A Quiet Revolution
(continued) 
• Lt. j.g. Lucy Young in front of her TA-4J at NAS Barbers Point, Hawaii, in 1979.
The point is, change doesn’t just happen. It takes work. But looking at the scholarship applications, another point occurred to me, as well. Those of us who were ever denied access, had to fight for basic respect or opportunity, or were the first to break through a barrier, will never have the relaxed attitude about our opportunities or accomplishments that the women who follow us will—or might.
In the late 1980s, a friend of mine became an airline pilot and captain. She regularly endured comments from passengers like, “Oh, look. The pilot has a secretary.” Or, “You mean YOU’RE flying us? Do you have a license?” And on the frequency, anonymous taunts of “Another empty kitchen!” when she’d call in to report. And that’s not even getting into inappropriate cockpit behavior from some of the men she flew with. Put up with that every day, and you get a bit of an edge that never really goes away.
Oh, we mellow with age, gain confidence in our experience and get comfortable enough in our own skin to stop worrying about it all so much. But the defenses are still there beneath the surface, ready to jump out if challenged, almost as if it’s ingrained muscle memory from some of the struggles we went through to get here. But the women who grew up even 10 or 15 years behind us don’t have that muscle memory. So they can walk through doors with a quiet and relaxed sense of self and freedom that I both envy and find stunning—and exhilarating—to behold.
When I was in Africa last summer, three out of the five pilots I flew with were women. All of them were 12-15 years younger than me. And to watch them work was like watching Tiger Woods play golf—grace in motion, with amazingly effective results.
They were all strong, capable and confident women. You have to be, to take on flying relief supplies in Africa. But they had nothing to prove and no chip on the shoulder. No edge. They were working not only in a male-dominated field, but in very male-dominated countries. But their strongest weapon was their very confidence. Enough confidence that they didn’t have to command through confrontation or an overt show of toughness or authority.
I watched Lauren Stroschin, Air Serv International’s chief pilot in Abeche, Chad, disarm male passengers—literally and figuratively—through teasing and humor. “Jeez, you think you’re going to be cold? Come on, it’s 100 degrees out here,” she joked with one man who was reluctant to open up his double layer of jackets for her. “Hey, maybe you’ve got something in there for me,” she said to another man in asking him to open his hand luggage. The men laughed and complied, their egos intact and the situation under control.
In the Congo, I watched Cindy Silong—five feet tall at best—get the compliance of even armed soldiers through a similar mix of smiles and ease. “Hey, Jamba, man,” she’d grin, giving the accompanying waggle of the thumb and pinky. The locals would grin and their defensiveness would drop 10 notches. You could see it happen.
Now, granted, some of that could have been the particular personalities of the women involved. Or the result of having lived in and learned how to cope with African cultures, where swaggering or confrontation with officials is rarely the most effective approach. And, granted, a pilot’s uniform in Africa is such an intimidating status symbol that it immediately confers a certain amount of authority and respect on any person who wears it.
But even in private conversations with these women, I didn’t get edgy tales of battles fought to get where they were. They’d worked hard and endured a few jerks along the way, as any working person has. They also were aware that there weren’t all that many women doing what they were, even now. But the bottom line was, they expected to be hired and respected, because that had been their experience. And that expectation gave them an ability to employ a disarming and effective approach that I’m not sure I could or would have had at their age.
That doesn’t mean I think it’s all a big happy ending, and we can now stop working on advancing opportunities or attitudes. But clearly, there has been progress. Not just the big progress we’ve consciously fought for, but a consequent, if quiet, sea change that’s every bit as revolutionary as the first woman getting her fighter wings. As an editor friend of mine with a 22-year-old daughter told me with a shrug, “Race and gender just aren’t as big an issue for her generation as they are for ours.”
How did a shift that big happen? Like any change. Slowly. Painfully. Imperceptibly. Not without setbacks, and not without effort or cost. If young women don’t see the barriers so sharply today, it’s not because they magically disappeared. It’s because women who came before them worked so hard to chip away at those barriers—each new wave making a little more progress than the last.
I look at Patricia’s application, and her simple description of her aspirations … as well as the seemingly boundless ambitions of all the other scholarship applicants … and I feel a wonderful combination of hope and joy in my heart. Maybe you can change the world, after all. Just not easily, and not in one generation.
I wish this new generation of amazing women abundant luck and joy in their travels and careers. I rejoice in their expanded visions and horizons. But I also hope that when all those 19-year-olds eventually step into their first fighter jet, race plane, airline cockpit or spaceship … they take just a moment to remember, and thank, all the other talented and courageous women in history and the world who made that achievement possible.
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