We moved to North Carolina in March of 2006. Now, I am from Kentucky so it’s not like I can’t say that I didn’t know what I was in for, but I had been out of the South a long time and I hoped that I would be able to adapt. I knew that the South as whole is more genteel, more conservative, and less diverse than the Baltimore/ DC area, and I expected to have to assert myself to get my point across. But I thought I could cope, do our time at Ft Bragg and return to civilization unscathed.

I should have known better.

When I moved to Fayetteville, one of the teams in my company was helping a client arrange a Red-Cockaded Woodpecker celebration. Really, a whole celebration just for this little bird. You see, the Army figured out that sometimes it had endangered species of plants and animals living on its posts. No, really. Shocking. And someone figured out that all of the stuff that the Army did to train could sometimes hurt the fragile ecosystem and cause these animals and plants to go from endangered to gone. As in extinct kind of gone. Now, the average soldier didn’t give a rat’s ass. But someone up the chain of command did. WWaaayy up the chain of command, like pentagon command. So Ft. Bragg did it’s part and shut down, modified, moved, and adapted training areas as to encourage the ‘comeback’ of this bird (heretofore referred to as RCW). And comeback it did. The conservation effort was a success, and the Army decided to have a self-congratulatory event to celebrate. All the people that had been involved in the effort were there. I was there representing our client from Aberdeen. And it was time for a meeting.

At this meeting were myself (the Defense Contractor), two representatives of the Fish & Wildlife Service, two guys from the post’s civilian offices to help plan the celebration, and the protocol secretary for the General of the famed XVIII Airborne Corps. The General would be master of ceremonies. One look at the protocol secretary, and I instantly knew the type of person she was. In a cheap suit with cheaper shoes, blah hair had a quiet demeanor, I just knew she had to be a junior officer’s wife. I also knew in my heart of hearts that she was the type of woman who quit the workforce when she had children. More power to her, I guess. Despite my impression, this woman was there in professional capacity representing a well-known general on Ft. Bragg, and I would treat her as such.

One of the two guys took the lead. He had obviously planned these sorts of events before and was upfront about what was needed, where we were at in the process, and other details. My job was to sit and listen and report back to my client. I had little to say, but made the right noises, when expected. And then ITHAPPENED! The moment I knew I would murder someone if given the chance. This man who had been speaking, turned to the protocol secretary and said, “Miss Rose, have the invitations….” WHAT THE HELL? MISS Rose, MISS? What year is it, 19 freaking 20? Did you miss the part where this woman was here in a professional capacity??!!

(Here is a side note: In a professional situation, regardless of martial status, no woman is EVER to be addressed as MISS. It is either Ms., ma’am, or the occasional Mrs. If the woman has a professional title such as Doctor, that always take precedence. Back to my rant.)

I could not tell you a single thing that was said in the meeting after that. First was my shock over his obvious faux pas, my amazement that the protocol secretary did not correct him, and the fact that no one else thought it strange. I wanted to yell at the woman, slap everyone upside the head, and then kill this misogynist male. AND HE KEPT DOING IT. OVER AND OVER AND OVER AGAIN. I just knew that he was going to turn to me and call me Miss Amy. AND THEN IT WOULD BE ON! I would leap across the table, take a spoon, and gouge his eyes out for daring to treat me that way during a professional event. Why a spoon, you ask? Alan Rickman said it best: “Because it hurts more.”

I was poised, I was ready. And then…nothing. I had to sit there while this pig treated this secretary as a little sister that he had to tell what to do (NOT YOUR JOB ASSHOLE, IT’S HER JOB).

I got home and told everyone I knew this story. Apparently the only person upset was me, everyone else just justified it with “That’s the South for you” or “That’s the way you do things down there.” What-the-frick-ever. Never, ever, would I allow that. EVER.

I never saw those people again, the day of the RCW celebration was busy with VIPs and press. But I never forgot. But most of all I never accepted that this was the way things “were”. Little did I know that I had 3 more years to live in this place, and I already HATED it. It was a long 3 years.