But most of my peers had never served with women. Remember, women make up only 8 percent of the Marine Corps, and, until 2015, we weren't allowed into ground-combat units except as support. There are still whole battalions made up completely of men. For my first year and a half in command, I was the only woman out of all of the commanding officers in the nation. I've never had a female boss, and rarely was I assigned to units where I worked directly with other female Marines, particularly officers. For me, that was normal. That's how my whole career had been. But for the men, it was weird to have a female in their ranks.
For instance, when Joe and I met at the Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center at Twentynine Palms, there were maybe four active-duty female officers on the base. Joe was a platoon commander at 2nd Battalion, 7th Marines at the time, and when I visited him at his company area, it so shocked the Marines to see a female officer that they would stare at me. I felt really uncomfortable. Joe would explain to his Marines in caveman speak that it was okay for me to be there—something like, “Mongo, she woman. Okay. You. Mom. Woman, too. Okay. She no hurt. Be gone soon.”
Joe does the caveman impression way better than I do.
In any case, even when I wasn't smiling on the job, we were improving our recruiting numbers and retention rates like crazy. I had specific goals, and everyone knew what he or she needed to do. It ended up being good for the recruiters and their families—their quality of life improved—but I was strict about it. I had high standards for my Marines, as well as for the young men and women we recruited, because I believed we owed it to the Corps to enlist only the highest-caliber kids, to ensure success in battle. And our efforts paid off. Enlisting fewer kids who required waivers due to brushes with the law resulted in fewer kids quitting training. We started winning awards and earning kudos from the leadership. Best of all, we achieved the lowest attrition rate—number of recruits who don't complete boot camp—at the recruit depots, for men and women, in the history of the Marine Corps. My Marines did that, and they made me proud. They still teach things we implemented at the Recruiters’ School.
But the commanding officers went to recruiting conferences that rotated around the district, which covered California, Nevada, Utah, Oregon, Hawaii, and Wyoming. At these conferences, each recruiting-station commander gave a formal brief on his or her stats—the good, the bad, and the ugly. I don't think a military mission has gone forward in twenty years without a Death-by-PowerPoint session. So, at one of these conferences, I briefed my peers on the incredible things my Marines were accomplishing. Our statistics were off the charts, but instead of my peers congratulating me or asking how we had done it, most of them just pooh-poohed it. I didn't understood that. But, knowing what I know now, I think it was partially because they had a hard time accepting that I could compete. Again, that paradigm breaker.
That was the first time I saw it. Imagine this: You're briefing a room full of your peers, and you're showing all this great stuff, and instead of people saying, “Hey! Great job. How did you guys do that?” it's almost like they resent it. I now realize that it wasn't because we were doing well so much as because I was different. Female.
At the next conference, one of my peers, the commander from Portland, Oregon, pasted a picture of my face over a picture of a guy doing something athletic with the text, “Shhh! I can't hear you over how awesome I am!” in his brief. I can take a joke—if it's a funny joke at my expense, I'll gladly laugh along with you—but I remember thinking, “That's messed up. I don't feel like I talk about what I'm doing personally, and I don't brag; I make it about what the Marines are doing and how great they are.” But as a woman, you're damned if you do, and you're damned if you don't.
My recruiting station was number one when I left. Most of my peers, I think, had a hard time accepting that.
All of us need to work to fix that. Until we change how women are perceived as leaders, there's always going to be a Private Germano, a Captain Germano, a Sergeant Germano, or a Lieutenant Colonel Germano who feels ostracized because she's doing well, but her peers think she's an asshole because women aren't supposed to talk about their accomplishments. When women talk about what they do and how they do it, they are perceived differently from men who do the same thing. Guys don't have that problem. Research shows that, in most instances, men's confidence exceeds their actual abilities, but they don't feel any reticence in faking it until they make it. Why? Because they can't hear you over the sound of how awesome they are.
Oomph.
As I said, I didn't recognize it as gender bias at the time. Part of that is because I love the Marine Corps so incredibly much, and I love most of the people I served with. I would do it again—I can't even imagine doing anything else. There are days and people I'm proud of. But part of it was also that I didn't want to admit that gender bias existed, because admission meant I was complicit in the problem.
Here's the interesting thing: When I finally faced
