My
two daughters love to hear stories from my tour in the US Air Force. We laugh when
we call them "war stories"—because I served mostly during the 1980s in a
software development group in Montgomery, AL.
The only war I fought was the war to integrate women into the military.
I
was the first female officer that most of my subordinates had ever
seen. They knew I'd just graduated from college and that I'd grown
up in a rural Mississippi town. They had me pegged as a naive, helpless, Southern belle. I was assigned to report to a civil servant who hated the idea of women in the
military and who thought it was impossible for an officer to be competent
without prior enlisted time. I was screwed on both counts.
I
know that my boss believed these things because he actually said so at staff
meetings--in front of the men I outranked. Other gems included:
- "There's
only one reason a woman would ever join the military—because she's a [gay female] or a [promiscuous woman.]"
- "The colonel is making me lie about the lieutenant on her performance report. I have to say she's good."
- "This code is brilliant. I don't believe the lieutenant wrote it."
- "I feel sorry for the lieutenant when she marries. No man worth having would ever want her."
Most
of the time, I chose to suck it up, but that last one got to me. I rose
from my end of the table and walked out of the room while the civil servant
yelled, "Beth, get back in here." Yes, he was using my first name—a blatant sign of disrespect.
I
stood in the center of the hallway, visible to my staff, obviously being insubordinate, struggling to decide what to do, close to falling apart all while knowing that, if I did, it would set back women-in-the-military in a major way. The division's
Chief Master
Sergeant (E9) approached me and asked me what was wrong. I just stared
at him, unable to speak. Then he heard what my boss was screaming at me.
Chief turned
and stalked into the conference room. It grew quiet. He said softly,
"Everyone out except [boss]." My staff filed out in silence. Chief kicked the door shut.
I never had trouble from my boss again.
At
his final enlistment ceremony,
Chief asked me to swear him in. On
the day he retired from the Air Force, he saluted me last. Both were extreme signs of respect.
Three decades later,
Chief contacted me on Facebook. Before friending me, he wanted to make
sure it was okay with my husband. (And let me tell you, I married a
man worth having.) Instead of Lieutenant and
Chief, we're Beth and Jim now. I'm one of the few folks he's in contact with from that time. I think it's because I'm
one of the "guys" worth knowing. (Back at you, Jim.)
I tell my daughters
these stories, and they find it so amazing how kick-ass I had to
be—because that's really not me now. My daughters shake their heads
in wonder, as if I'd been living in a fairy tale. No one has ever made them
feel less because they are female. No one has ever suggested that there are
boundaries to what they can achieve because they have an extra X
chromosome.
I did it for my daughters and for your daughters and for any child who is ever judged for factors beyond their control. And I couldn't have done it without men like Chief.
