On Bullying and Slut-Shaming In EMS

The suicide of Fairfax County, VA firefighter/paramedic Nicole Mittendorf has brought to light an ugly, hidden truth in public safety: boorish, even abusive behavior toward women is still alive and well in the firehouses and ambulance stations. A story by Deputy Chief Billy Goldfeder of Firefighter Close Calls details some of the filth and innuendo directed at Nicole Mittendorf. Chief Goldfeder said everything that needs to be said; I can add nothing to it.

Yesterday, a blogger I know personally asked to share her story, because she fears the repercussions of sharing it on her own blog. Here it is:

Call it “the honeymoon phase,” call it naiveté, call it what you wish; but I was in love with EMS from Day One. I knew it as soon as I sat down on the bench seat for the very first time. The paramedic sitting across from me had my undivided attention, explaining the tools of my new trade.

“Now, there is something I probably should tell you,” He started. “Some of the guys here…well, they can be a little crude. Their humor is a little different from what you might be used to. You shouldn’t have any problems, but if anything they’re saying or doing is bothering you, let me know.”

I nodded, grinned, and affirmed that I had tough skin. I was eager to prove that I could handle anything. I could fit in. And I did, you know. Or so I thought.

It started out harmless enough. After our first big fire, which required help from multiple agencies, I found myself in the kitchen, scrubbing out firefighters’ masks. I thought nothing of it; I was just happy to help. Some firefighters peeked into the kitchen and snickered. Finally, one came in, nudged me in the ribs and said, “One woman in the whole place, and they put you in the kitchen.” I chuckled, and found it kind of funny. It wasn’t meant in poor taste, and I didn’t take it that way. See? Look at me, rolling with the punches. EMS humor isn’t so bad.

Time went on. The jokes became more crass. I didn’t particularly care. They were saying it to my face, for the most part, so that must mean that they like me. A superior only called me “Honey” or “Baby,” but I’m sure he meant it affectionately. A coworker called me “Sugar Tits” for a couple of months, but it was just a joke.

They laughed with me. They ate dinner with me. They’d spot me money for a snack when I left my wallet at the station. I’d bring them coffee before the start of a night shift. We opened up about our lives while driving to and from calls: new lovers, growing kids, dying parents, crazy in-laws, overdue vacations, frustrated spouses, heartbreaking divorces, that call a few months ago that’s still eating us up. These guys had my back, and I had theirs. This was brotherhood. For someone who was The Weird Kid most of her life, it felt incredible. The teasing and name-calling was just part of what it meant to be family.

I began to grow comfortable in my career, maybe too comfortable. So I took a class in order to learn and network. The instructor’s comments towards many of us in the class were a little weird, a little forward. But hey, that’s part of EMS. If you can’t handle someone making a joke, like describing what kind of underwear you might be wearing when your classmate is performing a mock trauma assessment on you, then maybe EMS isn’t for you. Your skin is too thin for this. I remember how my skin crawled and how angry I was when an instructor pulled me aside and said, “If you pass my class, maybe you and I could go to this neat conference together. We could share a room, enjoy ourselves. My treat. How’s that for an incentive?”

It was forward, unwelcome, and unprofessional. The people I told were appalled, but somewhat amused. “What do you want to do about it? He’s just an old pervert. Don’t read too much into it. Are you really bothered by that?”

When I passed the class with high marks, people joked that I must’ve taken him up on his offer. I must’ve had sex with him, and maybe the other instructors too. Then came the profane Snapchats, jokes that sex was how I got so far and did so well in my career. The jokes were starting to sting. It stopped seeming so innocent and friendly, and was starting to get under that thick skin of mine. I mentioned it to a trusted coworker, who always had my back. He said, “I would never let them say anything like that about you. I’ll put a stop to it. But, between you and me…how many people have you slept with? Just so I can defend you better.”

I switched my schedule and began working more night shifts. I dealt with less coworkers that way, and could focus on the patients and emergency medicine. One night, my paramedic partner and I turned on a movie, chatted, laughed, and ate popcorn before heading to bed for a short rest. Surely, it wouldn’t be long before the pager would scream out a tone and usher us out into the night. I woke up a short while later, not to the pager’s beep, but to my partner attempting to pull off my pants. When I jumped back and literally kicked him off of my cot, he said, “What the fuck is wrong with you? You know you wanted it!”

I loved EMS when I started. I loved the camaraderie. I loved the meals we would rush to share in between calls. I loved knowing that I could cry into the shoulder of someone who had relived the same nightmares I had. I loved feeling that no matter what the shift brought us, we were always going to come out of it together. I used to call that a brotherhood. But is it? No brother of mine would treat me the way I’d been treated. And if there’s anything I’ve learned in the wake of Paramedic Nicole Mittendorff’s suicide, it’s that I’m not alone.

I am urging you to not tolerate this. Do not use the guise of “dark humor” to excuse the bashing, bullying, and hazing of your coworkers. When a concern is raised, do not roll your eyes and chalk it up to a thin skin. Don’t you think we see enough on the streets, without having to bring it back to the station? How can we demand respect as a profession if we build a culture of ripping each other apart? God forbid you one day become part of a department that is asking for privacy and respect while they “mourn the loss of one of their own,” when many on the department worked so hard to make it clear that she is not one of them.

It’s time for a new paradigm. If we are to be the strong brotherhood we claim to be, it’s time we start acting brotherly. Please. Before it’s too late.

It’s time we stopped excusing this behavior, or minimizing it as “boys will be boys.”

I’ll say it as clearly as I can: If you engage in behavior like this, if you were one of the loathsome, anonymous cowards spreading rumor and innuendo about Nicole Mittendorf on Fairfax Underground, you are not my brother.

Not in the brotherhood of public safety, nor in the larger brotherhood of man. Because you are not men. You are subhuman pieces of filth.