The Life of a Fireman... Wait can I say that?

My Department has a rich and proud history, from its volunteer beginnings in 1850 to the establishment of a paid professional force in 1883, to the pride in which we hold and carry ourselves today.  It’s a celebrated history displayed on station walls throughout the city and commemorated annually at our memorial honoring the fallen.  A history recognized by a member of my station when he came across an original full page newspaper article from 1937 entitled, “Ho, For the Life of a Fireman.”  It displays a collection of staged photos of on-the-job life, from the enthusiastic climbing of an aerial to the sober-faced tillering of a truck.  Along with stating the name of each individual pictured, it proclaims that my department is “second to none.”  My friend decided to frame this article and gift it to our training station, a place where our probationary firefighters are first assigned after academy to acclimate them to the job through emergency response coupled with constant evaluation.  It found a home on the kitchen wall, where I saw it for the first time a few months back.  I was instantly drawn to it, due to its excellent condition and the representation of the job from a bygone era.  Personally, I thought it would look better on the wall of my station, but I felt that this was an appropriate place for it: 1) Because of the nature and function of this particular house, 2) It also fit with the other black and white pictures of a similar time period that line this station’s walls.  A few weeks later it came as a big surprise to find out it had been taken down.  It supposedly didn’t represent the changing nature of our department.  My understanding is that this was seen as an issue of gender more than an issue of ethnicity.  I don’t agree with that.  I feel the article correlates equally to both, yet holds a significance greater than either.  A significance rooted in why I feel it should not have been taken down.

For those of you don’t personally know me, (or who haven’t creeped my Facebook page yet), I am a man in possession of brown skin.  My skin is infused with ¼ part Japanese, equal quarters Jamaican and African-American, and ¼ part European (a French-German Mix).   I grew up surrounded by different peoples and cultural traditions (which allows me to insult most backgrounds in the Firehouse without repercussion).  But more importantly, my diverse ethnicity helped shape my understanding of the sameness that exists across racial lines.

 I’m sharing my background to make this point.  Not one of those men pictured in the aforementioned article or in any of the frames lining this particular station’s walls, looks like me.  And guess what?  I don’t care.  I don’t care, because I understand what they represent.  They represent not just a segment of my professional history, but part of the deep foundation of individuals in this job who earned the respect and trust that I receive today from the vast majority of the public.  It is a respect and trust that I am expected to protect and to pass on to future generations of firefighters.  I look upon those pictures with pride (and in some cases envy, when viewing the fires they battled).

 I also understand that my department is proud of me.  Proud to celebrate the changing face of the service as it continues to more accurately reflect the public we serve.  I don’t possess a short sidedness of history or the self-absorption of my own heritage not to realize where the roots of my department come from, or to where they are presently growing.  I feel that taking the article down is a missed opportunity to educate our new hires on our tradition and departmental direction.  Or possibly we are hiring the wrong individuals if we are concerned about offending their sensibilities of gender and/or ethnicity, even after we’ve shown them otherwise, by giving them our badge.  

Now if you simply walked into the building located next to this station, you would see the main hallway covered with the framed pictures of my department’s Firefighter of the Year recipients.  If you stood before the 2012 honoree, you would see a professional who is well deserved of that recognition, a woman.  A firefighter celebrated for her ability, not her gender.  That same year, our city appointed our first female Chief of Department.  These are two resounding steps that represent the changing nature of my department, steps that I feel fall quieter with the act of denying a word.  A word that was especially true for the year 1937.  Fireman. 

Ultimately, this issue has already been addressed by my agency, in our most public space.  Residing in the downtown lobby of our headquarter station is a beautifully restored steam powered pumper from 1911.  Directly across from it hangs a collection of photographs on two adjoining walls.  The left face is a floor to ceiling image of one of our volunteer fire companies from the turn of the century, all white men.  The right wall displays the face of my Bureau today.  It shows the various activities that comprise our emergency response, performed by men and women of varied ethnicities.  Coincidentally (or perhaps intentionally) there is a sign standing in front of that gorgeous pumper.  It shows the horse drawn apparatus of the past and its evolution to the frontline rigs we have today, and is titled “The Changing Face of Firefighting.”  Both of these displays show how we can embrace our past while simultaneously celebrating our present.       

I’m sharing my thoughts on this matter because I know that this issue is not unique to my department.  My personal opinion is that we cannot change the past nor should we try to.  I feel hiding behind the smokescreen of political correctness and fear only belittles our professional history and diminishes the impact of the future we are striving for.

For updates on future posts I can be found on Facebook at- Adz Deep.     

The Life of a Fireman...

                

Be a Man. Put on Your Purse

The radio strap (more commonly known in my department as a purse) first started to make its appearance in my agency about 10 years ago.  It is an available, yet not required, piece of equipment that the majority of my department chooses not to wear.  In some circles it is incredibly belittled, and personally, I heaped my share of ridicule upon individuals who wore it. Somehow I ignorantly overlooked the fact that its use would have stopped the aggravating occurrence of my radio falling out of my damn chest pocket.  Instead, I would just periodically flail around in the darkness 'til I'd come across my lifeline to the outside world and stuff it back into its useless holder. I wear a strap now because I have come to recognize its vital use, and I try to convince others on an individual basis to do so as well.

Just the other day, I was speaking with a good friend, one hell of a fireman and a newly made officer, about the reasons why he chooses not to wear one.  He told me, straight faced, that he personally had never had his radio fall from his turnouts on the drill ground or fire scene.  Trying to keep the "Motherfucka Please" look from my features, I suggested he wear it not for himself, but for his crew. At this point "The Look" must have started to cross my face, because the conversation got awkward.  So I figured I needed to take a step back and try a different tact another time.  On my drive home the next morning, I realized I had to make it personal. That's what we do on the job, right?  It's one of the powerful ways in which we learn.  Mistakes beget growth, both on an individual and a collective basis, if shared and learned from.  So I've decided to tell how my personal change of heart about the strap occurred.  It happened about 5 years ago as I was trying to help a woman, a woman on fire.

The box came in right after house work, say 10 am.  It was in our first due, and I recognized not only the address but the apartment number as well.  I was riding the Irons that day, so as we arrived I was out of the jumpseat fast, tools in hand.  Two story center hallway apartment, nothing showing.  Our Engine was on a hydrant behind us, and I could see their B team grabbing a can.  I knew that they'd be right behind me, so I hauled ass to the second floor.  I also knew that the door would be unlocked because the woman who lived there was a parapalegic who called us frequently when she fell from bed.  As I entered the front room, I could see moderate smoke coming from her bedroom, along with agonized screams for help.  Turns out that it was only a mattress fire, but she was still on it with the side safety bar locked in place.  I reached into the bed and snatched out her small frame, smothering her burning clothes with my turnouts and gloves. She had been smoking in bed on home oxygen.  I realized this after her now smoldering clothes began to reignite from the O2 flowing from the melted tubing wound about her.  After I tore the tubing away from the cylinder and stopped the flames, I reached for my radio mic to give a report and call for an ambulance, but it wasn't there.  Her writhing, coupled with my actions, had ripped my radio off my turnouts, and I couldn't see it on the floor.  Fortunately, after one dumbstruck moment, the Engine made the room.  I forcibly grabbed one of them and called for ALS help over his radio as he stood there as my mic stand.  We then swooped her up and took her out to an ambulance that had thankfully already been added to the box.  I never saw her again, but I will never forget her.  If I was wearing a strap would it have changed her outcome?  No.  But it would have taken away that momentary feeling of ineptness I had when I realized my radio was gone. The feeling of being part of the problem, not its fix.  Honestly, I've never really talked about this event, because when I think about it, I can still hear her pleading, and I remember that sense of ineptitude.  I'm sharing this story now to help better frame my opinion about the importance of the strap.  To help convey its true nature as a vital piece of fire equipment, not a piece of imagined east coast flair.  I couldn't tell you how many previous times I've had my radio fall out during drills and fires, but there were a number of them.  I can tell you that after this call, I never wanted it to happen again.  And since I've worn a strap, it never has.

I'm proud of my department for many reasons, one being the mandatory use of the strap for all new recruits over the past few years.  Probies learn from day one of its importance and ease of use. However I have my issues with my department as well.  Those of you who have attended a Brothers in Battle class have heard of the two firemen from my agency who fell through the first floor to the basement at a good working fire.  Yet the significance of one of their radios being torn from their chest pocket during the fall and the continuous keying of its mic on the fire channel by a piece of debris does not carry the importance in my department that I feel it deserves.  We all know our radios are one of the most vital tools we carry on the fire scene.  Not only for the routine situational updates, but more importantly for those worst case scenarios we cannot anticipate. Shouldn't we ensure for ourselves and our crewmates that it is always there when needed?  This post is meant for my friend and for those in my department and elsewhere who ignore or who are simply ignorant of the strap's vital function: to protect our lifeline.  So please.  Be a man, and put on your purse.

An indepth report, on the strap vs the pocket, can be found by Googling- Fairfax Radio Report.

"The Sh!t-Show"

I'm gonna take a wild ass guess and assume that, like me, you did the hydrant dance so many times in the academy that your trainers were like, "You'll be able to take a hydrant in your sleep."  A statement which hit me in an "ah-hah" moment at a two-in-the-morning greater alarm as I was twisting caps, thinking about the line that I needed to help stretch.  I know, #1 Sweet...Training is paying off, allowing me to think one step ahead.  #2 Yes.. Unfortunately I did have to ride an engine for a few years after probation.  All kidding aside, an underlying fact of our business is that preparation and regimented practice create a muscle memory we need in the fire service.  This conditioning helps keep your "awareness bubble" from constricting, allowing you to perform actions while still taking in and processing information.

Now let me ask you.  Have you ever seen a "Box alarm Shit-show"?  Firemen scrambling at shift change to pull gear off the rig and grab their own, while off-shifters, who are still in the riding position, get ready to jump on the rig because a fire popped off in your first due.  I've observed this now and then, and it sucks every time.  See, when I was a probie, a senior man took me aside and said, "When you first get to the station two things, get your mind right and your shit ready.  Think about that fire or pin-in that may be tapped out right when you get to the house.  Don't think about the mundane of the job, but focus on the extra-ordinary, and be ready for it."  Twelve years later I still think of this as I'm driving to work.  This used to be 10 minutes of thought.  But, I married a country bohemian who worked her hippie magic on me and took this city boy to a farm damn near 2 hours away.  So I have ample time to ponder shit.  I eat a banana, drive faster than I should, and drink more coffee than I need.  You can imagine when I get to the station, I'm ready for a real breakfast.  But more importantly my body has learned that after 5 years of this drive, a sit-down potty would be great.  But I remember those words.  So I grab my gear, relieve the off-shift and get my "shit ready and mind right" the same way every day.  I make sure my bottle is full and operational.  I hang my turnouts just right.  I ensure the tools I'm responsible for are serviceable and in place.  I settle my thoughts while I do this, centering myself around what this job's about.  And then, I go make room in my belly for a good breakfast.  (Farm fresh eggs of course.)

But as I leave the app bay, every now and then I see a pile of gear staged at the back of a rig.  I see that gears' owner sitting at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, stories in progress.  And a part of me cringes, for I know as a whole, our station is not as ready as we could, and should be.  And if that box alarm drops, I'll observe the "shit-show" as I go through the practiced motions of turning out.  I know my packs good, that my Irons and TIC are in place.  I can concentrate on slowing my adrenaline rush.  I can get my mindset focused while keeping my "awareness bubble" open.  I'll be settling into my established rhythm, not stumbling out of the blocks trying to recapture my stride.  I'll be taking that damn hydrant again in my sleep.

Now, I get it.  Sitting around the firehouse table is the goods.  All subjects are fair game: the previous day's fire, marital decompression, or watching the tinder swipes of the one single guy still in the house.  Like I said, I get it.  But small things can have big impacts. And I feel that choosing to make that gear pile instead of putting things right, diminishes our awareness from the start.  I love this job, and the responsibilities that it carries.  When I hang my gear on the rig, I truly expect fire.  When I check my tools, I tell myself that if someone is trapped I will get them out.  I want my best to be good enough when it counts.  So instead of walking past the kitchen table immersed in my own routine, I know that it's up to me to pull that brother aside and pass on those words I was given.  To ask him if he is truly ready for the day.  If his mindset is where he feels it should be.  I'll remind him that this job plays for keeps, and that it's imperative we control those facets that are controllable.  So much is out of ours hands in this profession, but you don't have to be a senior man to care for, grasp, and mold those aspects we do have a hold of.   We owe this to each other.  And more importantly we owe it to those we are here for.