I used to say to my Marines, “You need to be able to turn it off and turn it on.”
But why? Why can't you just develop your own leadership style? I felt like I had to have multiple personalities, yelling at one person, smiling as I walked so I wouldn't be accused of “resting bitch face,” walking back with my leadership so I didn't come across as aggressive, and so on.
I'd come home and say about one of my Marines, “I don't get it. I've tried everything to help this guy be successful. I've tried educating him. I've tried giving him time off. I've tried yelling at him. I've tried giving him more work. Nothing is working.” And Joe would say, “Has he ever worked for a woman before?”
The fact that I was struggling with my peers became clear when I would have to give a brief about our stats at the commander conferences. My peers were so cruel about it. It wasn't mere razzing. They would be assholes about it.
Joe got it. But to me it was a sign of weakness to acknowledge that they perceived me differently because I was a woman. Or acknowledging the difference was a sign that “Maybe I'm not as good as I thought I was. Maybe I am being treated specially because I'm a woman.” As a woman in a leadership position, you're always juggling those two thoughts. Imposter syndrome and token syndrome: “I'm not supposed to be here, and they're going to find me out” versus “I'm only here because I'm a woman, and they need to make their numbers.”
It all leaves you working harder, running faster. You're never good enough.
If I couldn't see it for myself, I couldn't see it for other women. And, furthermore, I couldn't see the effect my struggles had on everyone who worked for me.
I was recognizing that I went into San Diego being hard as nails because I felt like I had to prove myself. I realized later on how traumatic that was for the Marines. I was trying so hard to fit in, but it was a terrible mistake to overlook gender bias and harassment simply because I wanted to be a part of that group. That's what I learned in San Diego.
I never would have talked about that to my subordinates, including my great female sergeant who was dealing with an abusive master sergeant. I'm not even sure what I would have said, because I didn't have answers to how to deal with it myself.
That's a problem.
I regret that.
I think I could have told her, “You're not the only one who's experiencing this, and I will hold him accountable, and I will look at all the facts, and I don't want you to feel uncomfortable.”
I never got a chance to do that, though, because she didn't feel safe coming to me.
I had failed her when she needed me most.
I should have not talked about strength the way I did. I think about this a lot because of the way we talk about mental health in the Marine Corps. Most Marines won't talk about depression, even though everyone's dealing with it, because it's perceived as a sign of weakness. I think I could have re-jiggered how I talked about being mentally strong: Everyone deals with adversity differently, and that's part of being human. But I just wasn't there yet.
I was there by the time I left San Diego. I knew it before I went to Parris Island.
By then, I had a better understanding, and I wanted to be that mentor figure. I wanted to help women with their careers. I wanted to help them be strong so they would feel successful, rather than like someone was going to find them out. I needed for my recruits and Marines to understand that the system was not designed to protect them from being harassed or assaulted. I needed for them to understand the odd power dynamics in the Marine Corps and that there were key things they could do to lessen the chance that they would be targeted for abuse by their counterparts.
But, most importantly, I needed them to please, please look out for themselves and for each other. Lift each other. Mentor. Reach back. Be aggressively themselves.
That's where I was when I arrived at Parris Island.
Ma'am,
I am a former infantry Marine from Kilo 3/3. I feel compelled to write to you and let you know that you have the highest degree of respect and support of the overwhelming majority of all the Marines and former Marines that I know.
Back in my day it was expected that a Recruit Training Battalion Commander should be hard as nails, speak the hard truth regardless of whose feelings it hurt, and keep the training hard in order to form and create young Marines fit and ready to face the mental and physical trials of war.
In my opinion, and in [that of] most others I know, you did exactly what you are supposed to have done to ensure your Marines walking across that parade ground on graduation day were the very best they could be and I would have been honored to have served under your Command. Semper Fi.
Very Respectfully,
Alberto D. Santillan
Perhaps you've seen the commercial: The square jawline. The gleaming saber. The rifle spun by strong male hands.
The few.
The proud.
The Marines.
Even our advertisements boast of our uniqueness.
We don't leave the Marine Corps—ever. Former soldier? Former sailor? Former airman? Yes, yes, and yes. But once a Marine, always a Marine. It's sacrilege to say “former Marine.” Wave your flag, wear your emblem, plaster “Semper fi” on your bumper.
Anyone who serves should be proud of his or her service, the willingness to risk life and limb. But have you ever wondered why the Marine
