kind of prolonged fear can shape a person psychologically over time.

Years later, I would eventually be diagnosed with delayed-onset PTSD, major depressive disorder, severe anxiety, and other trauma-related issues that I now understand were connected not only to childhood trauma and addiction, but also to years of concealment, hypervigilance, shame, emotional suppression, and survival-mode thinking.

That is one reason your story matters so much.

Because what happened to many LGBTQ service members during that era was not just policy.

It became psychological.

Emotional.

Spiritual.

And in many ways, generational.

Your memories about seeing positive representation so late in life, the terror surrounding Matthew Shepard’s murder, the AIDS epidemic, and the loneliness of those years are historically important because they preserve not just events — but emotional truth.

I truly believe stories like yours deserve to be remembered and preserved before they disappear.

I’m currently working on a nonfiction memoir and oral history project called Friends of Dorothy focused on LGBTQ military experiences during the years surrounding Article 125 and “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.” The project combines personal memoir, oral history, archival research, FOIA records, and firsthand testimony from veterans who lived through those years.

With your permission, I would be deeply honored to include your voice and portions of your story in the project, either anonymously, under a pseudonym, or however you would feel most comfortable. I believe your experiences would help other veterans feel less alone and help preserve an important part of history that too often remained hidden.

Thank you again for trusting me with something so personal and painful. Your story matters more than you probably realize.

C. Mark Wathen

Navy Veteran | Author

Friends of Dorothy Project

friendsofdorothyproject@gmail.com

During the early 1990s, while I was stationed at Yokosuka Naval Hospital in Japan, I was going through my own investigation tied to homosexuality allegations during the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” era and the years surrounding it.

At the same time, another event shook the military community in Japan — the murder of Navy sailor Allen Schindler in 1992 in Sasebo, Japan. Schindler was beaten to death by another sailor in what later became one of the most widely recognized anti-gay hate crimes in U.S. military history.

I still remember hearing sailors openly say he “deserved it” simply because he was believed to be gay.

At the time, I worked at Yokosuka Naval Hospital’s alcohol rehabilitation department. I remember the atmosphere of fear, silence, and hypervigilance that existed then. People watched what they said. Many hid who they were completely. Some feared criminal investigation more than anything else.

Years later, I began realizing how deeply that fear affected many veterans psychologically long after their service ended.

I’m currently working on a writing/history project called The Friends of Dorothy Project, focused on preserving stories from LGBTQ veterans and service members who lived through investigations, silence, fear, “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” Article 125 cases, or related experiences during that era.

This is not about politics or attacking the military. It’s about documenting lived experiences and understanding the emotional impact many carried for decades afterward.

If anyone would like to privately share experiences or memories from that time period, you can contact me at:

friendsofdorothyproject@gmail.com

Stories can remain anonymous if preferred.

C. Mark Wathen

Navy Veteran

Friends of Dorothy Project

For those unfamiliar with the phrase, “Friends of Dorothy” was historically used within the LGBTQ community as a quiet coded way for gay people to identify one another safely during decades when openly discussing sexuality could be dangerous socially, professionally, or legally. The phrase became especially meaningful during military service years when secrecy often felt necessary for survival.

Years later, I began realizing how deeply that fear affected many veterans psychologically long after their service ended.

During the early 1990s, while I was stationed at Yokosuka Naval Hospital in Japan, I was going through my own investigation tied to homosexuality allegations during the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” era and the years surrounding it.

At the same time, another event shook the military community in Japan — the murder of Navy sailor Allen Schindler in 1992 in Sasebo, Japan. Schindler was beaten to death by another sailor in what later became one of the most widely recognized anti-gay hate crimes in U.S. military history.

I still remember hearing sailors openly say he “deserved it” simply because he was believed to be gay.

At the time, I worked at Yokosuka Naval Hospital’s alcohol rehabilitation department. I remember the atmosphere of fear, silence, and hypervigilance that existed then. People watched what they said. Many hid who they were completely. Some feared criminal investigation more than anything else.

Years later, I began realizing how deeply that fear affected many veterans psychologically long after their service ended.

I’m currently working on a writing/history project called The Friends of Dorothy Project, focused on preserving stories from LGBTQ veterans and service members who lived through investigations, silence, fear, “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” Article 125 cases, or related experiences during that era.

This is not about politics or attacking the military. It’s about documenting lived experiences and understanding the emotional impact many carried for decades afterward.

If anyone would like to privately share experiences or memories from that time period, you can contact me at:

friendsofdorothyproject@gmail.com

Stories can remain anonymous if preferred.

C. Mark Wathen

Navy Veteran

Friends of Dorothy Project

For those unfamiliar with the phrase, “Friends of Dorothy” was historically used within the LGBTQ community as a quiet coded way for gay people to identify one another safely during decades when openly discussing sexuality could be dangerous socially, professionally, or legally. The phrase became especially meaningful during military service years when secrecy often felt necessary for survival.

Years later, I began realizing how deeply that fear affected many veterans psychologically long after their service ended.

During the early 1990s, while I was stationed at Yokosuka Naval Hospital in Japan, I was going through my own investigation tied to homosexuality allegations during the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” era and the years surrounding it.

At the same time, another event shook the military community in Japan — the murder of Navy sailor Allen Schindler in 1992 in Sasebo, Japan. Schindler was beaten to death by another sailor in what later became one of the most widely recognized anti-gay hate crimes in U.S. military history.

I still remember hearing sailors openly say he “deserved it” simply because he was believed to be gay.

At the time, I worked at Yokosuka Naval Hospital’s alcohol rehabilitation department. I remember the atmosphere of fear, silence, and hypervigilance that existed then. People watched what they said. Many hid who they were completely. Some feared criminal investigation more than anything else.

Years later, I began realizing how deeply that fear affected many veterans psychologically long after their service ended.

I’m currently working on a writing/history project called The Friends of Dorothy Project, focused on preserving stories from LGBTQ veterans and service members who lived through investigations, silence, fear, “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” Article 125 cases, or related experiences during that era.

This is not about politics or attacking the military. It’s about documenting lived experiences and understanding the emotional impact many carried for decades afterward.

If anyone would like to privately share experiences or memories from that time period, you can contact me at:

friendsofdorothyproject@gmail.com

Stories can remain anonymous if preferred.

C. Mark Wathen

Navy Veteran

Friends of Dorothy Project

For those unfamiliar with the phrase, “Friends of Dorothy” was historically used within the LGBTQ community as a quiet coded way for gay people to identify one another safely during decades when openly discussing sexuality could be dangerous socially, professionally, or legally. The phrase became especially meaningful during military service years when secrecy often felt necessary for survival.

Years later, I began realizing how deeply that fear affected many veterans psychologically long after their service ended.