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The California sun poured through the large windows of Admiral Tom Kazansky’s office. It lit up the walls, which were lined with awards, framed photos, and plaques, one of them being the one he won in 1986 at top gun.
Tom sat behind his desk, his dress blues.
Across from him sat a young journalist from The New York Times. She looked slightly nervous as she balanced a notebook on her lap, a small recorder placed between them on the desk. This interview was a big deal, not just for her but for anyone familiar with Tom Kazansky’s story. He wasn’t just one of the Navy’s most decorated officers; he was also its highest-ranking openly gay officer.
“Thank you for making time for this, Admiral Kazansky,” the journalist said, her voice careful but steady.
Tom gave her a polite smile: “You’re welcome.”
Usually, he turned down almost all avoidable interviews over the years, but this one felt important. He want one to involve his marriage into politics, it would only make him vulnerable to attacks from the many people who wanted him to resign. But ten years since the repeal of DADT—it’s a good time to reflect on everything that’s happened.
The journalist nodded: “It’s an honor to speak with you, Tom. Let’s start with how you feel, ten years later, now that you’re the highest-ranking openly gay officer in the Navy. That’s a huge milestone.”
Tom leaned back slightly in his chair, his eyes drifting for a moment to a framed photo on his desk. It was a candid shot of him and Pete, his husband, both laughing during a Navy event. His expression softened as he replied.
“It’s humbling,” he said. “When I first spoke out during that hearing ten years ago, I just knew I couldn’t keep living a lie. Looking back now, I’m proud of how far we’ve come—not just me, but the Navy as a whole. I’m proud to have been part of that change and grateful I’ve been able to serve as my true self ever since.”
The journalist smiled, sensing how much the moment meant to him: “That hearing really was a turning point,” she said. “Not just for you, but for the entire movement to repeal DADT. Can you share what was going through your mind on that day?”
Tom’s expression shifted slightly, his lips curving into a faint smile as his eyes grew more reflective: “I was terrified,” he admitted. “Not about standing before the subcommittee or even the possibility of losing my career. By then, I’d come to terms with those risks. I was forced to live with these fears for so long. What scared me was the thought of failing—failing the men and women who were counting on somebody like me to speak up, and failing to make a difference when it mattered most.”
He paused, leaning forward slightly as he spoke: “But at the same time, I felt a sense of clarity, a purpose I hadn’t felt in years. I’d spent decades living in fear—fear of being found out, of losing my husband, of losing everything. That day, I finally decided I couldn’t live in fear anymore. And if speaking out could help even one person, it would be worth it.”
The journalist nodded, scribbling in her notebook: “You mentioned your husband. Over the years, your relationship has become a symbol of change and progress for so many people, but you still refuse to acknowledge publicly who he is. Why is that so?”
Of course Tom knew that there were going to be harder questions, but he had not expected them to come up so early on. What had he signed up for?: “there are still many voices calling for me to retire, even if they are slowly dying out. I still don’t want to risk my husbands privacy. Of course many friends and fellow service members are aware of his identity, but the thing is; would I be asked to reveal his personality if he were a women? I don’t think so. I am not aware of instances where it would be necessary to publicise his identity.”
Bingo.
That shut the question down real quick.
“Right …,” she scrambled through her notes: “How has your relationship evolved now that you’ve been able to live openly for the last decade?”
Tom’s expression softened immediately at the chance of being able to brag about his wonderful husband: “It’s been freeing,” he said with a small smile. “We’ve been together for over thirty years now, but those first twenty-four… they weren’t easy. Loving someone in secret, especially in careers like ours, was exhausting. Every deployment, every social event where I had to call him my ‘friend’ or my ‘guest,’ every lie we told to protect ourselves—it took a toll. On both of us.”
He paused, his voice growing more thoughtful: “But when DADT was repealed, everything changed. For the first time, I could hold his hand in public without fear and I could introduce him as my husband, not my ‘plus-one.’ And maybe most importantly, I could finally give him the credit he deserved for all the sacrifices he made for me and my career. My husband is the strongest, the most supportive and most loving person I know. I wouldn’t be here without him.”
The journalist smiled warmly: “That’s so inspiring. I’m sure your story gives hope to so many people, especially younger service members who might be struggling. Can we talk about your time at Top Gun? It’s legendary, of course, but I imagine the pressure of keeping your relationship a secret must have added a whole other layer of difficulty.”
Tom chuckled softly, the sound breaking through the weight of the moment: “Top Gun was intense,” he admitted, his voice carrying a mix of fondness and gravity. “It’s where the best pilots in the world go to prove themselves, and the competition was unlike anything I’d experienced before—or since. Every day was a challenge, and I thrived on that. I wanted to be the best, and Top Gun gave me the chance to push myself to my absolute limit.”
He paused, leaning back in his chair: “It is about becoming the best person and best Pilot one can be. I wasn’t in a relationship with my partner during our time at Top Gun. In fact, we weren’t even friends. We were rivals. If you had told me then that we’d end up spending our lives together, I probably would’ve laughed in your face.”
The journalist raised her eyebrows, intrigued: “Rivals? That’s a surprising twist. What was the dynamic like between the two of you back then?”
Tom’s lips curved into a wry smile: “he was, and still is, one of the most talented pilots I’ve ever flown with. But back then, we were like oil and water. He was cocky, reckless, and had this tendency to fly by the seat of his pants. I, on the other hand, was all about discipline and precision. We clashed constantly—on the ground, in the air, you name it. I thought he was irresponsible, and he thought I was uptight.”
He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk as he spoke, his voice carrying a mix of nostalgia and something deeper: “In that environment, rivalry was the norm. Everyone wanted to be the best of the best, and that meant out-flying, out-thinking, and out-strategizing everyone else. But with him, it was personal. He had this ability to get under my skin like no one else. Every time I flew against him, I felt like I had something to prove—not just to him, but to myself. He pushed me in ways I didn’t fully appreciate until much later.”
The journalist leaned in, her curiosity evident: “So how did things change between the two of you? How did you go from rivals to… everything you are now?”
Tom’s smile softened, and for a moment, he looked past the journalist, his gaze distant. “It wasn’t overnight,” he said quietly. “After Top Gun, we were about to live separate lives again. We were from different squadrons and we were about to return to them after graduation, but I guess fate struck. We flew a mission together, the one I got my first two air to air shot downs.”
His tone grew heavier, the memory clearly vivid in his mind. “That mission was a turning point—for both of us. Seeing him in action that day, watching him risk everything to save people who needed him… It changed how I saw him. For the first time, I saw beyond the cocky pilot and realized there was so much more to him. He saved my life, I saved his … and I think that’s when we both started to let our guards down. Slowly, over time, the rivalry turned into something else.”
The journalist’s pen paused mid-note, her interest piqued: “Do you think the rivalry helped lay the groundwork for your relationship?”
Tom nodded thoughtfully: “In a way, yes. That rivalry forced us to see each other’s strengths and weaknesses up close. It made us push ourselves to be better, and it made us respect each other—even if we didn’t admit it at the time. By the time we reconnected after the Layton mission, there was this foundation of mutual respect that we could build on. The rivalry had burned away all the pretense, and what was left was… real. Honest. That’s when we realized how much we truly valued each other.”
The journalist smiled warmly. “That’s a powerful journey—from rivals to life partners.”
Tom smiled back, the warmth in his expression unmistakable. “It’s not the story I expected, but it’s the one I wouldn’t trade for anything. Looking back, I’m grateful for every moment, even the hard ones. Because without those rivalries and challenges, we wouldn’t be where we are today.”
The journalist leaned in slightly, her curiosity evident: “Did anyone ever suspect? Or did you manage to keep everything completely hidden?”
Tom’s eyes twinkled with a hint of humor: “Oh, I’m sure some people had their suspicions. No, I’m not just sure, I know for a fact that many people guessed,” he said. “Pilots are trained to notice the smallest details. But back then, the culture was very much ‘don’t ask, don’t tell.’ Even if someone had their doubts, most attempted to not bring it up. And honestly? Most people didn’t care. They just wanted to know if I could do my job. And I could. The ones who cared about our relationship were our friends and all of them have been nothing but supportive. Apparently we were not even the only not straight couple in our closer circle,” Tom laughted as he thought about Hollywood and Wolfman.
The journalist smiled: “It sounds like you earned a lot of respect during your time there.”
Tom nodded: “I did. Respect isn’t given—it’s earned. And I worked hard for it. Harder than most, because I felt like I had to prove myself twice over. Not just as a pilot, but as someone who was hiding a part of himself. I didn’t want anyone to think I was less capable because of who I loved. So I made sure they couldn’t. To be quite frank, I’m still making sure they can’t”
The journalist hesitated, then asked gently, “Do you ever think about how different your career might have been if you’d been able to serve openly from the start?”
Tom’s expression grew thoughtful. “I do,” he admitted. “It would have been a different career, no question. But I try not to dwell on the ‘what ifs.’ I’m proud of what we have accomplished, and I’m proud of the life my partner and I built, even if we had to fight for it. And now, knowing that the next generation doesn’t have to face those same struggles—that makes everything we went through worth it.”
The journalist shifted slightly in her seat, her tone cautious but curious: “Were people ever… let’s say, less than supportive? Not necessarily to you directly—I would guess that your rank has kind of shielded you—but toward your partner after you came out publicly during the hearing? Did you ever face open discrimination?”
Tom’s expression darkened slightly, though he maintained his composure. He leaned back in his chair, fingers interlacing as he considered his words: “Unfortunately, yes,” he said after a moment. “I’ve been in the military long enough to know that no amount of rank or respect makes you immune to public scrutiny. Of course not from the civilian population, but from my subordinates. Direct discrimination usually comes from higher ups and there were only very few people who could have held back or ended my career. People might have been too smart to say anything directly to me, but my now husband… he wasn’t in the same position. And once the hearing happened, and people started connecting the dots, found out his identity and he became a target for some of the uglier reactions.”
The journalist tilted her head, empathy clear in her expression: “What kind of reactions are we talking about?”
Tom’s jaw tightened. “The passive-aggressive kind, mostly. A few snide comments at events, some cold shoulders in meetings, and, on one occasion, an outright refusal to work with him. He is a damn good pilot and officer—one of the best, in my opinion—but for a while, it felt like some people only saw him as the husband of ‘Iceman,’ the guy who spoke up at that hearing. To them, he wasn’t a person; he was a symbol of change they weren’t ready for. Since he is not in the eye of the public, he became the victim of slurs and some nasty attacks, which I, of course condemn, no matter who they are directed against.”
He paused, his voice growing firmer. “The hardest part wasn’t the overt actions—it was the subtle stuff. The whispers behind his back, the people who would conveniently ‘forget’ to include him in important conversations or decisions. It chipped away at him, and I hated seeing that. He deserved better. Every single person in a similar position deserves better. They deserve to be trea the way they are; just normal people.”
The journalist’s pen moved quickly across her notebook: “How did you handle it?”
Tom’s gaze sharpened: “We handled it together. He not the kind of person to back down, and neither am I. When things got tough, we talked about it. We leaned on each other. And when necessary, I made it clear that any disrespect toward him or any other queer service member was unacceptable. I didn’t need to throw my weight around often, but when I did, it was effective.”
He leaned forward slightly, his expression softening: “But honestly? He handled it better than I did. He’s got this incredible resilience, this ability to rise above the noise and focus on what matters. He reminded me, time and again, that the people who truly mattered—our friends, our colleagues who supported us—far outweighed the voices of the few who didn’t.”
The journalist smiled. “It sounds like you both made a strong team, even during those tough times.”
Tom’s lips curved into a small, fond smile. “We always have. And those tough times only made us stronger. If anything, they reminded us why we fought so hard to be together in the first place.”
The journalist nodded thoughtfully. She glanced down at her notes before speaking again: “You mentioned being protected from the scrutiny of fellow officers due to your rank. But what about the general public? How did they react to your coming out during the hearing?”
Tom sighed softly. He did not like to think back to that time, it had been hard for both of them. With a hearing that lasted less than ten minutes, he shoved himself and Pete into the spotlight for months: “Divided,” he said simply. “That’s the best way to describe it. For every message of support I received, there was a letter or comment from someone who felt… differently, I suppose. Some people couldn’t reconcile the image they had of me—a decorated officer, a fighter pilot—with the fact that I was gay. They acted as if being honest about who I was somehow diminished everything I had accomplished.”
He leaned back in his chair, his gaze steady: “It was tough at first. The media amplified the controversy, of course. Headlines like ‘Iceman Melts the Navy’s Traditions’ or ‘Top Gun Hero Turns Culture Warrior’ were everywhere. There were accusations that I had an ‘agenda’ or that I was using my position to force change. None of it was true, but that didn’t stop the noise. All I wanted to do was to give a voice to everybody who did not have one prior. In my opinion that is what a good leader does. I want people like me to feel heard and represented.”
The journalist frowned: “That must have been incredibly frustrating to be framed by newspapers.”
“It was,” Tom admitted. “But at the same time, it was eye-opening. For every critic, there were people who stepped up to defend me—current and former service members, veterans, civilians, even people who had no connection to the military but believed in equality. Their support meant the world to me. It reminded me why I spoke out in the first place. This is not about me, it’s about the thousands of service members who were forced to hide, who were scrutinised or even dismissed from service. All I whished to do was to show those, that it’s possible to serve as who they are.”
He paused, his expression softening slightly. “The hardest part wasn’t the criticism directed at me—it was seeing how it affected my husband. He wasn’t used to being in the spotlight, and suddenly, our personal lives were being dissected by strangers. There were articles speculating about us, people digging through public records and even some that need a pretty high clearance to access, even a few who attempted to show up uninvited at our home. It was invasive, and it took a toll.”
The journalist’s brow furrowed in concern: “How did you both cope with that level of scrutiny?”
“We leaned on each other,” Tom said firmly. “It wasn’t easy, but we knew it would pass. We focused on the people who mattered—our family, our friends, our colleagues—and we tuned out the rest. We are alas to have a support system. We reminded ourselves why we chose this path, why being honest was so important. And in the end, it made us stronger. It reaffirmed that our relationship, our love, was worth fighting for.”
The journalist smiled warmly: “That’s incredibly inspiring. Do you feel like public opinion has shifted since then?”
Tom nodded slowly. “It has, absolutely. Over time, the controversy faded, and people began to see me for what I’ve always been—a dedicated officer doing my job to the best of my ability. The repeal of DADT, and the broader cultural shifts that followed, helped normalize things. Younger generations of service members are coming in with a completely different mindset. They don’t see someone’s sexual orientation as a big deal, and that gives me hope.”
He paused, his voice growing reflective: “Change takes time, but it happens. And looking back, I’m glad I was part of that change, even if it wasn’t always easy.”
The journalist’s expression shifted, her curiosity deepening as she flipped to a new page in her notebook: “You’ve spoken a lot about the personal and professional challenges you faced after coming out, but I want to ask about something a bit different. Given your position and public profile, do you think your outing has made you more vulnerable to hostile forces? Has it ever been considered a security risk?”
Tom didn’t answer immediately. He sat back slightly, his fingers steepling as he considered the question: “That’s a fair question,” he admitted. “And the honest answer is—yes, in some ways, it has.”
The journalist’s pen scratched over the page, waiting.
Tom continued, his tone carefully measured: “The moment you step into the public eye—whether by choice or circumstance—you become a potential target. It’s not just about being a high-ranking officer; it’s about what I represent. In some countries, I’m seen as the epitome of what’s wrong with the ‘rotten West.’” His lips curled slightly in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “An openly gay admiral, a fighter pilot who stood up and challenged the status quo? I’m a propaganda goldmine for regimes that want to paint the U.S. military as weak, as corrupt, as morally compromised.”
The journalist’s brows furrowed: “So you’re saying you’ve been used as a political pawn?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Tom said, exhaling through his nose: “I’ve seen the footage. State-controlled media in certain countries have aired entire segments about me, about how my existence is proof that the West is crumbling. They twist my words, frame me as some kind of symbol of decay. It’s not about me, personally—it’s about what I represent. I’m a convenient target for their narrative. I think most female officers in a similar rank have faced similar situations.”
She scribbled something down, then looked up: “Does that ever worry you? Not just for yourself, but for national security?”
Tom was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded: “I’d be naive if I said it didn’t cross my mind. It’s one thing to be used as a talking point, but the real concern is how adversaries might try to exploit that image to undermine trust—both within the military and among our allies. There’s always the risk of disinformation campaigns, attempts to divide us. If they can make people believe that our forces are weaker, that our leadership is distracted by so-called ‘social issues’ instead of national defense, then they gain an advantage.”
“Have you ever felt like you were actually in danger because of it?”
Tom hesitated, then gave a slow nod: “There have been threats,” he admitted. “Both from extremists abroad and from certain individuals at home. Some of them are just the usual noise that comes with being a public figure, but some… some have been serious enough to warrant investigation. There was a period after the hearing when my security detail had to be adjusted. And my partner —he’s had to be careful, too. There are people out there who see us as a symbol of something they hate. And hate,” he added, his voice darkening slightly, “can be dangerous.”
“That must be a heavy burden to carry.”
Tom exhaled, then gave a small shrug: “It comes with the territory. I knew what I was signing up for when I decided to speak out. And I don’t regret it.”
She studied him for a moment: “But you have to admit, the idea of an openly gay admiral would have been unthinkable when you first started your career.”
Tom’s lips quirked: “Unthinkable? An outing back at that time would have been career-ending. Hell, even suspicion alone could’ve ruined someone back then. The fact that I’m sitting here, talking about it openly, is proof of how much has changed. But that doesn’t mean the fight is over. There are still people—inside and outside the military—who think someone like me shouldn’t be in this position.”
The journalist glanced down at her notes. “Do you think those people, whether in the military or in politics, could actually pose a risk to your career? Could they try to push you out?”
Tom considered that. “Could they try? Sure. But they’d have a hell of a fight on their hands.” There was a steely edge to his voice now. “I’ve spent my entire career proving myself. Every mission, every command, every decision I’ve made—I didn’t just get my rank on a silver plate; I fought for it. And I didn’t do all of that just to back down now because some people are uncomfortable with who I am.”
“You don’t strike me as someone who backs down easily.”
Tom chuckled. “That is an understatement.”
She smiled: “So what keeps you going? What makes you stay in a system that hasn’t always made it easy for you?”
Tom leaned forward slightly, his expression softer but no less determined. “Because this is my home. My squadrons, my sailors, my fellow officers—this is where I belong. I believe in this country, in its ideals, even when we don’t always live up to them. And I believe in the people who serve alongside me. If I walk away, if I let the pressure push me out, then what message does that send to the next generation?”
The journalist nodded slowly. “So in a way, you are still fighting. Just in a different kind of battle.”
Tom smiled, but there was something knowing in it. “The fight never really ends. It just changes.”
She flipped to another page in her notebook: “Given everything we’ve talked about—your career, the challenges you’ve faced, the security concerns—what do you think your legacy will be?”
Tom was quiet for a long moment.
“I do not care if people remember my name. What matters to me is that the next generation has it a little easier than I did. If there is a young recruit out there who does not have to hide who they are, if there’s an officer who can focus on their job instead of living in fear—then I’ve done what I set out to do.”
The journalist smiled. “That is a powerful legacy.”
Tom nodded. “I’d like to think so.”