Shoot Like a Girl Read online

  His question was met with silence for several seconds. None of us liked the plan, I can guarantee it, but we didn’t have any better suggestions. We glanced around nervously at one another, all of us racking our brains for any other ideas that might not be by the book. Then the FE piped up.

  “Hey, why don’t you try going zero G for a sec? Maybe the gas we have left will hit the top of the tank and shake something loose.”

  We looked around. It sounded a little crazy, but might it work? At this point we were ready to try anything, absolutely anything, to avoid ditching out in the dark, cold abyss below us. We nodded at one another, and Finn started a sharp climb. At the crest, he dumped the collective to reduce power significantly and nosed the bird over. We all floated, held down only by our seat harnesses, as unsecured gear flew everywhere. The recovery at the bottom of the maneuver made the pit of my already uneasy stomach drop, but we leveled out without incident.

  The extra time we had taken pulling this maneuver would definitely put us in a bind if we ended up having to ditch, but we knew it was at least worth a shot. It was time to hit the tanker one more time to see if it had worked. I think we were all holding our breath.

  We hit the basket on the first try and climbed up to the refueling position. The C-130 was already aware of the issues we were having due to our multiple plugs, so there were a lot of eager faces looking at us from the window of the cargo door. I flipped the switch to begin the fuel transfer, and we all stared at the gauge. A quiet moment ticked by: nothing. Then the needle quivered and started to move.

  “Fuel flow established!” I exclaimed to huge cheers. I keyed the mic and relayed the good news to the tanker. I could hear the relief in their voices as they went from possibly being our overhead search support back to just being our tanker. I drew a shaky breath and started to laugh, listening to my crew doing the same.

  Maintenance would never figure out what had happened, but I knew I had my FE to thank for keeping us out of the drink. His suggestion to try the unorthodox maneuver was due to his deep knowledge of the system, not because he had read the suggestion in some checklist. That mission wouldn’t be the last time that a Flight Engineer’s vast systems knowledge would likely save my life.

  We hit the tanker for the fourth time on night-vision goggles without any issues, and the mood on board lightened. As we came in to land at the airfield in San Diego that night, the runway and taxiway lights beneath us made it seem as if we were descending down upon a blanket of stars. We were all aware of what had nearly happened, and the jokes we were throwing back and forth as we approached the airfield were tinged with an undercurrent of almost wild relief.

  As we descended, my happiness began to dissipate.

  Man, I needed to pee.

  ONE

  When I looked up into the stands and saw my parents, my dad waved at me as if to say, “Only seventy-five more minutes, right?” I flicked a glance across the field at my teammates hammering our opponent at the far end. When you’re the goalie on a top-ranked high school soccer team, you learn to expect not to see much action.

  It was a beautiful autumn Texas day, and the sky overhead was a deep, dark blue. I heard a rumble in the distance, but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, so I knew it had to be one of the F-16s flying out from Bergstrom Air Force Base in Austin. I craned my neck upward to catch a glimpse of the beautiful bird. There it was. My eyes traced its arcing path across the sky. It was so beautiful, I couldn’t tear my eyes away . . . THUMP.

  The ball bounced off of my forehead, and immediately, two important things happened: 1) I became the second-string goalie, and 2) I learned an important lesson about staying focused on the task at hand. It was important to have dreams, but if all you did was envy those who were living out your dreams, you would never manage to achieve them yourself. Dream big, then force yourself back down to earth to keep plugging away at the minutiae that will bring those dreams within reach.

  After the game my dad ruffled my hair as we walked to the car.

  “Don’t sweat it, sweet pea,” he said softly in his heavy Alabama drawl. “Least they didn’t score on ya. You’ve already lettered in tennis anyway.” His words were sweet as always, but they did little to assuage my humiliation.

  —

  My dad stood only about five inches above my five-foot-four frame, but he was thick through the arms, chest, and stomach. His full head of salt-and-pepper hair was always combed back neatly, and he was rarely without a bushy mustache. He was sort of a George Clooney meets Burt Reynolds meets Foghorn Leghorn type, and I loved him with all of my heart. David wasn’t my biological father, but he had raised me since I was about ten.

  My “real” dad, an abusive, racist jerk, was long gone by then, thank goodness. After a terrifying marriage to my biological father, my mom had found her Prince Charming in a gassy cowboy who could laugh until his face was red and he couldn’t breathe. My stepfather was the one who showed me what real love was. I wasn’t his child, but he loved me just the same, not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

  Everyone in my family knew my dream was to become a fighter pilot, which was something I’d been talking about ever since I was a little girl. I knew it the first time I saw Star Wars. I wanted to be Han Solo, flying the Millennium Falcon through an asteroid field. David, a Vietnam vet, taught me what it meant to serve my country, and he did not distinguish between men and women on that topic. He never once discouraged my ambitions by telling me girls couldn’t fly jets in combat, even though at the time no woman had ever done so.

  “Sweet pea, if you wanna do it, I’m sure you’ll do it,” he always told me. David taught me that the warrior spirit wasn’t only for men. He never said it in so many words; he just treated me the same as his own son, my stepbrother, Jeremy. He never said that I was strong “for a girl” or the bravest “woman” he’d met. I was always just strong or brave to him. Becoming a pilot wouldn’t be tough “for a woman.” It would be a great challenge to undertake, and he’d be proud of me just for trying. That was David. He had my back, no matter what, until suddenly, he didn’t anymore.

  —

  My first memory as a four-year-old little girl was seeing my biological father push my mother through a plate-glass door. My ten-year-old sister, trying to protect our mother, hit him in the back to stop him from going after her, and I sat on the fireplace and watched helplessly as he chased her around the circular ground floor of our tiny two-story house in Fairfield, Connecticut.

  Elaine darted under the archway to the dining room, around the table and chairs, and through the swinging door to the kitchen with him hot on her heels. She made it around at least once before he caught her by her hair. My father had my sister by the throat a foot off the ground against the wall in the dining room while my mother screamed that he was hurting her and to let her go. I hugged my legs tight, arms around my knees, with my eyes closed, trying as hard as I could to pretend this wasn’t happening, that this wasn’t my life.

  I don’t know if it was at that moment or sometime later, but I knew I would never—ever—find myself trapped like that again: weak, unable to protect those I love from evil. But that was definitely the moment I figured out what feeling I hate most in the world: fear.

  My mother, Grace, grew up in Jacksonville, Florida, in an incredibly abusive home herself. I suppose that is why she put up with the treatment she received from my biological father for so long; she didn’t know any different. She came to feel as if she deserved the abuse for some reason, and to this day she is always quick to believe the worst about herself.

  At seventeen years old, my mother had hoped my father was rescuing her from her violent upbringing, but instead she found herself right back in the nightmare she was so familiar with. Her children were the only thing that made her happy, and my sister and I were the center of her world. Elaine and I were just over five years apart, but we grew up in two very differen
t worlds. Despite our father’s violent outbursts, Elaine was still a daddy’s girl, whereas I was closer to my mom. This enormous difference in our personalities continues to drive a wedge between us to this day; our worldviews are completely different. I feel like I was the lucky one—I was seven years old by the time my mother finally got us out, but my sister was already fourteen.

  I credit a lot of my life’s success to my mother’s courage in getting us away from my biological father. Honestly, though, it wasn’t until he cheated on her and left her for a short time that my mother finally managed to escape the monster. And although I was only seven, she confided in me when my father had called her, trying to convince her to come back to him. He told her that he wanted her to bring my sister and me back to live with him so that we could all be together, that he would put blankets over our heads before shooting us with his shotgun and then would turn it on himself. We could finally be a happy family together, in heaven.

  We got on a plane to Texas soon after that phone call. My teenage sister gave my mother a hard time about leaving all her friends, but if my mom had gone back to him, I wouldn’t be the person I am today. More likely, I’d be dead or at least in jail for finally giving my father what he deserved. Every once in a while, when someone calls me brave, I think: Hell, flying helicopters under fire in Afghanistan is nowhere near as scary as the thought of being that little girl again.

  —

  By the time I got hit in the head with that soccer ball, I had already decided I would become a combat pilot. But at the age of sixteen, I had no idea how complicated the path I’d end up taking would be. I did know that if I wanted to achieve my goal, I had to be the cream of the crop, so I set out to be the absolute best at everything I did. Over the coming years I would end up playing tennis, soccer, volleyball, basketball, and track while also participating in cheerleading and marching band. The band at our high school was a pretty big deal, always competing for the top state honors, and despite that one low point as a soccer goalie, I always enjoyed competing—working hard and playing hard.

  As it turned out, one of my most momentous decisions in high school came early, at the beginning of my freshman year, when I decided to run for class president. After I won, I was thrilled to get the chance to develop a wonderful relationship with our class sponsor, a Navy man, Mr. Dewey.

  Mr. Dewey was a big early supporter of my dreams, echoing the things my parents had always told me about my natural leadership abilities and my courage. He became my mentor and my guide throughout the rest of my high school years. When it came time to obtain letters of recommendation for college my senior fall, I naturally sought out Mr. Dewey. As a veteran, I knew he’d be proud of me for applying for an ROTC scholarship. I had never mentioned my dream of being a military pilot to him, and given his experience, I was looking forward to his insight.

  A few days after I’d made the request, I stopped by his classroom to pick up the letter. Mr. Dewey, with his thinning combed-over hair and a rotund belly, was sitting behind his desk, sealing an envelope, when I walked in.

  “Hey, Mr. Dewey,” I called out cheerfully.

  No response.

  He was usually so friendly and kind, but that day Mr. Dewey didn’t even look up at me as he handed me that sealed envelope.

  “Here. Good luck,” he barked. Then he picked up his pen and started making notes on some papers in front of him. I was clearly being dismissed.

  Something must be wrong with him, I thought. Perhaps someone in his family was sick?

  “Um, thanks. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it . . .” I almost asked him if he was okay, but when he abruptly turned away from me, I decided he wanted to be alone. I hesitantly left, concerned about whatever he must be going through.

  As I walked down the empty hallway, between rows of quiet lockers, I looked down at the envelope I held in my hand. It was only then that I started becoming suspicious. Why did he choose to seal it, rather than let me read it? I wondered. We had always had such an open relationship. It seemed strange. I studied the letter intently, trying to see if I could read any of it through the envelope. I couldn’t read any actual words, but I could tell that he had failed to sign the form that accompanied the letter. Since I knew I couldn’t submit the letter unsigned, I decided to take that as justification to open the envelope.

  What I found inside blew my mind. Mr. Dewey’s recommendation was anything but. Instead it was a scathing description of my lack of leadership ability, discipline, and drive—the exact opposite of what he had told me time and again over the past few years.

  Now, I’ve never been the type to burst into tears, but losing my temper? That was something I often had trouble controlling. I didn’t even think twice about turning on my heel and storming down the hall to his classroom to demand an explanation of why he would lie about me on one of the most important letters of my life.

  Without a single thought about the potential backlash, I threw open his door, startling him as he sat there, still grading papers at his desk. The door slammed into the doorjamb as I burst into the room, holding up the opened letter.

  “What the hell, Mr. Dewey?”

  My fury immediately melted into despair when I saw the look in his eyes. Instead of the guilt or shame I expected, since he had just been caught doing something underhanded and dishonest, he was looking at me with utter disgust.

  “Watch your language, young lady. How dare you open that!” he sneered at me. “What’s the name of your recruiter? I’m going to call him and let him know what you’ve done.”

  “How dare I? Are you kidding me? Is this how you really feel about me?” I managed to sputter out, crushed by the betrayal.

  His expression softened slightly, but the disdain remained.

  “The Navy is no place for you, Mary. What are you trying to prove? This isn’t a game. Defending our nation should be left to the strong, and it’s no place for a woman,” he said, shaking his head firmly. “You can still do great things. Maybe one day you’ll be the CEO of your own company! Trust me. You’ll thank me one day.”

  For once in my life, no witty retort rolled off my tongue. I was in shock. Years later I’d look back at this and see it for the example it was. Mr. Dewey was simply the first of many people I would soon meet, a faction of American citizens who truly believed they had to protect me (and protect our nation’s military) from harm by denying me the opportunity to serve. At that moment, however, in my first-ever experience with discrimination, I was devastated. In disbelief, I quietly turned and left his classroom.

  I had developed a strong relationship with my recruiter over the last year, as I’d been navigating the process of trying to join the Navy, so I immediately called him from a pay phone in the cafeteria. My hands were shaking as I dropped the change into the phone. Now that the anger had passed, I could feel my eyes begin to well up with unshed tears. I braced my fingers on the side of the phone, trying to hold my hand steady enough to dial his number.

  When I related the story to him, he was silent. Then I heard him draw a slow breath.

  “MJ, I’m going to be honest with you. You might as well get used to this,” he said.

  Mr. Dewey might be the first, he told me, but he would most certainly not be the last person to try to stop me.

  I grew up that day. The path ahead of me wouldn’t be an easy one.

  Good. I never liked things easy.

  —

  Despite this speed bump, I was happy to be accepted into the University of Texas at Austin. Now that I was slightly jaded about the Navy after my experience with Mr. Dewey, I joined Air Force ROTC instead. It was so exciting to be in a group of one hundred fifty kids who were all just a little bit like me: We all got made fun of in high school for not smoking pot, we all secretly thought we were Maverick from Top Gun, and we all wanted to serve our country. I knew I had found my home.

  While I atten
ded regular classes just like all the other UT-Austin students, I was consumed with all things Air Force. In my biology class, I would write in tiny print in the corner of my notes the entire Code of Conduct. I can recite it word for word to this day:

  ARTICLE I: I am an American, fighting in the forces which guard my country and our way of life. I am prepared to give my life in their defense.

  ARTICLE II: I will never surrender of my own free will. If in command, I will never surrender the members of my command while they still have the means to resist.

  ARTICLE III: If I am captured, I will continue to resist by all means available. I will make every effort to escape and aid others to escape. I will accept neither parole nor special favors from the enemy.

  ARTICLE IV: If I become a prisoner of war, I will keep faith with my fellow prisoners. I will give no information or take part in any action which may be harmful to my comrades. If I am senior, I will take command. If not, I will obey the lawful orders of those appointed over me and will back them up in every way.

  ARTICLE V: When questioned, should I become a prisoner of war, I am required to give name, rank, serial number, and date of birth. I will evade answering further questions to the utmost of my ability. I will make no oral or written statements disloyal to my country and its allies or harmful to their cause.

  ARTICLE VI: I will never forget that I am an American, fighting for freedom, responsible for my actions, and dedicated to the principles which made my country free. I will trust in my God and the United States of America.

  I quickly became an expert on everything that had to do with drill and ceremonies. The drum corps–like formations and marching was like a choreographed dance, one that reminded me of my experience with the marching band in high school. I loved being a part of something so much bigger than myself.

  It was 1995, and although the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq were many years ahead, I was always mentally preparing for the eventuality that we’d be involved in another conflict. I knew that I wanted to be a pilot, and the most important thing to me was to live my life in a way that ensured I’d serve with honor. I wanted to make my parents proud of me, to save the person beside me if I could, and to make some sort of lasting impact on the world.