Together Apart

I was running down the middle of my campus dormitory hallway. The naval term is chopping. All freshmen were required to chop whenever they were out of their rooms. This behavior and many others marked us as plebes, and there was only one way for our plebe rules to end. Climb Herndon.

Herndon is a 21-foot granite obelisk standing on the US Naval Academy grounds. It was dedicated as all monuments at the Naval Academy to a Naval Officer demonstrating acts of heroism and leadership in keeping with the highest ideals of naval service. Herndon is also the last challenge to conquer to move from the restricted plebe status to midshipman fourth class.

It was on that day in May, chopping in the hallway, my all-white trousers and blouse soaked in the Annapolis humidity squaring my corners with the precision I was taught last summer and reinforced throughout the entire year, that my thoughts turned to the next few hours. Working together, my class would liberate ourselves from the chains of our plebe status by making a shadow human monument around Herndon. One of ours would remove the plebe dixie hat atop Herndon and replace it with the standard combination cover. Tradition told that the class member that made it to the top would be the first to attain flag rank. I had no aspirations for the admiralty. I just wanted to be a part of the class and do my part to climb the monument as quickly as possible to begin liberty and walk the halls.

My focus returned to the hallway as I saw a familiar classmate approach. Noting our solitude, I took the courage to say to him, “See you on Herndon.” He breezily replied, “NGOH.” I lost all thought about who was around, stopped, turned, and shouted to his back. “How can you even say that? ”

This was the other drama circling in the halls that week. NGOH stood for No girls on Herndon. As the second class of women midshipmen, we didn’t suffer the same brunt of bias as the first-class of women; however, the force of sexism was still heavy in the halls. I had, of course, heard the undercurrent of NGOH, but it wasn’t from anyone I knew or for sure, I thought, anyone who knew me. But here it was out in the open, coming from the mouth of someone who I knew and who knew me.

How can you even say that?

I can’t recall our exchange; beyond that, he said his part, and I said mine. I left the conversation disappointed that a year of surviving together was washed away by the sway of separating from those not deemed smart enough, strong enough, or brave enough to be a part of this particular Naval tradition. I also left that exchange determined that I would be part of Herndon and all of what was required of me to serve in the Navy.

At the climb of Herndon, I rushed in and linked arms with whoever was next to me. Some male classmates shrank away when they saw it was a female. Others were too focused on the task to worry about who was helping. I found my back against the cool marble of Herndon with the press of men around every side, leaving only a vertical column of air available to breathe. As folks were climbing on top of my 5′ 4″ foot frame to make the next tier, a classmate shouted to leave before I got hurt. He was right. It wasn’t an NGOH statement. It was a caution based on not being where I could help best. I did my part and crawled my way to safety to observe the rest of the climb.

Almost forty years have passed. My male classmates have mellowed with marriage and raising daughters. I have had many opportunities to connect and recollect on our sea service and post-Navy civilian life.

But I will remember that being a part of something new may look like Herndon. Moving together in a crushing sea of almost 1,000, attempting a colossal challenge yet feeling apart.