Sarge
Re: Who is with Taylor Sirard?
I arrived at Big Mike's RV Camp in mid afternoon. Mike, who I soon learned goes by ‘Sarge,’ met me at the gate. Ironically, Big Mike was a slim man no taller than average height. He warmly clapped my shoulder with his free hand, clutching a large cigar in the other, then showed me where to park. Sarge explained what was available to me in the small town of Homerville, Georgia. More specifically, he shared the accommodations of his RV camp. Then, with swelling of his chest and a broad smile, he told me how he built his own “Shangri-la.”
Aside from a small house, there had been nothing on the land when he and his wife, Alice, arrived. He built the farm, RV park, and little bridges throughout the walking path. All of this was now open to visiting campers, no fee required.
Seeing the limited facilities of my mobile home, Sarge offered the use of both his family home and personal RV. The RV would always be open, and a knock on the front door, he assured me, would be welcomed by Alice. I could watch TV, use the computer, shower and do my laundry at liberty.
Sarge then left me to attend to the farm's baby goats. Minutes after, a couple staying at the camp brought me a mug of hot chicken noodle soup and invited me to join them at their campsite where they had a small fire. Our discussion confirmed the impression I had of Sarge as a warm, hospitable man.
That night, I was full of gratitude to have found Sarge's camp. I was looking forward to the seclusion of the small, country town. In my journal, I predicted it would be the perfect place to really connect with myself.
The next day, while Sarge was working outside, I took the opportunity to use the shower in his RV. I opened the door to a smell of stale cigar smoke. There was a full ashtray on a table along with an outdated PC and two potted plants. Overhead hung a flat-screen television accompanied by a large collection of DVDs—mostly sci-fi. A half full pot of coffee sat in the percolator with the light off. The dirt scattered across the linoleum floor led my eyes to a pair of slippers near the bed. I relished my first real shower in over a week.
Feeling renewed, I walked across the pasture and joined Sarge in some raking, which he had asked of me. It was then I noticed Sarge enjoys talking. Fortunately, I enjoy listening. So, once finished, I climbed up over the big wheel of his tractor and we drove back together.
I was invited into the RV and he served us each a bowl of off-brand corn flakes in half and half cream. Sarge offered coffee, which I accepted, then he politely told me to make it myself. I did this and sliced a melon in half for us to share.
Sarge functioned in quick bursts, whether it be gestures or speech. He jerked from one action to the next, sometimes not completing a task before starting a new one. With one great chest heave, Sarge finally settled across the table from me. As we ate, he began to tell me the stories of his life, one barreling after the other.
I learned about his parents. His father was a military pilot and his mother a travelling artist. Her tarot cards were the first thing he remembers playing with. As a young adult he had been surrounded by the famous people in her social circle: including Tennessee Williams, Donald Sutherland, and Truman Capote. I was skeptical, but the details of Sarge’s anecdotes checked out against my later research. These famous people were known to be in the same places, at the same time, and with the same character Sarge described. In separate conversations, Alice confirmed these details.
Believing or not, I was content to listen as Sarge narrated his life experiences. With a giddy relish he remembered Tennessee Williams.
"Now, T.W. was a true, southern gentleman. He talked low and slow, like this," Sarge imitated a smooth drawl. "He was cool, real cool." He emphasized the last two words with squinted eyes and a modest shimmy.
It was during his time in the service when Mike had become ‘Sarge.’ He told me about the Vietnam war, making as wide a space between us as the mobile home dining room allowed. The direction of his gaze remained towards me, but with these stories his focus shifted further out.
"They make movies about things I've done, but I don't watch them. I won't watch them," he said. The last words barely passed through Sarge's narrowing lips. Following his mouth, all parts of his body contracted. His hands abandoned animation. His shoulders rounded forward.
“Look at my right eye,” he said leaning across the table. As I looked he asked, “Notice anything?” The pupil appeared misshapen and enlarged.
“That one is bigger,” I replied. He told me the excess blackness, which I mistook as pupil, was shrapnel. Sarge said he had scars and metal all over. As he struggled to express the magnitude of the horrors he’d witnessed and inflicted, it was obvious the war had marked this man with more than explosive debris.
Sarge handed me his personal business card: “U.S.A. Special Forces/ Green Beret Retired Capt. U.S. Merchant Marines” it read. There were many stories he was not allowed to share, due to their confidentiality. He informed me training contras, 'independent contracts' for the U.S. government, and the rescue of missionaries were among them. I was left to fill in the gaps with my imagination.
I had recently watched ‘American Made’, a biographical film of Barry Seal. The movie tells the story of Seal’s journey from American pilot to smuggler for Nicaraguan drug lords. Similarly to Sarge, Seal was contracted by the United States government and involved in training contras. I pictured Sarge in scenes from the movie: flying in planes full of more cocaine than people, being released from foreign jails due to his connections, and coming back home to a luxurious lifestyle with his wife.
The details Sarge did share were far less glamorous. His military status took him and his crew to the most dangerous and gruesome corners of the Vietnam-era world.
Sarge told me he usually doesn't talk about the war with anyone but other veterans. Only they can understand how horrible it was, and how bizarre it was that he’d enjoyed it.
After conversing for hours, Sarge called Alice and told her to order us all dinner. He refused to take any money from me. The three of us ate Chinese take-out at the dining room table in the house.
Upon my arrival at Big Mike’s, Sarge had assured me of my safety. "I'm the only dangerous person here," he claimed, adding that he was proficient with a firearm. The people of Homerville either feared or respected Sarge, and stayed out of his way in both cases.
I remember a trip with Sarge to the town hardware store. Most employees were happy to see him and conversed gleefully. However, there was one staff member whose only reply to Sarge’s “Doing alright?” was a feeble "Yes, sir." That staff member's gaze had remained towards the floor as we walked past.
I felt safe on that drive into town, although Sarge drove nearly twenty miles over the speed limit. I wasn't bothered when he spent afternoons shooting at a target hanging from a tree. When he shared the threats he'd made to trespassers and the sheriff's suggestion to follow through, I remained unconcerned.
Sarge boasted a dangerous persona, something I never felt uneasy about. However, when he interacted with his wife, my whole body tensed up. He was short and demanding. In those moments I became aware of my gender and how being a woman might affect the way Sarge treated me.
When Sarge warned me about men who “aren't like him” I was perplexed. That night, I wrote in my journal, "It's a weird thing men warning women about men. Women usually know better than they do."
Throughout the eight days I spent Big Mike’s camp, I had many conversations with Sarge. Visiting his RV became part of my daily routine. I’d find Sarge working on a project, like assembling an antenna or mounting a new gun scope. I would then prepare us a pot of coffee to share as we spent the afternoon talking. We had a mutual fascination with each other's past, and how it had evolved into our respective presents.
He asked why I shaved my head, and why I had pierced my septum. He listened sympathetically when I explained that comments about physical appearance make me, and many other women, uncomfortable.
One day, Sarge asked me why I had decided to travel. I spoke about the first time I made my mental health a priority. At seventeen I decided to save myself, even though it meant leaving the people I love behind. This trip, I explained, is a continuation of my dedication to self care. Sarge said I was running away from responsibility. His definition of responsibility, he told me, is taking care of others that depend on him. I agreed with him that helping others is an important responsibility, but I must care for myself first.
That night, I thought about those who had depended on me when I was seventeen. Were they my responsibility? No, I thought, I was a teenager. That thought didn’t stop me from crying, as I realized the feelings of abandonment I could have caused.
A few days later, I returned from a solo trip to town to find some of my belongings moved and the extension cords removed from my site. I crossed the pasture to ask Sarge about them. Ignoring my question, he expressed his disbelief that I had left, for good, without warning. I assured him I would not. We restored my site, but twenty minutes later Sarge repeated, "I just can't believe you left without saying goodbye.”
“But I didn’t. I’m still here,” I reminded him, surprised at his betrayed anger.
On multiple occasions Sarge questioned me about loneliness. He wondered how I make it without intimacy. I gave my answer, and then he mourned the loss of affection between him and Alice. “Surely, being in a marriage void of a healthy relationship is more lonely than traveling the country alone,” I thought, but didn’t say.
[Content Warning: Sexual Harassment]
Sometimes, Sarge was inspired by our conversations to show me a philosophical movie from his collection. One evening, we watched 'The Fountain.' As the credits rolled he jumped up, turned the TV off, and stood across from me, settling his interlaced fingers against his thighs. His demeanor had an air of expectancy, like a dog hearing the word “treat.”
Before a movie showing on a separate evening, Sarge sat across from me with his hands crossed on the table. He wanted to ask me a question first, he said, and began by recounting his loneliness. I recognized his attempt to gain pity from me as a persuasive tactic.
I felt my chest tighten and I noticed that Sarge was closer to the door than I was. I heard the pulse in my ears, drowning out the words between "my bed" and "we wouldn't have to do anything else." My stomach turned. What had I done to make him think this was appropriate? I recalled all of the characteristics Sarge told me went into his dangerous persona. I wanted to scream no, and tell him that using pity to preface a request is manipulative, but then I replayed his reaction when he thought I’d left without saying goodbye. I thought about all of his hospitality and generosity and reminded myself to be grateful. I felt guilty for wanting to leave. Then, I thought about how every driveway was gated, requiring one to get out of their vehicle before and after passing through them.
I felt afraid. I felt dirty, as if I was doing something wrong. So, when Sarge finished his proposition, the only reply I could muster was, "I'll have to think about it."
While we watched the movie, all of my senses remained amplified. I wondered if saying no would have repercussions, and how severe they would be. I said no, anyway. As I walked back to my camper that night, I felt lucky that there were no immediate consequences.
Over the next couple (and final) days at Big Mike’s camp, I kept a greater distance from Sarge. I broke my daily routine of visiting his RV. Instead, I spent my time outside on the farm, at a local coffee shop, or in the house with Alice.
I am still grateful for my time there. The stories of Sarge’s life were worth listening to and sharing. As usual, the close interaction with someone else taught me things about myself and reminded me of things I already knew:
I arrived at Big Mike's RV Camp in mid afternoon. Mike, who I soon learned goes by ‘Sarge,’ met me at the gate. Ironically, Big Mike was a slim man no taller than average height. He warmly clapped my shoulder with his free hand, clutching a large cigar in the other, then showed me where to park. Sarge explained what was available to me in the small town of Homerville, Georgia. More specifically, he shared the accommodations of his RV camp. Then, with swelling of his chest and a broad smile, he told me how he built his own “Shangri-la.”
Aside from a small house, there had been nothing on the land when he and his wife, Alice, arrived. He built the farm, RV park, and little bridges throughout the walking path. All of this was now open to visiting campers, no fee required.
 |
| [Image: A close up of a donkey in a blue harness. Behind, several donkeys graze in the pasture. In the distance a row of RVs are parked.] |
Seeing the limited facilities of my mobile home, Sarge offered the use of both his family home and personal RV. The RV would always be open, and a knock on the front door, he assured me, would be welcomed by Alice. I could watch TV, use the computer, shower and do my laundry at liberty.
Sarge then left me to attend to the farm's baby goats. Minutes after, a couple staying at the camp brought me a mug of hot chicken noodle soup and invited me to join them at their campsite where they had a small fire. Our discussion confirmed the impression I had of Sarge as a warm, hospitable man.
 |
| [Image: A stable with light teal siding, accented by a red gate and door framing. On one of the stable doors hangs a matching teal sign with "nursery" painted in red.] |
That night, I was full of gratitude to have found Sarge's camp. I was looking forward to the seclusion of the small, country town. In my journal, I predicted it would be the perfect place to really connect with myself.
---
The next day, while Sarge was working outside, I took the opportunity to use the shower in his RV. I opened the door to a smell of stale cigar smoke. There was a full ashtray on a table along with an outdated PC and two potted plants. Overhead hung a flat-screen television accompanied by a large collection of DVDs—mostly sci-fi. A half full pot of coffee sat in the percolator with the light off. The dirt scattered across the linoleum floor led my eyes to a pair of slippers near the bed. I relished my first real shower in over a week.
 |
| [Image: An aerial shot of the table, described above, in Sarge's RV. Additional items on the table include: a computer mouse atop a mouse pad and quilted placemat, a TV remote, a cup of coffee, a small fan facing the window, a lighter, and a cigar cutter.] |
Feeling renewed, I walked across the pasture and joined Sarge in some raking, which he had asked of me. It was then I noticed Sarge enjoys talking. Fortunately, I enjoy listening. So, once finished, I climbed up over the big wheel of his tractor and we drove back together.
I was invited into the RV and he served us each a bowl of off-brand corn flakes in half and half cream. Sarge offered coffee, which I accepted, then he politely told me to make it myself. I did this and sliced a melon in half for us to share.
Sarge functioned in quick bursts, whether it be gestures or speech. He jerked from one action to the next, sometimes not completing a task before starting a new one. With one great chest heave, Sarge finally settled across the table from me. As we ate, he began to tell me the stories of his life, one barreling after the other.
I learned about his parents. His father was a military pilot and his mother a travelling artist. Her tarot cards were the first thing he remembers playing with. As a young adult he had been surrounded by the famous people in her social circle: including Tennessee Williams, Donald Sutherland, and Truman Capote. I was skeptical, but the details of Sarge’s anecdotes checked out against my later research. These famous people were known to be in the same places, at the same time, and with the same character Sarge described. In separate conversations, Alice confirmed these details.
Believing or not, I was content to listen as Sarge narrated his life experiences. With a giddy relish he remembered Tennessee Williams.
"Now, T.W. was a true, southern gentleman. He talked low and slow, like this," Sarge imitated a smooth drawl. "He was cool, real cool." He emphasized the last two words with squinted eyes and a modest shimmy.
It was during his time in the service when Mike had become ‘Sarge.’ He told me about the Vietnam war, making as wide a space between us as the mobile home dining room allowed. The direction of his gaze remained towards me, but with these stories his focus shifted further out.
"They make movies about things I've done, but I don't watch them. I won't watch them," he said. The last words barely passed through Sarge's narrowing lips. Following his mouth, all parts of his body contracted. His hands abandoned animation. His shoulders rounded forward.
“Look at my right eye,” he said leaning across the table. As I looked he asked, “Notice anything?” The pupil appeared misshapen and enlarged.
“That one is bigger,” I replied. He told me the excess blackness, which I mistook as pupil, was shrapnel. Sarge said he had scars and metal all over. As he struggled to express the magnitude of the horrors he’d witnessed and inflicted, it was obvious the war had marked this man with more than explosive debris.
Sarge handed me his personal business card: “U.S.A. Special Forces/ Green Beret Retired Capt. U.S. Merchant Marines” it read. There were many stories he was not allowed to share, due to their confidentiality. He informed me training contras, 'independent contracts' for the U.S. government, and the rescue of missionaries were among them. I was left to fill in the gaps with my imagination.
I had recently watched ‘American Made’, a biographical film of Barry Seal. The movie tells the story of Seal’s journey from American pilot to smuggler for Nicaraguan drug lords. Similarly to Sarge, Seal was contracted by the United States government and involved in training contras. I pictured Sarge in scenes from the movie: flying in planes full of more cocaine than people, being released from foreign jails due to his connections, and coming back home to a luxurious lifestyle with his wife.
The details Sarge did share were far less glamorous. His military status took him and his crew to the most dangerous and gruesome corners of the Vietnam-era world.
Sarge told me he usually doesn't talk about the war with anyone but other veterans. Only they can understand how horrible it was, and how bizarre it was that he’d enjoyed it.
 |
| [Image: Three black hats hung above an interior RV door frame. One hat reads, "SPECIAL FORCES AIRBORNE." Another reads, "DYSFUNCTIONAL VETERAN LEAVE ME ALONE." Lettering on the third hat is unreadable.] |
After conversing for hours, Sarge called Alice and told her to order us all dinner. He refused to take any money from me. The three of us ate Chinese take-out at the dining room table in the house.
---
I remember a trip with Sarge to the town hardware store. Most employees were happy to see him and conversed gleefully. However, there was one staff member whose only reply to Sarge’s “Doing alright?” was a feeble "Yes, sir." That staff member's gaze had remained towards the floor as we walked past.
I felt safe on that drive into town, although Sarge drove nearly twenty miles over the speed limit. I wasn't bothered when he spent afternoons shooting at a target hanging from a tree. When he shared the threats he'd made to trespassers and the sheriff's suggestion to follow through, I remained unconcerned.
Sarge boasted a dangerous persona, something I never felt uneasy about. However, when he interacted with his wife, my whole body tensed up. He was short and demanding. In those moments I became aware of my gender and how being a woman might affect the way Sarge treated me.
When Sarge warned me about men who “aren't like him” I was perplexed. That night, I wrote in my journal, "It's a weird thing men warning women about men. Women usually know better than they do."
---
Throughout the eight days I spent Big Mike’s camp, I had many conversations with Sarge. Visiting his RV became part of my daily routine. I’d find Sarge working on a project, like assembling an antenna or mounting a new gun scope. I would then prepare us a pot of coffee to share as we spent the afternoon talking. We had a mutual fascination with each other's past, and how it had evolved into our respective presents.
He asked why I shaved my head, and why I had pierced my septum. He listened sympathetically when I explained that comments about physical appearance make me, and many other women, uncomfortable.
One day, Sarge asked me why I had decided to travel. I spoke about the first time I made my mental health a priority. At seventeen I decided to save myself, even though it meant leaving the people I love behind. This trip, I explained, is a continuation of my dedication to self care. Sarge said I was running away from responsibility. His definition of responsibility, he told me, is taking care of others that depend on him. I agreed with him that helping others is an important responsibility, but I must care for myself first.
That night, I thought about those who had depended on me when I was seventeen. Were they my responsibility? No, I thought, I was a teenager. That thought didn’t stop me from crying, as I realized the feelings of abandonment I could have caused.
---
A few days later, I returned from a solo trip to town to find some of my belongings moved and the extension cords removed from my site. I crossed the pasture to ask Sarge about them. Ignoring my question, he expressed his disbelief that I had left, for good, without warning. I assured him I would not. We restored my site, but twenty minutes later Sarge repeated, "I just can't believe you left without saying goodbye.”
“But I didn’t. I’m still here,” I reminded him, surprised at his betrayed anger.
---
On multiple occasions Sarge questioned me about loneliness. He wondered how I make it without intimacy. I gave my answer, and then he mourned the loss of affection between him and Alice. “Surely, being in a marriage void of a healthy relationship is more lonely than traveling the country alone,” I thought, but didn’t say.
---
[Content Warning: Sexual Harassment]
Sometimes, Sarge was inspired by our conversations to show me a philosophical movie from his collection. One evening, we watched 'The Fountain.' As the credits rolled he jumped up, turned the TV off, and stood across from me, settling his interlaced fingers against his thighs. His demeanor had an air of expectancy, like a dog hearing the word “treat.”
Before a movie showing on a separate evening, Sarge sat across from me with his hands crossed on the table. He wanted to ask me a question first, he said, and began by recounting his loneliness. I recognized his attempt to gain pity from me as a persuasive tactic.
I felt my chest tighten and I noticed that Sarge was closer to the door than I was. I heard the pulse in my ears, drowning out the words between "my bed" and "we wouldn't have to do anything else." My stomach turned. What had I done to make him think this was appropriate? I recalled all of the characteristics Sarge told me went into his dangerous persona. I wanted to scream no, and tell him that using pity to preface a request is manipulative, but then I replayed his reaction when he thought I’d left without saying goodbye. I thought about all of his hospitality and generosity and reminded myself to be grateful. I felt guilty for wanting to leave. Then, I thought about how every driveway was gated, requiring one to get out of their vehicle before and after passing through them.
I felt afraid. I felt dirty, as if I was doing something wrong. So, when Sarge finished his proposition, the only reply I could muster was, "I'll have to think about it."
While we watched the movie, all of my senses remained amplified. I wondered if saying no would have repercussions, and how severe they would be. I said no, anyway. As I walked back to my camper that night, I felt lucky that there were no immediate consequences.
---
Over the next couple (and final) days at Big Mike’s camp, I kept a greater distance from Sarge. I broke my daily routine of visiting his RV. Instead, I spent my time outside on the farm, at a local coffee shop, or in the house with Alice.
 |
| [Image: Two roosters stand in front of a fence. Behind the fence are several geese outlined by the glow of the setting sun.] |
I am still grateful for my time there. The stories of Sarge’s life were worth listening to and sharing. As usual, the close interaction with someone else taught me things about myself and reminded me of things I already knew:
- Children can hurt children and it is not their fault. Healing from this is still important.
- Using guilt or pity to convince others is a form of manipulation.
- Re: "What had I done to make him think this was appropriate?" Nothing. It isn't. My existence as a woman does not automatically permit sexual advances.
- I do not have to do something I don't want to because I am afraid.
- I do not have to do something I don't want to because somebody was nice to me.
- I do not have to do something I don't want to because somebody has done something for me.
- I do not have to do something I don't want to in order to avoid an adverse reaction.
- For me, red flags include:
- Disrespecting those who no longer give someone what they want
- Making repetitive comments on my appearance
- Anger and betrayal in reaction to me enacting personal agency
- I should listen to my body. If something doesn't feel right, it isn't
---
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So often I find myself the victim of unwanted sexual advances, simply because I was nice to someone. It is instinctive for me to be kind, especially to those that seem like they need it the most. Unfortunately, kindness is often interpreted as interest. I try to be patient and understanding, but I've gotten to the point where now it just pisses me off. So, I try being distant and unapproachable, but that leads to me either being called a bitch or seen as a challenge to overcome. It is a constant struggle. We are not alone. Thank you for sharing your story.
ReplyDeleteThank you for sharing this. I can relate to that struggle; constantly monitoring how I am perceived to avoid unwanted sexual advances, while trying to not be off-putting. I hope the more we all talk about it, that will start to change!
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