by Liza Palmer
“Man being the operative word here.”
“You can disrupt Jenks’s little outdated fiefdom from the inside and alter it forever. If anyone is the guy for the job, it’s you. You’re the best man I know, Tom.” And just like Maria and me, I watch as Bianchi fights the compliment. Shaking his head, looking at me as though waiting for me to take it back, and then finally he acknowledges it, his face a mixture of reluctance, shame, and exhilaration.
“Thank you,” he says simply, his voice a low growl.
But his eyes are bright again, and they flash with that old Bianchi swagger. He bends over and takes one last swig from the water fountain. As we walk back to the track, he speeds up to get to the game of freeze tag, his arms spread wide as if he’s soaring. I watch as the pain that was drowning him washes away.
That afternoon, in between classes, Maria and I wend our way through the hallways of USAFA to find the seemingly clandestine office where the Flying Falcons sign-ups are taking place. We ask directions no less than three times, and as the clock ticks down, we finally spot the tiny sign we’re looking for. Maria and I look at each other and without a missed beat barrel toward the office.
We pull open the heavy door and step inside. It slams closed behind us, and the civilian woman receptionist behind the counter looks up.
“How can I help you?” She has on a very conservative navy dress with a sensible black cardigan pulled on over it. Her hair is swept back in a bun, and she’s wearing just a swipe of the lightest pink lip gloss. But then I notice it. She has the tiniest hint of neon-yellow eye shadow tracing along her eyelid.
“I like your eye shadow,” I say before I can stop myself.
To my surprise, she smiles and leans in toward us. “It’s the little rebellions, isn’t it, ladies?” she whispers, a sparkle in her eye.
“It certainly is,” Maria says with a grin.
“We’d like to sign up to try out for the Flying Falcons, ma’am,” I say, a bit louder and more stiffly than intended. I can tell both Maria and I are waiting for Jenks to pop out from behind some old file cabinet with the commandant of cadets in tow—proclaiming, These! These are the unworthy interlopers I was telling you about, sir! Have them removed from the premises at once! But Jenks is smarter than that. He wouldn’t stop us from signing up. That might send up a flare, or raise some questions as to why we aren’t being allowed to try out. He has to let us. Because then, if…No, when we don’t make the team, he can just shrug his shoulders and tell everyone we simply weren’t good enough.
The receptionist’s face lights up as she hands us a totally normal-looking clipboard with a pen attached via a too-long chain. The phone rings and she quickly answers it, her entire demeanor changing as she glides through her scripted greeting. Maria sets the clipboard down on the counter. She flips through the pages of names.
“Seventeen people,” I say, quickly spotting Bianchi among the rest.
“All vying for just two open spots,” Maria murmurs, her eyes darting down the list.
“All men,” I say, stating the obvious.
“Not anymore,” she says, signing her name. She hands me the pen and I put it to the paper.
“Not anymore,” I repeat.
THE WEEK LEADING UP TO THE FLYING FALCONS tryouts, I thought I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I thought I’d be withdrawn when we went on our morning runs. I thought I’d be too nervous to eat. I thought I’d be short and clipped with the people in my life, too worried to care about such trivial things as politeness and connection.
I was wrong on all counts.
I slept like a baby. I was loose and happy during our morning turns around the track. I ate absolutely everything put in front of me and went back for more. And I felt more connected with my friends than ever.
And I feel solid now as we suit up for these tryouts. Because, at some point during the gauntlet this last year has been, I learned I didn’t have to slice off parts of myself and offer them to other people so they can debate and determine their value. I get to decide. Which means, I will finally meet this day as my complete and powerful self. Whole again.
Jenks is waiting for us on the field, hands behind his back, as are a few of the cadet instructors, including Cadet Instructor Pilot Wolff. The nineteen airmen trying out this morning fall in and listen intently as Jenks walks us through today’s proceedings. It’s actually pretty straightforward: We wait until our names are called, and then we go up in one of their T-41 Mescaleros and show them what we’ve got. At the end of the week, Jenks will post the names of the two people who have made the team outside of that weird little office with the cool secretary where Maria and I signed up. And that, as they say, is that.
I notice that most of the people trying out today are upperclassmen. I’ve seen them around campus. But this’ll be the first time I’m going up against them on a level playing field. All of us are competing for the two spots being vacated by graduating first-class cadets.
We’re told to sit on the hard wooden benches off to the side in the order in which we will be flying. Bianchi is fifth, Maria is eleventh, and I’m called fifteenth. This is not going to go alphabetically, then. I’m seated between two airmen I’ve never met, and as the first three names are called, I lean forward and find Maria. She’s already got her gaze trained on me. When our eyes meet, she starts mouthing something at me, while I mouth something motivational over at her. We each stifle a laugh beneath our hands that quickly gains steam as part genuine mirth, part an outlet for our considerable nerves. We’re trying our hardest not to make a sound, but I see Bianchi look back from the first row, smile, and roll his eyes.
Once our shoulders stop shaking with silent laughter, I gesture to Maria that she should say her thing first. She mouths, Here we go. I raise a subtle hang loose in solidarity and mouth the words, Let’s do this. Affirmations completed, we both settle back into our spots to await our fates.
We all watch closely as the first three airmen are put through their paces. Johnson is among them. He looks unduly confident as he walks toward Jenks and his waiting plane. The two remaining airmen are funneled over to the other two cadet instructors. Realizing that my tryout might just as easily be with Wolff or Cabot as it could be with Jenks is something I hadn’t planned on, that should bring relief. But I’m kind of shocked at how little it registers. Showing Jenks what I can do isn’t what this day is about anymore.
I don’t just know it, now I’m living it.
Jenks, Wolff, and Cadet Instructor Pilot Cabot each walk their airman through extensive safety checks of both the inside and outside of the plane. Jenks encircles Airman Johnson, hands clasped behind his back as always. His cold, yet deceptively beautiful face is arrogant and indifferent as he points and guides Johnson around the plane, dismissively tossing off orders like empty paper cups. Meanwhile, Wolff and Cabot are bending over engines and actively engaging with their airmen, trying to get as complete a picture of their abilities as possible.
Wolff’s airman is the first to go up. A long taxi down the runway, a smooth takeoff, and then the little white-and-blue plane with the big USAF on the fin disappears into the big blue. Cabot and his airman are next, taxiing over to the runway. When Wolff’s guy returns, it’ll be their time to go up. And on and on they’ll go until it’s my turn.
As I watch each of the airmen have their moment, quite literally, in the sun, it all feels so surreal. I’ve imagined what this day would feel like all year long. And now that it’s finally here, I realize what I’m experiencing is—once again—unlike anything I could have ever dreamed. Skipping the usual exhausting math of gauging how everyone else is feeling and are they thinking this thing about me, and if I can just do that then they’ll like me, and if I can convince them of this then they’ll welcome me in, and then and only then will I be able to tell you how I’m feeling, is completely freeing. Before this, how I felt entirely depended on how everyone else was feeling. I could never just exist.
But today I’m relaxed, happy ev
en, as I sit and wait for my name to be called. I’m just…here. Watching the planes with the warm sun shining on my face. I’m not nervous; I’m not smug; I’m not blazing to prove myself to someone else.
I’m just…me.
Bianchi goes up in the second group, and watching him skillfully move around his plane under Wolff’s guidance…I feel proud. He really is something. I watch as he climbs into the cockpit, straps in, does his checks, and is finally able to have his turn. His takeoff is seamless, and I realize this is the first time I’ve seen him fly. Maria looks back at me and raises her eyebrows as if to say, Not bad. I respond with my own overdramatic faint, still subtle so as not to attract attention from our surrounding peers and cadet officers, and she smirks. I watch as he climbs higher and then higher still, noticing that his flying has this effortless, graceful strength to it that reminds me of Maria’s piloting style. A trait that my more “bull in a china shop” ways have not one thing in common with. When Bianchi finally lands, he does so without a bounce. This sends a nervous ripple through the remaining airmen. He was being too modest when he claimed that Maria and I were far superior fliers to him. If he gets a spot, it won’t just be because he’s a man. It’ll be because he’s earned it.
Bianchi jumps down from the cockpit, scrapes his hand over his still-shaven head, and salutes Wolff in thanks. Striding across the airfield, Bianchi looks over at Maria and me and gives us a quick, very controlled nod. But I can see him bursting with pride.
Maria and I sit through the next group and then, finally, Maria’s name is called. There’s a palpable ripple through the group of airmen as one of the two female applicants rises from her seat. She looks back at me and I give her a thumbs-up. She gives me an easy, confident smile, and walks right over to Jenks and salutes. The other two airmen called alongside her have obviously steered clear of Jenks, choosing instead to go up to Wolff or Cabot. Even Bianchi made a beeline for another option, when it was his turn. But not Maria. Where other airmen hesitated or stumbled, Maria is boldly brilliant. This is just another day at hangar thirty-nine for her. She moves through the safety checks without a hint of doubt. She also doesn’t take stock of Jenks at all—just enough deference to be properly respectful of a higher-ranking official, but she is impenetrable to his scrutinizing gaze and imposing demeanor. She is calm, cool, and collected—100 percent sure of how well she’s doing. By the time she’s climbing into the cockpit, a few of the other airmen start shifting in their chairs. I wonder if this makes Maria the first woman to ever try out for the Flying Falcons. It wouldn’t surprise me.
Her takeoff is the best yet. It’s all precision and power. Her touch is light and confident. I find myself becoming emotional as she climbs high into the sky. We’ve worked so hard, and there’s nothing more beautiful than watching someone who’s really good at something finally—and unapologetically—being allowed to do that thing to its full extent.
“She’s awesome,” the airman next to me says, almost under his breath.
“Yes, she is,” I say. He looks over and smiles sheepishly.
“Didn’t know I said that out loud,” he says. He shields his eyes from the sun, craning his neck so he can watch Maria fly. He’s intoxicated. I scan the crowd. Everyone’s watching. Riveted.
And just like that, another piece of the puzzle fits into place. Trying out today wasn’t about showing Jenks what we can do—trying out today was about showing everyone what women can do. So the next time someone like Jenks tries to tell these men that women can’t fly, they’ll all think back to that one day during Flying Falcons tryouts when they got to see the best flier of the lot with their own eyes…and she was an African American woman who wasn’t even allowed on the team.
I hope that everyone here today will marinate in the discomfort of that knowledge, and do better when it’s their turn to make big decisions. As I’ve experienced again and again and again throughout the year, letting yourself learn is the most uncomfortable, hardest thing to do. And the most rewarding.
Suddenly, Maria breaks across the horizon doing a slow barrel roll. I actually clap my hand over my mouth in disbelief. I don’t know if it’s even allowed for an airman to execute a barrel roll in a tryout. Without even thinking about it, I jump to my feet, only to find that everyone else is standing up, too. Airmen are whooping and hollering as she lines up with the runway. Even Cabot and Wolff are grinning, making no effort to calm the others down. As the tires of the plane set down all at once, the group breaks out into another round of applause.
Maria hops down from the cockpit, Jenks emerging shortly after. His face is like stone as Maria salutes him, but I could swear the set of his shoulders has shifted just a bit tighter, as though he’s trying to actively push away the effect of witnessing a woman do something that cool firsthand.
As she walks away, the wattage from her smile could power the Las Vegas strip. I see her do a little skip and then another one. And then we lock eyes. I can see her mouth tighten and her brow furrow, as she tries to hold back a tidal wave of emotion. She looks to the sky just as the twelfth airman takes off behind her. She shakes her head and looks back over at me with a teary smile. She puts her hand to her heart. I put my hand to my heart, too, as she walks triumphantly off the airfield.
And then it’s just me.
The next three names are called—mine the last of the group. I stand, smooth out my flight suit, and walk straight over to Captain Jenks. If Maria can take him, so can I. I salute.
“Airman Danvers,” he says. I can see my reflection in his aviator sunglasses. My fishbowl face looks back at me, unruffled and resolute.
“Sir,” I say, awaiting orders.
Jenks is dismissive and condescending, but we move through my safety checks relatively painlessly. Jack and Bonnie hammered all this into our heads, and going through these checks feels like second nature at this point. By the time we’re climbing into the cockpit, I’ve completely locked into what’s happening because I’ve done it so many times before. But—and I notice this pretty quickly—in a way harder plane than what awaits me now. That’s why Jack and Bonnie had us fly Mr. Goodnight. Because if you can fly Mr. Goodnight, you can fly anything.
“You’re quite impressive, Danvers.” I wait. I know that’s not all. He can’t help himself. “When the plane is still on the ground.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say, refusing to bite. His jaw clenches. This cockpit is tiny, and Jenks’s broad shoulders and giant ego take up most of the room. Sitting shoulder to shoulder with him, I could cut the tension with a knife. The silence expands as I await his orders.
“Start her up,” he says.
“Yes, sir,” I say, obliging. The engine roars to life and my heart leaps. I curl my fingers around the yoke and taxi the plane over to the runway.
And just like that, it’s as though I’m back in Mr. Goodnight and this is just another Sunday at Jack and Bonnie’s. I know that Jenks is being particularly quiet, and I also know that’s not necessarily a good thing, but I chalk it up to the fact that he already knows he’s not letting me into the Flying Falcons, so why waste the energy on feedback or, heaven forbid, encouragement? In his mind, my tryout is something to get over with. In my mind, I don’t care what he thinks. I just can’t wait to fly.
We get clearance from the tower, and I marvel at a radio that I can actually talk to without the need of an air horn. The plane idles and shakes as we wait for the go-ahead. Sitting so close to Jenks in this tiny cockpit, I start to notice more things about him out the corner of my gaze. The tan line where a watch used to be. The piney scent of his aftershave. This super-subtle throat-clearing thing he does every couple of minutes, followed each time with an almost imperceptible head roll. I wonder if that’s a tell for something.
In my head, I had built him up to be this all-knowing, mustache-twirling super villain that held my fate—and the fate of the world—in his hands. But maybe he’s just a regular throat-clearing, can’t-find-his-watch, aftershave-wearing human, and
not a fire-breathing dragon or a monster under my bed.
He’s just a man. One man.
Jenks’s stomach rumbles from hunger, and I feel his arm tighten next to me. He knows I heard it. He shifts his weight, and the old, worn-in plane seat chirps out a staccato fart noise that echoes throughout the small plane. Holding back the eruption of laughter is taking every ounce of energy I’ve got.
“Just right there, Danvers,” Jenks says. It’s a statement that makes absolutely no sense…other than to attempt to cover up what is turning into a breathtakingly awkward moment.*
The tower finally crackles through on our radio, telling us we’re cleared for takeoff. I confirm and start taxiing down the runway. Faster and faster. Faster and faster. The plane shakes over the rough runway but has nothing on Mr. Goodnight. And then in one stomach-dropping swoop—no more shaking.
We. Are. Flying.
And no matter how many times I’ve done it, the joy surges through my entire body. Jenks tells me to climb to a particular altitude and hit cruising speed. And once again, the blue surrounds me, the misty clouds envelop me, and the weightlessness bewitches me.
“We’re at altitude, sir,” I say, easing into cruising speed. Jenks is quiet. He stares straight ahead and pulls his hands off his yoke. He takes a long, deep breath. “Sir?” Jenks brings his hands to rest on his legs, his long tanned fingers peppered with little glittering blonde hairs.
“Why are you here, Danvers?” He asks, not looking at me.
“Sir?”
“Even you have the mental capacity to answer such a simple question, Danvers. Shall I repeat it?”
“No, sir.” The cockpit begins to close in around me.
“Then?”
“I love flying, sir,” I say.
“Do you think your love of flying gives you the right to be here?”
“No, sir. I have the right to be here because I’m the best.”