When I joined the Army in 1992, my first introduction to military life was my drill instructor’s “we all wear green” speech. He was a Black man, a Vietnam veteran—sergeant first class—and the recruits looked up to him immediately. His desire for respectful interaction was surprising to us recruits who were expecting something a bit more comparative. Right from the get-go he was teaching us how to treat one another. Anti‑racism was clear from day one, the opposite of the stereotype Full Metal Jacket portrays.
Inclusivity wasn’t limited to my DI. At the time my training unit was one of the last all‑female battalions; an all‑male battalion trained in the adjacent quad. Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was already rumbling and would become official policy months later, but the atmosphere felt, imperfect as it was, like a move toward a more equitable military. My lead DI was quietly authoritative, steadfast, and committed to intersectional inclusion. Near the end of training he told us that without women the military would be “much less than it is.” Current administrative rules about what can go on dog tags make the military less than it should be as well.
He stood up for me later in training when another DI teased me about my name. I learned he was pagan when we got our dog tags and discovered there wasn’t an officially recognized faith code for his beliefs. Dog tags indicate a service member’s faith so that traditions—like last rites—are honored. He listed “Catholic” on his tags because the imagery felt closest to his beliefs. I chose “Other.” One squadmate who was Wiccan chose “No Religious Preference.”
On Sundays, those listed as “Other” or “No Preference” often stayed in the barracks for chores—boot polishing, uniform pressing, barracks cleanup—while others attended religious services. Sometimes I went along just to get out of the barracks. It felt unfair that, because Fort Jackson lacked services for “Others,” we were assigned work while Christians received time off.
At my first duty station, friends in Personnel Services made me a contraband pair of dog tags. I remember feeling emotional when my buddy gave them to me: in all caps under my name, social, and blood type read “PAGAN.” I wore them proudly. Leadership knew, and—like Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell—didn’t make an issue of it. During my service, internal rank‑and‑file pressure, command surveys, and soldiers’ time were used to push against outdated policies restricting faith codes and non‑traditional partnership recognition. Minority religions were present across the force in my experience: another pagan practitioner was involved in family readiness programs, heathens performed blóts, and Wiccans held initiation circles.
In 2001, Veterans Affairs adopted a new procedure and approved the addition of emblems of belief for other faith groups for military headstones, much by the hard work of Circle Sanctuary, a non-profit nature Spirituality Church, also known as their Pentacle Quest. I would end my active enlistment time right about when it became official for Pagan and Earth-centered traditions to be an official religious preference on dog tags and service records (circa 2007). Between more women serving side by side with men, the inclusion of openly serving queer community members, and more faiths being recognized, it seemed like the Department of Defense was maturing and becoming a place of diversity, equity, and inclusion. Oh, right, DEI was part of our annual training, too.
Two decades after that adoption, servicemembers may again be forced to choose “Other” or “No Preference” because the inclusive coding system that guides chaplains and caregivers has been narrowed. That matters: chaplains are often the frontline support for faith practices, including in combat. The current U.S. Secretary of Defense used this policy change to roll back equity and equality, reflecting a broader push toward privileging one religion over others.
Civil‑rights and advocacy groups are challenging the policy. American Atheists filed a FOIA request, and the Military Religious Freedom Foundation is speaking out. Lawmakers, including the co‑chairs of the Congressional Freethought Caucus and a coalition of Utah legislators, have applied pressure and demanded answers.
You have a voice: contact your senators to urge them to require the Pentagon to recognize all belief systems (Paganism, Humanism, Atheism, etc.)—for example, by inserting a provision in the next National Defense Authorization Act or attaching a funding rider to defense appropriations to prevent enforcement of the restrictive system.
My rebellious dog tags spent decades as just dog tags—no rebellion needed—until now. Stored in my footlocker at Villa Westwyk, they remain a symbol of resistance and proof that change is possible and worth protecting.
