The unveiling ceremony was quiet and dignified and involved only the Class of 1984 with the RMC commandant, Brigadier General Al Meinzinger, and the principal, Dr. Harry Kowal, a classmate from the Class of 1984 and main orchestrator of the plaque, presiding over the presentation. Seventeen women — a handful of whom had not graduated — of the first thirty-two female cadets were in attendance, along with over one hundred of our male classmates. Tea followed immediately afterward. Those of us who had been a part of those first four years and were able, or cared enough, to attend the reunion chatted quietly amongst ourselves. We took photos together in front of the plaque before regrouping outside on the red bleachers to watch the first-year badging ceremony parade.
Nearly three hours later, the commandant gave the final speech to close the parade. He mentioned notable attendees, with special pride and emphasis on the graduating Class of 1979 and their classmate in attendance: the current chief of defence staff, the Canadian Armed Forces’ most senior military officer, General Tom Lawson. Lawson would, the following spring, reportedly comment, in response to Madame Marie Deschamp’s scathing report on the toxic and sexualized environment of the CAF, that “men are just wired that way.” General Meinzinger did not mention the plaque presentation or that our class — and the first women to ever attend RMC — were sitting in the bleachers.
Throughout the reunion weekend, we told stories from our RMC days. A classmate told a story that perhaps best exemplifies the problems the women experienced that none of us were able to talk about, or address, while we were cadets. Referring to the man involved, my classmate called it “his little joke.” At the time of the story, she was the most successful female cadet in our year.
“It happened in winter term of fourth year, when I had four bars and was living in Wing HQ in Fort LaSalle. One night, toward the end of study hours, General Pratt showed up at my door. He was wearing dressy casual clothes, with that regimental ascot of his, and seemed quite formal. I felt really uncomfortable, but what can you say when the commandant wants to come into your room?”
“All you can say is ‘Yes, sir.’”
She nodded. “Exactly. He came in, closed the door, and then asked me something about uniforms, but I couldn’t make any sense of our conversation or what he was doing in my room with the door closed.”
“Was he drunk?”
“No, I don’t think so,” she said.
“Did anything happen?” I asked. “Like anything … weird?” I flashed back to the sight of him in his tighty-whities.
“He talked to me for about ten minutes,” she said. “When the other HQ guys started making noise and gathering in the hall for kye, he went to the door.” She paused.
“So what happened?” I asked.
“Well, this is it,” she continued angrily. “He said good night, opened the door, looked over at the guys, hitched up his pants, and said loudly to them, ‘She was good.’ Then he walked away.”
“What the fuck? What did the guys do?”
“They just stood there looking extremely embarrassed.”
“Did anyone say anything?” I asked.
“No, I just closed the door. And then I cried,” she said with tears in her eyes. “How could he do that to me? I had worked so hard and had been a really good cadet. I was getting honours in commerce and doing well in sports. I’d earned four bars. He stole my credibility.”
The final kick in the gut came when she received an obscene phone call from General Pratt during the fall after graduation while she was working as a junior officer in her first posting. She never formally reported either incident.
Her story deepened my reflection on my own. It’s time I told the real story, I said to myself. I was there. I lived it. I had put this off for far too long. Perhaps such a story was too old and not of interest to anyone. Perhaps it shouldn’t be told at all. But by not telling, I knew I would have done nothing to change things, and I was the one to tell it.
Virginia Woolf wrote the truism that “great bodies of people are never responsible for what they do.” Taken in the context of sexism, these bodies are comprised of many individuals whose complicity, or passivity, emboldens others in the cultural systemic discrimination and who could have, or should have, risen up to be the force for change. It’s a complicated charge. We all have cultural conditioning to overcome. So far, it remains culturally unnecessary to treat women as equals.
Before my Ex-Cadet Weekend was done, I had to face two fresh experiences of my own along these very lines.
The first experience came in the form of a letter. During the weekend, I paid a friendly visit to Bill Oliver. Bill had been a member of the athletics department staff when I was a cadet; now retired and nearly seventy-five, he was the editor of the weekly college newsletter, e-Veritas. When I mentioned my intention of writing about my experience at RMC, he surprised me with an unexpected disclosure.
“There’s something I should give you. Something I want you to see. When you were a cadet, you probably don’t remember that I went to Staff College. One of my assignments was to prepare a twenty-minute presentation on the history of the decision to admit women into the college. During my research, I found something in the ex-cadet archives that will interest you.”
Bill fished in a drawer and pulled out a piece of paper from a file. He pressed a letter written on House of Commons letterhead into my hands.
I scanned the page quickly, conscious of Bill watching me. The letter, dated May 9, 1973, addressed to someone called Swatty, was short and to the point. It was an apology from a Member of Parliament for comments made about RMC in the government caucus that had upset Swatty. One line jumped out at me: “Please tell the boys that I don’t think they need to worry about girls being admitted to the College, and that it really is a tempest in a teapot.” The letter was signed by MP George Hees.
“It’s an official government letter,” I said flatly. I stared at the faded photocopy, which had an old-fashioned receipt stamp in the top right-hand corner. I could hardly process what I had just read. Historically, Hees was known as the guy who had fought in the House of Commons for women to attend RMC. “Who’s this Gordon Wotherspoon, or Swatty, guy?” I asked.
“He was an ex-cadet, a past president of the RMC ex-cadet club from 1958 to 1959. Lawyer — Osgoode Hall grad. Second World War hero. Brigadier general. Queen’s Council. He was working at Eaton’s at that time, trying to save the company. A real character.”
“Okay,” I said, uncertain what to do next.
“Go ahead, take it, take it,” he said, encouraging me with a wave of his hand. “I’ll catch up with you later this weekend.”
Immediately upon returning to my hotel room, I sat on the edge of my bed, opened my computer in my lap, and clicked on my browser bookmark for Hansard notes for the House of Commons minutes in 1973. I’d been there before.
It didn’t take long to review the exchange I had saved between George Hees, Member of Parliament for Prince Edward–Hastings, and the Honourable James Richardson, Minister of Defence. Yes, it was as I remembered it. The official record shows that Hees had argued in the House of Commons for the inclusion of women.
The bastard had been speaking out of two sides of his mouth. The George Hees who had fought for us was double-dealing. Hees hadn’t really wanted women at RMC. He wanted it to look like he did. I set aside my computer, lay back on the feather duvet, flung my arms wide, and let the impact of his letter wash over me. The real George Hees had simply been lobbying for his own career, even apologizing within the alumni community when he met backlash.
“He’s just another one of the pricks,” I said aloud, staring up at the ceiling of my room. The familiar punch of anger winded me.
The second experience was a lunch date. Davis Jamieson, the cadet squadron training officer from recruit term in 1980, had invited me to meet with him before leaving Kingston. We hadn’t seen each other since 1981, when he had graduated.
I admitted the truth. “I was surpri
sed to hear from you. For some reason, I feel kind of nervous.”
He cut to the chase. “It’s nothing ominous. I wanted to clean up something with you that has bothered me for my whole career. From the moment we laid eyes on you, the recruit flight staff had the impression that you were strong and capable. The natural leader of A Flight, in fact,” Davis said.
My throat constricted. “Holbrook was the natural leader.”
“No, we saw him as a close second. The first night you arrived we had a meeting to review first impressions of each recruit. We, they, we …” He stumbled. “That’s when it was decided that we needed to break you.”
“But why?”
“You were in the first group of women. It wasn’t possible for you to be the best. We couldn’t let that happen.”
“Holy shit. I believed you that no matter how hard I tried, I was this loser who couldn’t get it right.” I fought the sting of tears in my sinuses.
“That’s what we wanted you to believe. The more we did to you, the more you tried, the more troublesome it became to keep you down. You kept going. You gave us a run for our money,” he said, chuckling.
I cackled in disbelief. “You had a fucking meeting. So why tell me now?”
“It’s haunted me. I guess I finally got the courage. I don’t know.”
“So, was it you?” I flashed to his foot on my back during push-ups.
“Put it this way: I didn’t do anything to stop it, so yes, I was part of it.”
Davis gave me an apologetic look. “We dished it hard on you. You kept laughing. You kept trying. I saw a lot of myself in you. You were feisty. I respected you for that.”
“Well, thank you for standing in and saying something now. When you’ve been hazed long enough and consistently enough, small gestures of validation can be a tremendous thrill,” I said sarcastically.
He chuckled and exhaled a big sigh. “I should have stood up for you at RMC, for all the women. I feel like I need to apologize for my entire class. We were weak.” He paused. “I mean, weak doesn’t really sum it up. The bet sums up my class. Being in trusted positions of leadership and making a bet to see who could fuck the most female subordinates, that’s just plain disgusting.”
I kept my hands clenched in my lap under the table and didn’t say anything.
He went on. “Their attitude was let’s fuck them all. When that wasn’t working out, because most of you weren’t co-operating with that plan, they switched gears to punishing you for refusing. It should have been different.”
“Yes. It could have been different,” I said.
During my drive to the Ottawa airport, I began to understand what had happened back then. They were never going to let me succeed. Women had the appearance of equality, the concept was enshrined in law, but the vast majority of us in the trenches were having a radically different experience: a horrible, deeper expression of struggle based solely on our sex, one part heartbreaking, one part crazy making, and one part infuriating. Now I finally understood that the sooner I became honest with myself, the sooner I could be honest with others. It was time that I learned how to do all the things I had been taught not to do. It was time to start talking and telling my truth. I had needed to fail and falter in order to break myself free of the cultural sleepwalk that had entranced me. It was time for something different and daring.
Now here I stand, years later, laughing and smiling at good memories, my feet on firm ground and snow melting all around me. I finally get it. It was not about trying to change the world. It never had been. It was about changing my world. The purpose of delving into the pain of my past wasn’t about going back there to fix it — it was about moving on. My scope of influence is right here, right now, right in front of me. I can stop trying to do the impossible and focus on what is possible: letting myself know what I know, feel what I feel, believe what I believe, want what I want, and be who I am.
It’s not too late to live the life I would have chosen for myself from the beginning.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Very special thanks to Elizabeth Philips: my mentor, my editor, and my writing sponsor. This book may never have materialized, if not for her ongoing (and ongoing), loving support, deep caring, wicked sense of humour, and keen intuition about what needed to come out and what was still missing.
I’d like to thank the team at Dundurn Press for believing in my book, all their hard work, and their attentive guidance through each stage of the process, in particular Beth Bruder, Scott Fraser, Rachel Spence, Laura Boyle, Kathryn Bassett, Elham Ali, Heather McLeod, and Jenny McWha, as well as freelance proofreader Ashley Hisson. Special thanks to freelance editor Susan Fitzgerald for her thoughtful and thorough readings.
My gratitude for in-depth writing residency programs, especially Banff Centre and Sage Hill Writing, and for incredible faculty support from Trevor Herriot and Alison Pick, whose influence helped shape my writing experience and my memoir.
To the A Flight of our recruit term, honouring the fact that neither time, nor distance, nor lack of connection can severe the bonds we formed with each other: Andy Travill, Dave Carlson, Jocelyn Dionne, Francis Thatcher, Daniel Beauchamp, Jacques Beaudry, Chris Creber, Elizabeth Dyson, Hugh Ellis, Norm Foss, Roy Keeble, Michel Lacroix, Gilles Lemieux, Linda Newton, Rick Pitre, Jackie Pothier, Mike Reid, Rob Russell, Paul Rutherford, Paul Schiebel, Kirk Shaw, Eric Strooper, Steve Williams.
And to the remaining women of the First Thirty-Two in recognition that each of us has a story to tell: Kathleen Beeman, Chris Best, Debbie Fowler, Cheryl Debellefeuille, Teresa Murphy, Rebecca Horne, Theresa Hutchings, Jo-Ann MacIsaac, Helen Davies, Brigitte Vachon, Sylvie Bonneau, Sue Raby, Sue Wigg, Dorothy Hector, Suzanne Nadorozny, Lorraine Kuzyk, Kathryn Haunts, Charmaine Bulger, Marie Thomson, Ann-Marie David, Sheila Walters, Brigitte Muehlgassner, Marnie Dunsmore, Julia Walsh, Laura Beare, Marie-Pierre Cloutier, Johanne Durand, and, sadly, in memoriam, Karen Ritchie.
There are others — Heather Haake, Cheri Mortenson-Wiebe, Jacquie Leggatt, Donna and Bill Kutzner, Meredith Aitken, Ingrid Hummelshoj, Catherine MacGregor, Amy Carruthers, Kai Scott, Vita Luthmers, Jen Stew, Sister Monica Guest, Robin MacDonald, Susan Juby, Mary Madsen, Paula Todd, Samantha Haywood, Ann Dowsett-Johnston, Leesa Dean, Bill Oliver, Colin Charette, Jeff Smith, Steven Gable, Harry Kowal, Dean Stewart, Colleen Driscoll, and Annie Strucel — who have all been there when I needed them, and for that I am grateful. Many people, too many to mention, gave love and encouragement, and for that I thank you.
To my constant doggie companions, Cash and Jackson, for your uncanny sixth sense of when I felt sad, for antics designed to make me laugh, and for always knowing when it was time to take me for a walk.
I can never adequately thank my husband, Rick Kutzner, who persuaded me to take the leap and tell my story, and who was always there to catch me. I love you.
Last, but not least of all, gratitude and blessings to the greatest teachers in my life: my family.
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