July, 1972. Our 1956 model Cessna 172 needed a paint job in the worst way. Its red and white paint was peeling badly, and the aluminum shone through almost all of the fuselage. My dad told me that if I wanted it painted so badly, I could strip it myself. Our deal was that he would buy the supplies, and I would do the work; then he would pay for the new paint. I could even pick out the new colors.
After reading the instructions on the acid, I put on my favorite Leon Russell t-shirt and a pair of cut-offs, pulled my hair into a ponytail, and headed to the airport.
I pulled the plane out of the hangar, set my radio to WSJS, AM 640 in Winston-Salem, and got to work. Paint the solution on an area, wait for it to bubble, then hose it off. Scrub, rinse, and repeat. Be careful not to get the acid on my bare legs and arms or my clothes. I figured it would take me about two weeks to do it right.
The sun gleamed off the aluminum. On the asphalt, it had to be at least 100 degrees. I would work for a few hours, wipe the sweat from my face, and fan myself with a towel. On a particularly hot day during my second week, I decided to let the water soak into my clean towel and drape it around my neck. Just as I poured some peanuts into my Coca-Cola, a man approached. “You’re doing a good job here, but you look like you could use a break. Why don’t you come over to my hangar and cool off? You can see what I’ve done to my plane.” I loved anything related to airplanes, and a chance to escape the heat sounded good.
I knew this guy was an elected official, a church deacon, and a Sunday School teacher. A member of the country club. My parents had voted for him. He was not the stranger we were always told would lure us away with candy. I was young and naïve enough to think that he was just being nice.
I followed him to the hangar. He used his key to unlock the door. I looked around and saw a sofa, a recliner, a refrigerator, and a television. It was like he had a living room in the same room as his airplane. This wasn’t really unusual; lots of people had furniture in their hangars. The airport was a place to come and hang out.
We walked over to his airplane, and he explained how he had changed out and updated all his avionics. Our old Cessna’s instruments only worked sporadically, which made me a better pilot, but I looked forward to flying something where I didn’t have to rely on anything more than a magnetic compass, though Daddy wasn’t in any hurry since college tuition would be due in the fall. But oh yes, I was impressed with the radios. This was state-of-the-art 1972 gear. He even had a Loran, a radio navigation device that we used before GPS.
“Why don’t you sit down for a while?” he said. “Cool off from the heat.” He smiled and pointed to the sofa in the corner of the hangar. Why not? I’d been working hard all day and deserved a break. I always enjoyed a good conversation, even an argument. The weather. Watergate. My college plans. Flying. I was one of only about 600 women certified as flight instructors in the United States, but none of my friends ever wanted to talk about flying.
He walked over to the refrigerator, pulled out a pitcher of water, and grabbed two glasses from the shelf. He poured two cups, handed me one, then sat down. “So what are your college plans?”
“I’m going to UNC-Greensboro. Right now I’m planning to study interior design, but that could change. I just need a degree in something before I apply for an airline job.”
“An airline job. That’s impressive,” he replied. “I don’t think there are any women flying for the airlines.”
“There aren’t any, right now, but there will be, and I want to be ready.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
This was a curious question, but maybe he was just being nice. “No, we broke up last year.”
I never anticipated what came next. He moved over and put his arm around my shoulder and tried to pull me closer. I backed away, horrified that this old man would touch me. He had to be at forty, probably even older than my parents! Who did he think he was, anyway?
As I backed away, he looked me in the eye. “My wife is very sick,” he started, “and I have needs she cannot fulfill. I need someone. I need someone discreet who will not tell and will not make any demands.”
I didn’t know what to say. His tone was formal, like he was discussing a business proposition, but this didn’t sound like business. Knowing who he was, though, I was trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.
I stared at him. “What kind of help do you need?” This is how naïve I was. I thought maybe he needed help with errands or something. I knew this wasn’t right, and I wanted to get away, but surely he wouldn’t be asking me something inappropriate. I was a good student; maybe he had a kid who needed tutoring. I knew nothing about his family.
“You’re a good kid, and I need discretion. Sex.”
There is no way to describe the revulsion I felt. Who did he think he was? Who did he think I was? I was outraged. I wanted to throw the glass across the hangar, but instead, I set it on the floor and stood up. What was it about me that made him think it was okay to ask me this? I was just a girl, a smart girl, but still with so many insecurities and already carrying so much pain that I wondered whether it emanated from my pores. What kind of vibes was I giving off? What had I done to deserve this?
And what kind of man thinks that because he has power and money, he has the right to insult a girl by propositioning her for sex? Had he done this before? How would he feel if another man said these inappropriate things to his daughter? Clearly, he was a man with no qualms about making inappropriate suggestions to a girl young enough to be his daughter.
One thing I knew for sure was that it wouldn’t do me any good to tell anyone. Who would even listen? What could I do? It would be his word against mine. I had learned long ago that no one ever believed the girl.
I walked out of the hangar and didn’t look back. I buried that conversation because that’s what we did. We didn’t talk about it. A girl making these outlandish accusations against someone so prominent in the community? In this state?
It was probably ten years after his death that I came across his obituary. I wasn’t looking. He was obviously able to maintain his image as a fine, upstanding man, but I knew differently, and probably others knew, too. He was just like any of the other creeps I have encountered, and it’s taken me years to get the courage to write about it.
If my mother reads this, I suspect she will ask me who it was, but I won’t tell her. I doubt she would have believed me then, and I’m not sure she would believe me now. Our dynamics are challenging, but I recognize how difficult it must have been for her to have me as a daughter. She grew up in a much simpler time, and here I was, breaking all the stereotypes.
But I know the truth.
Why am I discussing this now? More than fifty years have passed. Isn’t it time to let it go? No. Women are being marginalized once again, and all the progress we made in the latter part of the twentieth century is rapidly disappearing.
There are still men who believe they have the right to exploit girls or young women because of their position, wealth, or perceived power. We see this in politics and in the media. There’s even a podcast that instructs men on how to groom young women for sex. Predators are everywhere, and some mothers still won’t believe their daughters, while others continue to excuse the perpetrators.
For too long, women have remained silent about the abuse they’ve endured, as speaking up often leads to even more abuse. Almost weekly, we hear about another respected church leader who has been arrested for molestation or related crimes.
It’s time we talk to our daughters and granddaughters about their self-worth and that we support them when they speak out. It’s time we support the victims, as we have failed to do so on so many occasions. Most importantly, it’s time we teach our boys that women are not property and should be treated with respect.
We need to teach our girls and our boys that “NO” is a complete sentence.
Dr. Suzanne Minarcine 