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When I was fourteen, most girls were focused on being in the right clique and trying to get noticed by their teen idols. I was not an average teenage girl. Cliques did not interest me and my heart did not beat wildly for either a musician or an actor. Instead, I was focused on becoming a White Knight.
The White Knights are the precision drill team at Marion Military Institute (MMI). Yes, I went to a military boarding school for high school. Back then, girls were a minority at MMI, but there were four of us with the same ambition. I had been raised to be confident in who I was and to not worry about biases held by others. We would soon have a lesson in how much gender bias can impact one’s life.
The two-week tryout was not for the faint of heart.
I remember the hot, August sun burning my fair skin. Beads of sweat rolled down the small of my back soaking my underwear. One White Knight purposefully neglected to brush his teeth. He would lean in close to yell spewing stale Slim Jim and sour milk breath. I learned more about self-discipline under his putrid breath than at Marine Corps Bootcamp.
During tryouts, Knobs, the nickname for White Knight wannabes, learned various drill movements using M-1903 Springfield rifles. But, those tryouts were really a test of discipline and endurance rather than a skills assessment. Knobs who made it through those grueling two weeks progressed to the final test, Hell Night. After all, Knobs were not just trying out for a drill team; they were being vetted for a brotherhood.
Hell Night was an initiation that tested one’s courage. I won’t go into detail because I promised not to share. It’s a promise I still honor despite what happened afterward.
Suffice it to say that Hell Night was not a school-sanctioned activity. It was held on a Saturday night and was followed by showers, a uniform inspection, and an early Sunday breakfast. A stroll across the quad took us into the historic chapel where we did the “trust fall” off the stage and were sworn in.
We did it!
The four of us became the first female White Knights in history. Being a pioneer did not thrill me as much as the thought of being a member of an elite drill team that represented my school.
On our first day as White Knights, we donned our practice T-shirts—bright white with navy blue trim and the White Knight crest emblazoned over the left breast—and arrived punctually at the practice area. We waited. And waited. No White Knights. We explored the idea that a “new guy” trick was being played on us. But, none of the new male team members were there either.
Finally, a White Knight showed up. He glumly informed us, “We’re having a meeting.” The central topic of the meeting—should women be allowed to join the White Knights. To say I was confused is an understatement, “We already are White Knights!”
“No!” insisted one male member. “White Knights is a fraternity, a brotherhood. Girls belong on the cheerleading team.” I stood there in shock. The Commander turned to the four of us and told us to leave while the “men” took a vote. Despite our protests, we were ushered out. We sat on the steps of the chapel and waited, again.
The by-laws of the organization were clear; we were members too. Yet, we did not have a voice. We were not given the right to vote as members because some of the male members did not want us.
Several minutes later, the door opened. We stood up and waited some more. This wait was the longest yet. The young man who emphatically insisted we join the cheerleading squad strolled by whistling a happy tune. All of the other members filed past. The Commander was the last in line,
You’ve all been voted out, although it was close. Try again next year.
I heard a rush in my ears; I felt my face grow red with anger. I yelled after him, “But we made it through tryouts. And Hell Night!”
He just kept strolling.
I was crushed. How could they toss us out simply on the basis of our gender? They didn’t care about discipline or endurance. They were not interested in the skills we may have brought to the team—drill or otherwise. They were fixated on our appearance. Of course, it went deeper than appearance for some of these boys. It was really a desire to reduce competition driven by their personal insecurity. Or not wanting too close of an association with the “weaker sex.” I later learned this was called gender discrimination.
The next morning, I went to the faculty advisor. He recommended we carry the White Knights banner. So, we did. My anger smoldered. We were treated as though we were less than them despite passing every test they had placed before us. Anger transformed into action.
I approached the school’s all-male leadership with the proposal to establish a women’s precision drill team. The Athena’s Crusaders was born. The school assigned us a faculty advisor and granted us a budget. The others selected me to be the Commander. We solicited donations, bought our own practice rifles, and had our own tryouts. We marched in parades, won state-level competitions, and participated in Mardi Gras in New Orleans. We were having the time of our lives.
Our good-time bubble burst two years later. The school decided it was time to have one drill team. The White Knights Commander and I conferred. Our options were limited—they fold into us, we fold into them, or we start something new. In the end, we decided to fold the Athena’s Crusaders in with the White Knights. We wanted to preserve the tradition, to protect the brotherhood. It was a heart-wrenching decision, but the right decision.
I often reflect on this particular experience. I am struck at the brilliance of the school’s all-male leadership in how they handled this situation. Some may disagree. Let me explain.
- They supported both groups. They supported the White Knights by not forcing them to take us on the team. They supported us by allowing us to start our own team. This support grew our confidence, which became a game changer for me years later.
- They closely but unobtrusively monitored the situation. Appropriate boundaries were set and followed. For example, when the White Knights tried to pull funds from our budget, school leaders would not allow it.
- They were clear in their new intent—only one drill team. Instead of dictating how it should be done, they allowed us, the students, to figure it out. Did we make mistakes? You know we did. But we learned from them. This contributed to a sense of ownership and strengthened our decision-making skills.
I continue to carry these lessons with me. The most valuable lesson I learned from this situation is that discrimination reflects the distorted values of individuals, not the values of Marion Military Institute.
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