September 11, 2001

I’ve had two days at home and it is time to start moving around.  It is a beautiful Georgia day, low humidity with a hint of fall in the crisp air.  I make some jasmine tea, sit down on the sofa.  The fragrance of blueberry muffins fill the house.  This is the perfect life.  Maybe I’ll go play some golf today and have a greasy burger for lunch.  

I sold my flight school two years ago and got my dream job with a private airline.  It has taken me 22 years to get my dream job.  Girls weren’t allowed to be pilots when I graduated from college, even though I was fully qualified.  The flight school was my second career.  Airline pilot is my third career, though I had wanted it to be my first.  I have twice the number of flying hours of any of the former military guys I fly with.

I recline on the sofa and grab the TV remote.  I flip it on and can’t believe what I’m seeing.  A plane has hit the World Trade Center.  How could this happen?  My first thought is it’s a mechanical.  My phone is ringing and it’s only not even 9:00. My mouth drops as I watch the replay.  My heart stops.  How can this be?  What is going on?  I answer the phone.

“Are you okay?” my cousin Ken asks.  “Where the hell are you?”

“I’m okay.  I’m home.  Supposed to go out tomorrow.   I talked Chris into two extended days.  What the hell is going on?  How could this be happening?” I respond.  We’re both watching the TV and talking when the second plane hits.  Tears are streaming down my face.

I’ve always felt safest in the airplane.  Any airplane.  A mechanical failure?  It couldn’t be pilot error.  Two airplanes?   No, it can’t be mechanical.  I have no words and I can’t believe my eyes.  How could a commercial airplane hit the World Trade Center?   What happened to the flight crew?  Did the passengers know what was going on?  They had to.  They were too slow and too low for a flight coming out of Boston and going over Manhattan.

All those people in the air.  All those poor people at work in the twin towers.

Now a plane has hit the Pentagon.  What is going on?  I can’t wrap my mind around this.

Ken and I talk for a few minutes, then Bob beeps in.  “I need to go,” I tell him.  Bob is beeping in.”

“Who the hell is Bob?” Ken asks.  “I thought you were seeing that moron from Andy’s wedding.”

“No, he’s long gone.  I thought I told you that.  He really was an idiot.  He actually told me I couldn’t go flying one night.”  My mind is wandering and I wondering if I’m trying to deflect from the horrors we are seeing on the television. 

 “You have no time for idiots.  Go talk to Bob and call me back.  I need to get caught up on the gossip of your love life,” Ken says.

“Ha.  The love life now is almost non-existent, with my work schedule. You’re always my favorite cousin.  Talk to you soon.”

I answer the phone.  “Hello?”   

“Where are you?” Bob asks.  I tell him I’m at home, that I’m not supposed to go out until tomorrow, that Chris came through with my extended day.  “I’m in a limo on my way to Augusta to pick up an airplane from maintenance.”

Bob and I both fly for Netjets Aviation, a private airline that operates somewhat like a timeshare.  Owners buy a quarter share of a private jet, ranging in size from an eight passenger Citation Ultra, to a Boeing Business Jet, which is a Boeing 737 reconfigured for no more than 26 passengers.  Owners pay thousands of dollars a month to be Netjets owners, and are guaranteed an airplane anywhere in the United States with just four hours notice.  Our passengers are always our owners and they’re all wealthy.  I can’t imagine that our owners are happy about the closed airspace.  We fly them to meetings and to their vacation homes, and anywhere else they want to go.  We’re essentially highly paid limousine drivers, except we drive a $20 million jet at 40,000 feet in the air at around 500 miles per hour.  Bob’s retired from Delta Airlines, flying a Boeing 777 to Europe and this level of customer service is a huge change for him.

While we’re talking a notification comes across our Blackberries.  The airspace is closed.  All planes are to land immediately.  Netjets has just recently upgraded our pagers to Blackberries, and now we can order food and transportation, and see our briefs through the Crew Ops app on the phone. 

There are no words right now.  Bob and I just breathe into the phone.

“I just got a brief change,” he says.  “I’m to go to the hotel.  There’s no need to go to the airport if we can’t fly the plane.”

“What about the captain?” I ask him.  “Where is he coming from?  Will he even make it to Augusta?”  Bob tells me his captain is coming from Tampa.  

“Who knows when or if he will get here, “ Bob says.  “I guess I’m on my own until tomorrow.”

My phone rings again.  “Let me call you back,” I say.  “This is my stockbroker.  I hate to even think of even more bad news but why else could Abraham even be calling.  The market must be going crazy.  After I talk to Abe I’m going to call my ex and find out what he knows.  I’ll call you back in a bit.”  

I switch my mind over and answer the phone as calmly as I can.  I need to sound strong.  This is not the time to act like a girl, though anyone would understand, today, especially Abe.

 “What’s up?  Are you okay?” I ask.  

 “Fucking Arabs!  You watch!  It is going to be the Arabs who did this” he screams.  Abraham was born in Israel in 1948.  A mutual friend calls him an original Israeli, but Abraham says that one was in the Bible.  He says he’s the second.  He’s a brilliant financial strategist and has a kind heart and a great sense of humor.  “Where are you?  I needed to make sure you’re safe.”  His speech is rapid and fast, and he is clearly upset.  When Abraham is in a hurry or agitated, his Israeli accent becomes even more prominent.

 I tell him I’m at home and there’s nothing to worry about where I’m concerned.  “I’m going out flying tomorrow for 10 days.”  

Abraham is furious and is sure that this is the act of an Arab terrorist.  At this point, I don’t know.  I don’t think I am even aware of Arab terrorists in the U.S.  I have no experience with terrorism and can honestly say I’m not up-to-date on terrorists and world events.  I’ve never even thought about terrorists of any kind.   All I do is fly, come home, play golf and then go back out flying again.  My life is dull.  I have Bob but I only see him about once a month.  Our schedules seldom match up but we’re fixing that, when I move out at the end of the month.  The movers are scheduled and the lease is signed.  

The next plane to hit gets the Pentagon.  Oh no, I think.  We’re going to war.  A few minutes later, a plane is down in Pennsylvania.

My phone rings constantly, all day.  I hear from everyone I’ve ever flown with.  There’s no need to even try to go to the club, and honestly, I don’t think I can tear myself away from the TV.  The World Trade Center was iconic and how could this even be happening?  And what’s happening next?  What is happening in the world?  What happens next?  The planes crashing into the Twin Towers seems to be on a continuous loop and I’m powerless to stop it.

Never in my wildest imagination could I imagine an aircraft being used as a weapon.  We had hijackings, back in the day, but nothing like this. 

I hear from everyone in the family.  My roommate has been home three times to make sure I’m okay.  I flip the channels between CNN and MSNBC.  I try the network channels.  It is all the same.  The towers are on fire.  People are running for their lives.  The television replays the feed from the morning, beginning when the first plane hits.  Some people jump from the building to their death.  Do you jump or do you burn to death?  I can’t turn off the television.  My heart aches.  The phone rings and it rings again.  I want to turn it off, but I can’t.  I’m scared. 

Then I hear that a Netjets aircraft was flying over as the plane crashed in Pennsylvania.  He was talking to air traffic control as the terrorists took control of the plane and fought with the passengers.  He kept air traffic control updated with what was going on beneath him.

My phone continues to ring.  I’m surprised when my mother finally calls.  I’ve heard from everyone else in the family.  She wonders why I haven’t called her.  I tell her I’m too stunned to call anyone, and I break down and cry.  Again.

My brief finally comes in.  I’m on standby at home tomorrow.  In airline terms, I’m “in the bullpen.”  The airspace is closed except for medical flights.  I still can’t turn off the TV.  The horror of it all is more than I could have ever imagined.  My roommate brings me supper and I fall asleep on the sofa, in front of the TV.   

My First Best Shopping Experience

 

I have exactly four hours to find the right shoes for Andy’s wedding and get back to the hotel before Netjets sends me my brief.  I can’t believe they won’t let me just go home, but a night out in Atlanta isn’t all bad. My new friend Steven is picking me up at the FBO to take me shopping and he insists we go to Saks.  Geez.  I can’t afford Saks.  I’m paying for this stupid rehearsal dinner and no one has even RSVP’d but I know at least 40 people are showing up.  I don’t have the money to buy shoes, too, but my flying boots won’t go with my gold dress.  At least in my uniform I won’t be tempted to shop for anything besides shoes.

“May I help you?” this nice young man asks.  He isn’t that young.  He’s about my age.  He’s nicely dressed and his tie complements the color of his short.  He isn’t pushy, but I know he’s there.  Steven steps in a little closer.

“I’m looking for shoes for my son’s wedding.”

“Oh my, how exciting!” the salesperson exclaims.  He tells me his name is Jonathan.  “Tell me about your dress.  What color is it?”

I describe the dress and he gets the vision before he guides me over and to exactly what I need.

Steven is impatiently waiting.  I know he wants to get something to eat, but for once I’m really having fun with shopping.  Girl clothes aren’t something I do often, nor even something I do very well.

“Can you hurry up?” Steven asks.

“Give me a minute,” I tell him.  “My son’s wedding is a big deal and I need to look like I’m having fun, whether I am or not.”

Steven sighs and rolls his eyes.  Jonathan is quick to jump in.

“Do you need jewelry to accent the neckline of your dress?” he asks.  “I think I know just what you need.  Judith Ripka would be perfect and within your price range.”

By now, Steven has rolled his eyes so many times that I’m pretty sure he’s seen his brain at least twice.  He sighs loudly.

I follow Jonathan over to one of the jewelry counter.  This is beautiful.  A necklace and earrings.  I’m going to look great.  I hand over my Visa. I sense Steven’s impatience.

“Steven, seriously? Why don’t you go get something to eat and I will call you when I’m back in town. I’ll get a taxi back to the hotel.”

“Fine,” he says, as he turns and I watch him exit.  I breathe a sigh of relief.  I didn’t like him much, anyway.

“Now what about a handbag?” Jonathan asks.  “A Judith Lieber is timeless and if anything ever goes wrong with it, they’ll repair it.”

I don’t even know who Judith Lieber is but I follow him to yet another area of the store.  He pulls out a gorgeous bag that is covered with tiny crystals.

“It will only hold your car keys and lipstick, but that’s all you need.”  I whip out my credit card, once again, realizing that I need to work at least 5 extended days this next month to pay for the damage.

But how good it feels.  For a few hours, Jonathan has helped me feel my feminine side.  For a few hours, I have escaped being Captain Greenway and have just enjoyed being a “girl.”

I never saw Steven after that day, but my friendship with Jonathan is stronger than ever, after 19 years and all kinds of life changes.  Jonathan provides a level of service that keeps his customers coming back.  Successful personal selling requires building a relationship with your customers, a concept that many salespeople do not understand.  Even when I was on an extremely tight budget, I was always treated like I was valued.  To quote Maya Angelou, “People will forget what you did but they’ll never forget how you made them feel.”

A Shopping Story

 

I have exactly four hours to find the right shoes for Andy’s wedding and get back to the hotel before Netjets sends me my brief.  I can’t believe they won’t let me just go home, but a night out in Atlanta isn’t all bad. My new friend Steven is picking me up at the FBO to take me shopping and he insists we go to Saks.  Geez.  I can’t afford Saks.  I’m paying for this stupid rehearsal dinner and no one has even RSVP’d but I know at least 40 people are showing up.  I don’t have the money to buy shoes, too, but my flying boots won’t go with my gold dress.  At least in my uniform I won’t be tempted to shop for anything besides shoes.

“May I help you?” this nice young man asks.  He isn’t that young.  He’s about my age.  He’s nicely dressed and his tie complements the color of his short.  He isn’t pushy, but I know he’s there.  Steven steps in a little closer.

“I’m looking for shoes for my son’s wedding.”

“Oh my, how exciting!” the salesperson exclaims.  He tells me his name is Jonathan.  “Tell me about your dress.  What color is it?”

I describe the dress and he gets the vision before he guides me over and to exactly what I need.

Steven is impatiently waiting.  I know he wants to get something to eat, but for once I’m really having fun with shopping.  Girl clothes aren’t something I do often, nor even something I do very well.

“Can you hurry up?” Steven asks.

“Give me a minute,” I tell him.  “My son’s wedding is a big deal and I need to look like I’m having fun, whether I am or not.”

Steven sighs and rolls his eyes.  Jonathan is quick to jump in.

“Do you need jewelry to accent the neckline of your dress?” he asks.  “I think I know just what you need.  Judith Ripka would be perfect and within your price range.”

By now, Steven has rolled his eyes so many times that I’m pretty sure he’s seen his brain at least twice.  He sighs loudly.

I follow Jonathan over to one of the jewelry counter.  This is beautiful.  A necklace and earrings.  I’m going to look great.  I hand over my Visa. I sense Steven’s impatience.

“Steven, seriously? Why don’t you go get something to eat and I will call you when I’m back in town. I’ll get a taxi back to the hotel.”

“Fine,” he says, as he turns and I watch him exit.  I breathe a sigh of relief.  I didn’t like him much, anyway.

“Now what about a handbag?” Jonathan asks.  “A Judith Lieber is timeless and if anything ever goes wrong with it, they’ll repair it.”

I don’t even know who Judith Lieber is but I follow him to yet another area of the store.  He pulls out a gorgeous bag that is covered with tiny crystals.

“It will only hold your car keys and lipstick, but that’s all you need.”  I whip out my credit card, once again, realizing that I need to work at least 5 extended days this next month to pay for the damage.

But how good it feels.  For a few hours, Jonathan has helped me feel my feminine side.  For a few hours, I have escaped being Captain Greenway and have just enjoyed being a “girl.”

I never saw Steven after that day, but my friendship with Jonathan is stronger than ever, after 19 years and all kinds of life changes.  Jonathan provides a level of service that keeps his customers coming back.  Successful personal selling requires building a relationship with your customers, a concept that many salespeople do not understand.  Even when I was on an extremely tight budget, I was always treated like I was valued.  To quote Maya Angelou, “People will forget what you did but they’ll never forget how you made them feel.”

Aviation and Gender Bias

I learned to fly to fly before I learned to drive.  Going to the airport and getting in a plane is as normal to me as getting in a car is to anyone else. I started to work when I was 13 years old and saved every penny I made to pay for my flying.  It was my dad’s airplane, but I had to pay for part of it.  That’s who he was – he was a “you don’t get something for nothing” kind of person.  By the time I was 16, I was holding down three jobs and maintaining straight As in school.  I wanted to fly in the military, but they didn’t allow women at that time.  So I stuck it out and worked hard.  I detoured my career, was successful enough to retire at 43, then pursue my passion.

I never asked for special treatment.  I never complained when I was flying night freight that some of the freight hangars didn’t have women’s restrooms.  I used the nasty restrooms with the men and never thought twice.  I used the pallet jack to move truck transmissions off the back of the DC-4 in Detroit. I’ve climbed on the wing of a DC-4 to measure the fuel level in the main tanks, and I’ve pumped oil out to the engines during flight.  I’ve flown powerful people into Aspen, Colorado, where every approach requires precision and finesse.  I’ve flown into East Hampton, New York, and into Ocean Reef, Florida, on Key Largo.  These are challenging runways, short and narrow, not runways that are two miles long.

About a year ago I read an email forwarded from Leonard Brunasso, a retired Delta Air Lines pilot who is now a check airman for Omni Air.  The email was titled “The Age of the 707/DC-8” and it begins, “Those were the good ole days.  Pilots back then were men…”  You can just guess how far it went downhill from there, as he went on to insult every category of people except for white male pilots. From what I can gather, taxpayers paid for Leonard’s flight training in the Air Force.  He refers to pilots “in the good ole days” as real men and refers to flight attendants as stewardesses who appreciated a little sexual harassment, and were “proud to be combatants in the sexual revolution.”  He went on to say these women didn’t have any “plastic or composites” in their pectoral regions.

Rarely am I offended, but having been subjected to blatant sexual harassment and abuse in the cockpit, I have a few things to say to Leonard.  I am beyond angry.  I am furious.  I am sad.  I am, unfortunately, flooded with memories of clowns just like this guy who didn’t think I belonged.  The ones who objectified women.

I’ve taught over 1000 people to fly and I have an impeccable record.  I’ve shared my love of aviation with literally thousands of people.

I’ve endured sexual harassment in every form possible.  I had to sit through an oral exam for 8 hours for a multi-engine rating, purely because the check airman didn’t think women should fly.  I’ve had a check airman stalk me and a chief pilot try to push himself in my hotel room.  There was no question what was on his mind.

During nursing school, I would instruct in the wee hours of the morning and then go to the hospital in Charlotte for clinicals, then I’d go to the airport and fly afterwards.  And I kept my grades up while I was doing it.  I am as proud of my RN as I am my ATP and CFI.

I learned instrument flying with nothing more than needle, ball, and airspeed.  I’ve made the decision to go or not, when flying fuel to some of the most remote villages in Alaska in a DC-4.  I’ve manually calculated how much fuel to take on, and looked at prog charts to see whether it was even safe to go.  I didn’t have dispatch to calculate weight and balance for me, tell me how the weather was, and determine whether I’d be released to fly or not.  I made those decisions, on my own.

I worked my way into the cockpit with my skills and abilities to fly.  I’ve been pinched, grabbed in inappropriate places, and even been physically assaulted by other pilots.  I’ve been asked whether I ever felt guilty taking a job away from some poor man trying to feed his family and when I’ve adjusted the temperature in the cockpit, I’ve been asked if I was having hot flashes.  I knew when someone was having fun and when the line was being crossed.

When I first became a flight instructor, there were only about 4000 women in the US with commercial pilot certificates.  I was one of the youngest, since I was only 18.  Today, 40 years later with my Airline Transport Pilot certificate, I am one of only about 8000, still only about 6% of all pilots.  I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished.  I’ve got more than 45 years in the cockpit plus I’ve earned a PhD, started 4 successful businesses, and have tried to be the best person I can be.  I’m happily married to a retired Delta pilot who recognizes and appreciates my brains and my talent.

I want to say all kinds of ugly things to Leonard, but it would do no good.  I just hope that someday, this brand of pilots is replaced by kinder, more respectful human beings, by people who don’t care whether you are male or female, provided you can competently perform your duties in the cockpit or in the cabin.

Today I read a Facebook post where someone shared an article about a crash.  There were no women involved in the crash, but he prefaced his comments by saying he knew a woman who had slept her way into the right seat of one of these jets.  He went on to say she bragged about it, and that he respected my record and my professionalism.  I know he does; I value his friendship.  But why is it necessary to comment on one random woman, when her situation is totally unrelated to this crash?  Why not talk about the incompetent men who make it to the left or right seat because they know someone or because they have the money to persist?  Or the man who carries a flight bag full of porn on every flight?  Incompetent men exist, but why do aviators only highlight the women?  Misogyny?

Honestly, I just wish people would accept other people for who they are.  Be kind.  And stop spreading messages that promote hate. The aviation industry is changing and more women are moving into the cockpit. I pray that someday we will just be pilots, not the female pilot or the woman pilot, or for that matter, the black pilot or the Asian pilot. Let’s respect the abilities and stop the stereotypes.

Aviation and Gender Bias

I learned to fly to fly before I learned to drive.  Going to the airport and getting in a plane is as normal to me as getting in a car is to anyone else. I started to work when I was 13 years old and saved every penny I made to pay for my flying.  It was my dad’s airplane, but I had to pay for part of it.  That’s who he was – he was a “you don’t get something for nothing” kind of person.  By the time I was 16, I was holding down three jobs and maintaining straight As in school.  I wanted to fly in the military, but they didn’t allow women at that time.  So I stuck it out and worked hard.  I detoured my career, was successful enough to retire at 43, then pursue my passion.

I never asked for special treatment.  I never complained when I was flying night freight that some of the freight hangars didn’t have women’s restrooms.  I used the nasty restrooms with the men and never thought twice.  I used the pallet jack to move truck transmissions off the back of the DC-4 in Detroit. I’ve climbed on the wing of a DC-4 to measure the fuel level in the main tanks, and I’ve pumped oil out to the engines during flight.  I’ve flown powerful people into Aspen, Colorado, where every approach requires precision and finesse.  I’ve flown into East Hampton, New York, and into Ocean Reef, Florida, on Key Largo.  These are challenging runways, short and narrow, not runways that are two miles long.

About a year ago I read an email forwarded from Leonard Brunasso, a retired Delta Air Lines pilot who is now a check airman for Omni Air.  The email was titled “The Age of the 707/DC-8” and it begins, “Those were the good ole days.  Pilots back then were men…”  You can just guess how far it went downhill from there, as he went on to insult every category of people except for white male pilots. From what I can gather, taxpayers paid for Leonard’s flight training in the Air Force.  He refers to pilots “in the good ole days” as real men and refers to flight attendants as stewardesses who appreciated a little sexual harassment, and were “proud to be combatants in the sexual revolution.”  He went on to say these women didn’t have any “plastic or composites” in their pectoral regions.

Rarely am I offended, but having been subjected to blatant sexual harassment and abuse in the cockpit, I have a few things to say to Leonard.  I am beyond angry.  I am furious.  I am sad.  I am, unfortunately, flooded with memories of clowns just like this guy who didn’t think I belonged.  The ones who objectified women.

I’ve taught over 1000 people to fly and I have an impeccable record.  I’ve shared my love of aviation with literally thousands of people.

I’ve endured sexual harassment in every form possible.  I had to sit through an oral exam for 8 hours for a multi-engine rating, purely because the check airman didn’t think women should fly.  I’ve had a check airman stalk me and a chief pilot try to push himself in my hotel room.  There was no question what was on his mind.

During nursing school, I would instruct in the wee hours of the morning and then go to the hospital in Charlotte for clinicals, then I’d go to the airport and fly afterwards.  And I kept my grades up while I was doing it.  I am as proud of my RN as I am my ATP and CFI.

I learned instrument flying with nothing more than needle, ball, and airspeed.  I’ve made the decision to go or not, when flying fuel to some of the most remote villages in Alaska in a DC-4.  I’ve manually calculated how much fuel to take on, and looked at prog charts to see whether it was even safe to go.  I didn’t have dispatch to calculate weight and balance for me, tell me how the weather was, and determine whether I’d be released to fly or not.  I made those decisions, on my own.

I worked my way into the cockpit with my skills and abilities to fly.  I’ve been pinched, grabbed in inappropriate places, and even been physically assaulted by other pilots.  I’ve been asked whether I ever felt guilty taking a job away from some poor man trying to feed his family and when I’ve adjusted the temperature in the cockpit, I’ve been asked if I was having hot flashes.  I knew when someone was having fun and when the line was being crossed.

When I first became a flight instructor, there were only about 4000 women in the US with commercial pilot certificates.  I was one of the youngest, since I was only 18.  Today, 40 years later with my Airline Transport Pilot certificate, I am one of only about 8000, still only about 6% of all pilots.  I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished.  I’ve got more than 45 years in the cockpit plus I’ve earned a PhD, started 4 successful businesses, and have tried to be the best person I can be.  I’m happily married to a retired Delta pilot who recognizes and appreciates my brains and my talent.

I want to say all kinds of ugly things to Leonard, but it would do no good.  I just hope that someday, this brand of pilots is replaced by kinder, more respectful human beings, by people who don’t care whether you are male or female, provided you can competently perform your duties in the cockpit or in the cabin.

Today I read a Facebook post where someone shared an article about a crash.  There were no women involved in the crash, but he prefaced his comments by saying he knew a woman who had slept her way into the right seat of one of these jets.  He went on to say she bragged about it, and that he respected my record and my professionalism.  I know he does; I value his friendship.  But why is it necessary to comment on one random woman, when her situation is totally unrelated to this crash?  Why not talk about the incompetent men who make it to the left or right seat because they know someone or because they have the money to persist?  Or the man who carries a flight bag full of porn on every flight?  Incompetent men exist, but why do aviators only highlight the women?  Misogyny?

Honestly, I just wish people would accept other people for who they are.  Be kind.  And stop spreading messages that promote hate.