We are proud to post the second place winner in our Winter, 2012 Writing It Real contest. Kate Foley Cusumano is a former Navy officer and elementary school teacher. A Midwesterner at heart, she’s been influenced by years in Alaska, Hawaii, Japan and Italy, among other locales. Kate is currently an adjunct professor for the University of Arizona and is working on a memoir about being the first female in the University of Missouri’s Naval ROTC program.

Guest judge Shanti Bannwart sent these words about Kate Foley Cusumano’s “Navy Blue”:

The strength of this piece is the voice, expressing the quivering insecurities of a young person facing deep questions of value, obedience and responsibility. The author knows how to place dialogue well to lighten the tension and to allow the reader to observe how her mind works. It feels as if we look over her shoulder and smile and smirk with her, but play the game of pretend together, because it is fun. And then it happens, like in any good story, the tide turns and there’s suddenly a serious wind blowing that directs the author’s life into serious engagement. The author invites us into the scenes, using all senses well, even smells: “in this enclave of masculinity where about five different after-shaves appeared to be battling it out.” When she decides “There was no reason I couldn’t do most of the jobs the men did,” we triumph with her and rejoice. The arc of story shows development and a true change of character.

Navy Blue
by Kate Foley Cusumano

July 5, 1973 the letter arrived. Dear XXX Miss Foley, Welcome to the Naval R.O.T.C. Program . . . Under the XXX I could make out the word “Mr.” They hadn’t even bothered to type a fresh letter for their first female midshipman. I didn’t see it then for what it was—a portent of how unprepared the Navy was to accept me.

“How would you like to be the first female midshipman at Mizzou, Kate?” Captain Limbert, head of the program at the University of Missouri in Columbia, had asked me two months ago. “I’ve just received word that women will be allowed into ROTC starting in the fall and I want to beat the Army and Air Force at signing the first woman.” 

I’d stared at him, a balding man with an engaging grin framed with a tidy red beard flecked with gray. I thought of him only as the father of my best friend, Annie, who lived next door. Captain and Mrs. Limbert and my parents spent many evenings on his back porch drinking the Captain’s special recipe mint juleps while the six Limbert kids hung out with my family’s five kids. I’d been called over to hear his pitch and I could tell my parents were already onboard with this insane idea.

“No way,” I said, finally. “I’d hate being in ROTC.”

“How do you know you’d hate it?” Captain Limbert asked, pouring my Dad another mint julep.

“Yeah, what makes you think you won’t like it?” Dad swirled the ice around in his glass. His bushy eyebrows and dark glasses reminded me of Henry Kissinger.

They couldn’t be serious. They wanted a reason beyond the obvious? The military was no place for women. I wanted to have fun during my sophomore year at Mizzou, not march around in a dorky uniform, and I was pretty sure my sisters at the Gamma Phi Beta house would be mortified at having the first female midshipman in the Navy ROTC living with them. The Captain’s talk of pay and benefits had apparently won my parents over, but at nineteen I wasn’t interested in what jobs might or might not be available in three years when I graduated. Besides, this was no time to join the military. The Vietnam War was barely over and anti-military sentiment was high. United States soldiers returning from Vietnam were being picketed with signs reading “Baby Killers.” Protests against ROTC were being held on campuses around the country. The image of a newspaper photo showing Navy midshipmen carrying rifles and stepping over protestors lying on the ground right here at Mizzou flashed through my mind. What’s more, I’d just begun dating a Conscientious Objector from our church, and it occurred to me that his objections to war might include dating a girl in uniform.

They waited for my answer. My parents were accustomed to me following their advice. I’d even chosen a major to please them. How could I wiggle out of this request? I didn’t know much about the Navy except that I liked men in sailor suits, so I picked the only thing I knew for sure the ROTC did. “Well, for starters, I’ve seen those guys march around campus on Wednesday afternoons. I would really hate that.”

My mother entered the debate. “You won’t know if you like it or not until you try it,” she said.

Mom was the epitome of femininity. Gorgeous, with short black hair, brown eyes and olive skin, she dressed in the latest fashions, including mini-skirts, which made her look more like my older sister than my mother. While I resembled her in looks and figure, my fair skin, freckles, brown hair and green eyes, reflected my father’s Irish heritage.

“It’s an opportunity to get out and see the world,” Mom said. “Something I never got to do.”

“Mom, remember what you said about Army women when I graduated from high school and got all those brochures in the mail?” Only a year ago she’d thought Army women weren’t the proper feminine role model for her daughter, and I agreed. Did they even wear lipstick? Could you plug hot curlers in at the barracks?

“The Navy is different. Besides, you’ll be an officer, not enlisted.”

I didn’t understand the difference between officers and enlisted, and she probably didn’t either, but the persuasiveness of Captain Limbert and his perfect blend of mint leaves crushed into bourbon and sugar had had their effect on her.

I made one last protest. “Isn’t it dangerous? I could be captured or killed in a war.”

Captain Limbert shook his head. “Women aren’t allowed on ships and I doubt they’ll ever be, so there’ll be no danger,” he said. “And you’ll have a guaranteed job when you graduate.”

My parents lectured me about the unfortunate daughters of some of their friends who had graduated from college and wound up working as waitresses — that is, the ones who had failed to do what most girls had really been sent to college for, which was to marry a college man with a good future in medicine, law or business.

“As a naval officer you’ll earn four times as much as a waitress,” Captain Limbert said.

There was no reasoning with them. Raised with a strong dose of Irish Catholic respect for my elders, I had no practice at rebellion. I sighed. “How about if I attend the Wednesday drill session once to march with the guys, but if I don’t like it I won’t have to go again, okay?”

“Deal,” said Captain Limbert, grinning in triumph. “But, I think you’re going to like it.”

There were smiles and toasts all around the table and Dad let me taste his mint julep. “You’d better get used to a little bourbon if you’re going to be in the Navy,” he said, patting me on the back proudly.

Good thing I wasn’t planning on staying in the Navy, because I had trouble swallowing it.

In order to attend one Wednesday drill session to prove my point, I had to fill out reams of application paperwork, pass an interview, and undergo a physical examination administered by a Navy Reserve doctor who wasn’t accustomed to examining women, but did his best. The interview with two Navy lieutenants was tough as the main question was Why do you want to join ROTC? The real answer, of course, was that I didn’t, but I dredged up some of the propaganda about pay and benefits, seeing the world, and that kind of thing, humoring Captain Limbert and my parents with this charade.

Now, with the letter in my hand it was official. I was the first female midshipman at the University of Missouri. Despite myself, I felt a thrill at being a female first—Gloria Steinem and Betty Friedan would be proud of me. The letter ordered me to attend an orientation for new midshipmen on August 22.

On the appointed day, I slipped out of the sorority house and walked the two blocks to Crowder Hall, an old stone building that housed ROTC, and headed for room 112. When I entered the classroom all eyes were on me, the only girl in the room. My skin prickled in this enclave of masculinity where about five different aftershaves appeared to be battling it out. The new guys, mostly freshmen, were easy to spot since they weren’t in uniform. Some of them were cute, but I was a sophomore and not interested in freshmen. I wondered what they thought about women being allowed in the program. Whatever they thought, next Wednesday after the first drill session I would tell my parents and Captain Limbert that I had done what they asked, and they would let me quit. Maybe Paul, the Conscientious Objector, would ask me out again.

I took a seat up front since there was nowhere I could sit to blend in better—I had the longest hair in the room and was the only one wearing a skirt. Several of the young men were wearing uniforms I’d soon learn were called Dress Blues. They were black. The Navy was a stickler for details, but the difference between blue and black wasn’t one of them. Captain Limbert entered the room with some other officers, and everyone in the room snapped to attention. I was the last to stand, unsure about the etiquette. I’d been taught that men stood up for ladies, not the other way around.

As soon as everyone was standing, Captain Limbert told us to be seated. After some opening remarks he said, “The rest of the program will be conducted by our midshipmen leaders just back from Summer Cruise, led by Battalion Commander, Mark Harrison.”

A tall blond guy in uniform stepped forward. Although I didn’t go much for blonds, I sat up straighter and crossed my legs.

“Quarterdeck Club Officer, Logan Adams.”

What was a Quarterdeck Club? These shorthaired guys in the black Dress Blue uniforms with shiny gold stripes and anchors were really good-looking. Logan was dark-haired with blue eyes crinkled up in a smile. I pulled my stomach in tighter and gazed up at him. His smile deepened, revealing dimples. I loved dimples.

“Logistics Officer, Jeff Tyler.” The captain continued introducing handsome young men in uniform. I liked their short haircuts and air of maturity.

I didn’t really like long hair on guys—the campus was full of hippies and I was sure that longhaired guys did things I didn’t approve of, like smoke dope and burn incense. I avoided anyone I thought used drugs, and that included guys with long hair. Navy midshipmen probably stayed away from that sort of thing, and I bet they really knew how to treat a date, too.

Captain Limbert introduced another midshipman I wouldn’t mind going out with. Was it the uniform that made them look so good? Maybe I should consider staying in long enough to date some of these guys? I could stay in ROTC for a couple of months to make friends, and then when I was in good with their group, quit before I had to sign my life away. What were their names again?

Looking back at the tall blond battalion commander I noticed something else about the uniforms—nametags. Every one of them had a black (maybe officially it was Navy blue) nametag above their right breast pocket spelling out their last name in bold white letters. I flipped over my copy of the Midshipman Handbook and started writing: Harrison, Adams, Tyler. I’d date these three, in that order, and then quit. I decided I’d better pay attention to the rest of this orientation if I was going to play along long enough to have some fun.

The midshipmen leaders began demonstrating how to wear the uniform correctly, using a live model in a khaki uniform. The young man stood in front of me, khaki shirt untucked, while the one named Jeff spoke. “This shirt is to be ironed with two creases down the front through the breast pockets, and three creases down the back.”

The handsome model turned so we could see his perfectly ironed shirt with the long tails hanging out. With an apologetic backwards look in my direction, the model unzipped his pants, revealing a glimpse of his tighty-whities, and demonstrated how to tuck the long tails of his shirt into his trousers, and smooth the excess fabric under the creases in back before zipping up. I was amazed the Navy was giving lessons on how to get dressed to a bunch of 18-20-year old men. And me.

When I got back to the Gamma Phi Beta house late that afternoon I called Annie. I wasn’t sure why her father hadn’t recruited her as the first female midshipman. He thought women would never be allowed on ships—did he think women really couldn’t make it in ROTC? Annie had been amused when I’d applied, but she’d had no desire to join. Generously, I shared information about Harrison, Adams and Tyler, and how they looked in uniform. “You might want to join. Maybe some of the guys prefer redheads, or captain’s daughters,” I said. “You don’t have to sign your life away until your junior year, which gives you plenty of time to make friends before quitting. I’ll only be in for couple of months myself. Just let me have first dibs on Mark Harrison.”

Annie went down the next day and filled out her papers. Captain Limbert was stunned when his secretary brought Annie into his office and introduced her as the Unit’s second female midshipman. Unintentionally, his mint juleps had recruited not only the first, but also the second female midshipman for the Navy ROTC.

Within a few weeks my head was swimming with new terminology. The bathroom was now the head, food was chow, walls were bulkheads, and a wastebasket was a chit can. I stopped by the Wardroom in Crowder Hall almost every day to drink black Navy coffee (the guys teased it would put hair on my chest), hear the scuttlebutt, and get to know the guys on my list. The supply room was stacked from deck to overhead with men’s uniforms, but not a single female uniform had arrived yet. I hoped they wouldn’t show up until after I dropped out, and Annie and I rejoiced in being told to wear civilian clothes, skirts or dresses only, to Wednesday drills.

In my Intro to Ship Systems class, which Annie wouldn’t take until the spring semester, Lieutenant Putnam lectured us, “You are on the path to becoming Naval Officers. As such, your ultimate goal in life is to one day command your own ship at sea.” He looked around the room at each of us with an expression that showed he doubted any of us would be up to the task without a lot of work on his part. I avoided his eyes, a pang of fear piercing my gut. I was an imposter, with no intention of commanding my own ship, ever. But then, I wasn’t the only one pretending. The Navy was training me for a job forbidden to me because of my gender.

“If Congress changes the rules and requires the Navy to send women to sea, it will be a challenge to provide separate living spaces for the sexes,” he said, walking back and forth across the front of the classroom as if he were pacing the deck of his own ship and we were his crew. “Junior officers sleep four to a stateroom on most ships and I doubt they’ll bunk women with the men. Enlisted men often hot-bunk on submarines and some of the overcrowded ships, so something will have to be worked out with the enlisted women’s sleeping arrangements as well.

Hot-bunking turned out to be sharing one bed. One sailor worked days and had the bunk at night, while another worked and slept on the reverse schedule in the same bed. Disgusting. Lieutenant Putnam was right. There was a lot to be worked out before the Navy could send women to sea. There would be a mutiny against hot-bunking.

I thought over what he had said. Even though I didn’t want to be stationed on a ship, let alone command one, if the boys in this class were capable of it, then so was I. It wasn’t really fair that we weren’t allowed on ships. At least for the short duration I would be in Navy ROTC, I intended to show the officers and midshipmen that I was every bit as good as any one of them, and help pave the way for the female midshipmen coming after me who would be the first Navy women to command ships at sea.

The female uniforms finally arrived. I felt awkward walking over to Wednesday drill in my Dress Blues. Annie and I eyed each other. Looking at her I could see how clunky the black leather oxfords looked with skirts that were hemmed at the knee, far longer than the mini-skirts in fashion. We lined up with the guys, Annie with Bravo Company and me with Alpha Company. When the order, “Forward, march,” was given I stepped forward on my right foot with the guys. I had trouble keeping up because my legs were shorter than the average midshipman’s, and the narrow cut of my uniform skirt limited my stride, but once I matched my step to theirs I found it exhilarating to be part of a wave of two hundred men, and two women, moving as one in the September sunshine over the net-less campus tennis courts.

In between negotiating tricky maneuvers, my mind drifted to thoughts of where the Navy would send the first female midshipman for Summer Cruise, since we were restricted from ships. For sure it would be somewhere more exciting than nearby Boonville, where I did office work in the summer. I hated that job, sitting with fifty women in rows of desks in a huge room surrounded by men in offices overlooking us as we rotely moved documents from inbox to outbox, week after week, with no opportunity for advancement because of our gender. At least the Navy offered me equal opportunity for an officer’s commission. There was no reason I couldn’t do most of the jobs the men did. Times were changing; surely women would be on ships one day. I could at least stay in ROTC until I found out where female midshipmen would be sent next summer, there was no rush. A sense of excitement bubbled up inside me.

“By the right flank, march,” hollered my Company Commander.

I turned in a new direction in unison with a sea of young men in Navy blue.