Gender By Us

By David Grubb

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A twenty-nine-year-old photo of Charlie Company hangs on the wall in my basement. We’re standing at attention in rows on aluminum bleachers wearing our pristine tropical blue dress uniforms; the standard shot for Coast Guard recruits who’re about to complete basic training. Our Company Commander, a stout muscular black man with mirrored sunglasses, stands dead center in front of his platoon—and the gender disparity is chilling. Three female recruits survived the eight-week-long training session. They’re easy to single out due to their covers because they’re a lot different than the men’s, which civilians often mistook for old-time bus drivers’ caps.

In the last week of June 1991, ten or so women arrived at Coast Guard Training Center Cape May New Jersey. They filed off the buses with duffle bags in hand like the rest of us, eager to become part of the world’s most elite maritime service. We lined up on yellow triangles painted on the asphalt in civilian attire—the last time we’d wear homey clothes until we graduated or failed out.

Our Company Commander introduced himself while he walked our ranks to start the process. As he sized us up and doled out pushups at random, I speculated that none of the females would make it to graduation. Few of them could do a proper pushup and most of them could do less than ten modified ones. Three days later, I had serious misgivings about my own ability to survive, or do a proper pushup, let alone crank out hundreds of them a day.

On one hazy afternoon, Charlie Company marched around the expansive parade ground. Our dark blue work uniforms were bland except for the polished golden belt buckles and black boots shined to a high gloss. Square-jawed assistants—led by our Company Commander—bellowed directives, which we tried to follow as best we could, “dress and cover, right oblique, eyes front.”

A discordant cadence rang out across the field as we strove to learn the words to the catchy calls intended to help us march in time. Hundreds of feet stomped in near-perfect unison until the female seaman recruit next to me stumbled and fell. The brown-haired girl jumped up and scrambled to get back in line as her face reddened.

Our steadfast leader barked, “Well done recruit, you’ve earned the platoon another round of squat thrusts. Charlie Company spread out. Begin…forever.”

As we shuffled to give ourselves room, many of the exhausted sunburnt recruits groaned and mumbled. Soon, more audible complaints traveled through the ranks like the loudening rumble of our bellies whenever we waited in line for chow. My arms were still rubber from countless beat downs and my chest hit the pavement during the pushup part of my third squat thrust. I also rued having to do any extra exertion because of other people’s miscues let alone a woman.

One of the bolder alpha males murmured, “Stupid fucking bitch.” He spoke loud enough to ensure the female recruit heard him. Nearby, one of the assistant drill instructors paused for a moment and then strolled on down the line making no attempt to hide his grin. She tried to act as though the words were harmless, but tears welled up in the corner of her eyes. Her ability to hold them back wasn’t from an insurmountable inner strength. She was too dehydrated and exhausted to cry.

We were all sleep-deprived, parched, and stressed out: that’s just part of boot camp. Sweat, we could ill afford to lose, dripped off our chins and saturated the thick material of our shirts as we did squat thrusts for twenty minutes. There was no excuse for me to join the wolf pack, but I did. Internally I chastised her for being a weak female who caused our pointless and grueling punishment. Worse than that, her derision pumped me up and gave me a boost to finish our forced exercises almost like the same gusto that drove me through the first days of training.

Back in formation, I waited for the next female to falter and scowled at the likeliest ones. We were unaware (willfully naïve?) the punishment would’ve been placed upon us one way or another. Our instructors wanted us to march as one, but we were still in the hardcore conditioning phase of our indoctrination to all things Coast Guard.

Eight weeks later, in full tropical dress uniform Charlie Company marched around the manicured parade ground in front of our family, friends, and the military dignitaries in attendance. Cadence, led by our hardened guideon, rang out and drowned out all noise: our exuberant clarity resolute. Eighty-two sets of black dress shoes, glistening like the over waxed floors of our squad bay, pounded on the off-white pavement with such precision it was hard to believe our unity.

I stood at parade rest while the guest speakers droned on about the future and our potential as the latest wave of bona fide Coastguardsmen to join the ranks of all those who came before us. The sun was hot, even for mid-August, and rivulets of sweat channeled down my ass crack saturating my polyester dress pants. I was certain a few of us would get rubbery legs and fall out from standing in formation for the hour-long ceremony.

After our caps soared into the air and bounded off the concrete, I found out four shipmates succumbed to the strain and heat. In our ceremonial bravado of high fives, hugs, and polaroid photobombs we derided the weak individuals in hushed asides giving extra attention to the two females who required medical help. I kept my own close call of falling out to myself and I assumed others did as well. Surviving boot camp garnered the women a twinge of our respect: we kept most of our misogynistic comments among the wolf pack.

Then, and even more so now, the day was dreamy, as if everything in my life had led up to the impossible moment. I’d been through the proverbial wringer and I graduated Coast Guard boot camp. I was certain similar memories in my life would follow like the inevitable accrual of ribbons and medals for doing commendable deeds during a stellar twenty-two-year career.

Yet, for all the hell I went through during our intense indoctrination course, the females had it worse, a lot worse than the men; three, four, or perhaps ten times harder was plausible. A female’s chance of surviving Coast Guard boot camp back then was low, and it remains shamefully lower than the males to this day.

Our Company Commander often spoke of the dropout and failure rates for incentive—or deterrence—during the more stressful or arduous moments, when most of us were on the cusp of giving up. He may or may not have given more attention to the females’ statistics, but the inequality was well known, like which Commanders to avoid at all cost.

Considering I enlisted in 1991 the female attrition rate from my platoon alone made for a shocking fact. Geraldine Ferraro was nominated for Vice President in 1984 and the following year a record number of women were elected to Congress. Over the years one basic question kept nagging me. What did the first woman in Uncle Sam’s Confused Group have to go through to ensure my female counterparts were allowed and “accepted” into the service? My guess—too fucking much.

When I reflect on boot camp the scenes come back in long streams like the rivulets of rain carving trenches into a sandy beach along the Jersey shore. In those vapid memories, there’s a lot more than a gender bias issue, but it stands out like the crooked gig line I strove to correct hour after hour, day after day—right up until I retired. The differential treatment of the women seemed so arcane and unbelievable due to the date alone, yet there it was in all its terrible glory, and I was part of the problem.

I wish I could say that I stood up and championed those daring women, my peers, and equals, who chose to enter one of America’s fading boys’ clubs. Opportunities abounded, but I always stayed in the shadow of the moment, plastered against the squad bay wall like a disingenuous leadership poster. I bought into the unequal treatment, not outright like many others, but in complacency—complicitous—because this coward opted to do whatever it took to survive boot camp.

After all these years, I view myself as weak and duplicitous. Bucking the system for women could’ve been career suicide long before I ever got started; at least that’s my greatest—lamest excuse. I might not be retired and lounging around in my bunny slippers gazing at old boot camp photos had I tried to defend the fearless women in Charlie Company. I’ll never know because I ignored the injustice, let it fester.

I also admit boot camp was just the beginning. The good-ole-boys-in-blue club remained as such for a large part of my career. My first duty station was an all-male seagoing buoy tender out of Astoria Oregon. The crew’s mantra was work hard, play harder. Our secondary rule of law was no mercy for the weak or exploitable. Had women been allowed on that vessel back then (the vessel couldn’t accommodate, nor be retrofitted with separate berthing compartments), I’d have seen and been an integral part of the same unequal treatment of women Coasties.

The crewmen who were different faced incredible difficulties and odds. One guy, a surfer dude from California, was broken by the rank and file from endless, yet “justified” harassment. I’m unable to recall a time when the lanky blonde-haired kid existed onboard without most of the crew members making his life miserable: extra duty, the worst watches, constant ribbing, and two-faced friends. It got so bad he bought an old van and began sleeping in it when the ship was in port and he was off duty. Leadership ignored numerous infractions involving his “second home” until they decided to use them as the final blow to end his career.

The rumors from other vessels and units that had women in their crews were vile and if somewhat true supports my assumptions. A transfer from another vessel arrived on board with repulsive stories too disturbing to deny. He was a third-class petty officer and his strongest trait, other than the superb telling of endless sea stories on dull watches, was his infallible honesty.

He spoke about the same things I failed to acknowledge or address in boot camp. Most of his female crewmates, like the female recruits in Charlie Company, were jeered at, leered at, and referred to as morale gear—a derogatory term meaning they were nothing more than playthings. Sometimes their derision occurred right in front of them without fear of reprisal. It was pretty appalling considering every single one of us, man and woman were part of a chain that extends as far back as Alexander Hamilton, who recommended and championed the Revenue Cutter Service in 1790.

In time, I corrected my biased gig line and tried to rectify my wrongs by being an advocate for women instead of a barrier. I’m confident at least a few women Coasties would come to my defense in that brazen claim like Petty Officer J—. I championed the smart, dedicated southerner to ensure she attained her next rank when no one else wanted the responsibility, liability, hassle. Fortunately, my epiphanic change came long before it was too little, too late.

The climate had also started to improve long before I made it to the end of my career, and I’m certain it continued to swing toward greater equality for all. It’s for the best, but like anything else, there’s always a lot of room for enhanced progress. Even so, my respect and admiration for the heroes of the Coast Guard will always be extremely high.

Perhaps one day, everyone will advocate for equal treatment between the sexes, creeds, colors, races, and abilities in everything humanity does, but especially while serving America in its militaries. Until then, we must strive to do better and change mindsets one person, one story, and one insolence at a time. After all, being Semper Paratus—always ready, the Coast Guard’s motto—will remain impossible to achieve, and boast about, if differential treatment of any kind stands in the way.

– David Grubb