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In 1993, when the school rescinded Shannon Faulkner's admission because of her gender, a landmark legal battle ensued. Faulkner won, and although she faced vicious harassment and left after a week, The Citadel was forced to reform: nearly 30 women have graduated since her brief time at The Citadel. In Glory's Shadow is an engrossing and illuminating look at this pivotal event in military history and the history of women.
It's been more than four years since we watched Shannon Faulkner arrive at the Citadel, that Southern bastion of military maleness, ready to end an era with her presence. There were three years of litigation behind her but only a few days as a cadet ahead of her -- less than a week later, we watched again as she withdrew from the freshman class in tears, leaving her fellow "knobs" to struggle through nine months of hazing without her. South Carolina conservatives heaved a sigh of relief; feminists across the country couldn't help wishing their anointed trailblazer had made a better showing. In living rooms nationwide, we clicked our tongues: After all that, Shannon couldn't hack it.
Catherine S. Manegold, who covered Faulkner's legal crusade for the New York Times, doesn't see it that way. To make her case, she goes back to the beginning -- the very beginning. The Citadel was established in 1822 to protect white Charleston from the anger of its own slaves; 20 years later it was reconceived as a school. Manegold spends a third of In Glory's Shadow tracing the Citadel's history, from Fortress of the American Way to twisted enclave of sadistic machismo and neo-Nazi paraphernalia. By the time she gets to Faulkner, you wonder not why the girl from Powdersville, S.C., left so speedily but why she set her heart on the school in the first place. By 1995 it was an anachronism, a sealed world of men whose passions sprang "not from what they wanted to preserve but from what they knew they had already lost."
Faulkner's determination, according to Manegold, started from what she perceived as the unfairness of a publicly-funded college -- one better equipped than most in the state -- that excluded women. Faulkner also wanted access to the Citadel's fabled alumni network. Manegold frames the fight as an epic folk tale: "A girl stood up to some old men. What gives you the right? she asked." Nothing, the Supreme Court answered, and Faulkner was in. But once she had won the equal-rights battle, there was still the matter of surviving four years at the Citadel for the dubious reward of membership in a brotherhood of throwbacks increasingly out of touch even with the modern military. When Manegold has finished describing the school's brutal tradition of breaking down adolescents and rebuilding them as men, its falling enrollment and its pathetic academic standards, it's a mystery why anyone, male or female, would want to go there.
Manegold seems to have fallen under Charleston's spell, though -- she writes of "that long history, the mildew and magnolias, the fierce old loyalties and that unarticulated sense of something stronger than the mere ephemera of modern lives spent on the move." She waxes eloquent, and often purple, on the Citadel's heyday in the 1950s and the careers of the men who earned their gold rings then. She assumes the portentous tones of a History Channel narrator to describe the clashing worlds of hidebound old boys and briskly arrogant New York lawyers, the paternalistic American past vs. the ERA. To her, the players in this drama are heroic archetypes shaped by fate and history and forever changed by their bruising battle. It can get a little tiring.
Perhaps because she covered the courtroom story in newspaper articles, Manegold is surprisingly sketchy on it here. We come to know Faulkner's opponents far better than we do her own legal team. The year she spent as a day student attending classes at the Citadel while the courts deliberated is barely mentioned. But Manegold was present on campus during Faulkner's awful days as a knob, and her intimate account is worth the price of the book. It reminds us that Faulkner wasn't the only recruit who headed home before a week was out; it shows us boys sobbing, sweating in fear, standing at attention until their muscles spasmed as they were screamed at by sophomore officers venting their rage over their own knob humiliations from the previous year. "It's boys taking boys and tearing them apart," one of Faulkner's classmates said. Faulkner winds up seeming admirable for walking away from a degrading and dangerous system.
Shannon Faulkner left the Citadel trailed by rebel yells of triumph from the barracks. On "This Week With David Brinkley," Cokie Roberts commented acidly, "I mean, if you are going to be a pioneer, you have to get on the covered wagon and go across the country and be a pioneer." Faulkner fell off the wagon, and many of us, at least privately, probably agreed with Roberts. Though In Glory's Shadow has its flaws, it adds important human dimensions to a case many of us may have judged too quickly.
You can go to a city thinking that it is a small thing, that it will not dominate or change you; but that was not how she went there. She went hoping for a shape to mold her life against, to push and twist until the contours matched. She was nineteen then. And she went away from home the way so many others had, to Charleston, all full of hope, seduced by the city and its Citadel, that long history, the mildew and magnolias, the fierce old loyalties and that unarticulated sense of something stronger than the mere ephemera of modern lives spent on the move. Like every man who had gone before, she went because she wanted to be tested, because she had the dream of finding some place to belong. Despite The Citadel's famous deprivations, she found the school's hard-burnished promise sweet: Those who wore the ring were guaranteed, among their own, both recognition and respect. But she was first in a new line, not last in an old one, and no one really wanted her.
For all the similarities that had borne her to those gates -- and there were many -- that one difference was defining. She was an optimistic pioneer in a world quietly dying. Still, she persisted. She broke the privacy of that slow death and brought its grasping rage upon her. It was an adolescent challenge she took up without much thought. But with one step across that old divide she was pulled into the vortex of a battle long since joined. She would be shaped by it completely, though not as she expected. At the beginning, she had no notion what she had touched. By the end, she bore its scar. The contours never matched.
On August 12, 1995, the first day of a hot fall season that would see the induction of the class of 1999, Shannon Richey Faulkner signed in to The Citadel as its first female cadet. Always before, in a 153-year history broken only by the Civil War and Reconstruction, men alone had marched. Indeed, even on that August day the court case hung unfinished, still subject to appeals. Citadel officials had worked furiously in that last week to try to block her way. Arcane academic arguments were no longer of much use to them. Instead, The Citadel's lead lawyer, Dawes Cooke, the boyish, sweet-faced son of a Marine, now pleaded with the judge that Shannon was too fat to march. His arguments fell flat. Judge C. Weston Houck, trying hard to hide his irritation, waved off those final overtures. By then, the federal judge could see no reason why Shannon should be deprived of The Citadel's full experience. As the school's lone day student, she had studied in cadet classes for more than a year but been barred from most other college activities. Since the school's famous barracks system was deemed key to its identity and method of training, Judge Houck believed that awkward compromise left Shannon at a disadvantage. Now, with a final legal resolution pending but a string of interim victories already on her side, every door would finally open. And so on that hot August weekend, though Shannon Faulkner, now twenty, had the college credits and demeanor of an older student, she entered The Citadel as a "knob," arriving early with the freshman class for the rigors of indoctrination.
Because of her singular relationship with that old school, Shannon experienced no sense of initial shock as her parents' van eased past a guard post at the campus gate. Though freshmen reeled and sighed, to her it was familiar ground. Waved through by a white-gloved cadet who scowled equally at every car that passed, the Faulkners moved into a scene designed and scripted to impress. A huge white wall rose high along the edge of Hampton Park, blocking students from the hum of daily life. To the southwest, the Ashley River, rolling languidly behind a wide expanse of marsh, provided a more natural barrier. Everywhere, the school's perimeter was clearly marked and firmly closed. Inside it, the Military College of South Carolina provided students with a stage set from another time and place. Around the green and closely trimmed central expanse of Summerall Field rose Moorish castles painted white. Those buildings, gleaming in a neat array, gave the seventy-three-year-old campus the aspect of an ancient relic transplanted from the dunes.
At the head of the school's central parade field, Bond Hall, the home of college administrators, bristled with turrets and the shining spikes of several flagpoles. To its right, Stevens Barracks (better known by its fond sobriquet, "the Zoo") began a run of four similar buildings that lined the field's southwest flank, their backs facing to the marsh. After the Zoo came Law Barracks, where Shannon was to stay. Next was Padgett-Thomas Barracks, an oversized building finished off with a huge clock tower, flags snapping smartly at its highest point. Situated just behind Summerall Field's metal reviewing stand, Padgett-Thomas housed the corps of cadets' regimental staff as well as several hundred other boys. Of all the buildings on the campus, it was by far the most commanding, implying in its very architecture that students held the upper hand upon that ground. At the end stood Murray Barracks, the first built and now scheduled for demolition, a pattern for the other three. From the street it appeared as imposing as it was plain, a four-story fortress with an iron gate swung heavily across its sally port, short octagonal towers rising stubbily above the stairwells at each corner and medieval crenelations marking a jagged edge along the roof.
The quadrangle of every barracks was an oversized concrete checkerboard neatly painted red and white. Above, smooth white stucco arches rose and fell in even undulations, making each floor's gallery an airy breezeway that gave out onto the central square. Like prison catwalks towering above a constant churn of uniforms, those open hallways lent a forbidding air to the barracks' interior design. The architecture concentrated attention -- and focused noise -- on the central courtyards in which cadets gathered for instruction, for punishment and, grouped tightly in small companies, in neat, impatient lines just prior to parades. No privacy was possible inside those walls. Even stairwells were exposed. Other than inside the students' rooms, none of which had locks, cadets were subject to relentless scrutiny and constant reprimand. Their lives were not their own.
For four years, everything about a cadet's life would fit into strict devices of hierarchy and control. That was true, to some extent, everywhere they moved on campus; but it was most true in the barracks, where older boys held younger boys to exacting standards of their own invention. Discipline was dealt out in the rhetoric of high ideals. Each yawning barracks' entryway greeted students with reminders of stern absolutes. "A cadet does not lie, cheat, or steal, nor tolerate those who do," came one warning lifted from the honor code. "Duty," said a quote taken from Robert E. Lee and printed up in polished brass, "is the sublimest word in the English language." Upstairs in Padgett-Thomas Barracks, in the carpeted private quarters of the soft-spoken regimental commander, a chalk message on a blackboard put the theme a bit more ominously: "We are not hurting boys, we are disciplining men" came the bleak reassurance to cadets who wore the stripes and studs of ranking officers.
At the foot of the parade field, Jenkins Hall (known in some eras as "the tool shed" for its role in housing cadet rifles), was the home of the college's military staff. Crowded with the uniforms of the Army, Navy, Air Force and Marines, it was home to the commandant and his staff as well as to faculty who served on active duty while teaching ROTC classes to cadets. Next to it stood several other buildings that gazed out across the grass, southeast, toward administrators in Bond Hall, making bookends of adult authority. Along the field's fourth side, directly opposite the barracks, stood the Daniel Library, Summerall Chapel and Mark Clark Hall: the brain, the soul and the heart of the place, respectively.
Set back and off that center stage were a dozen or so other edifices constructed with considerably less medieval zeal but holding just as much importance in each student's life. Among them were the field hall, the new mess hall, the much-visited infirmary and an odd assortment of other structures used to keep the campus running. A large laundry freshened cadet uniforms, and a cadet store kept boys furnished with everything from books to the insignia that might someday denote their rank. Between Law Barracks and the infirmary, a new barracks -- Watts -- was under construction. Though mimicking the form of the buildings that lay near it, Watts was to be equipped with air-conditioning, an innovation that scandalized Citadel faithful who thought that suffocating heat and swarms of biting gnats were part of the institution's very soul. Faculty and administration housing lay above and behind Bond Hall, out of sight and mostly out of earshot. The president's house, then occupied by a towering, sallow-skinned Air Force lieutenant general named Bud Watts, was a low dwelling built at the head of a sweeping drive. Tucked back behind the school's newly resurfaced tennis courts, the residence had the modestly distinguished look of a house a diplomat might occupy in some small outpost in the tropics.
Situated in Charleston's northwest and occupying what served as the heel of the city's pointed, foot-shaped peninsula, The Citadel's main campus covered only a relatively modest plot of land and was far enough off the beaten path to be hard to find for idle tourists. There, it proved so self-contained that it even had its own postmark. Mail stamped on the campus was identified as coming not from Charleston (though it lay well within the city's bounds) but from "Citadel Station, SC." Cadets, in fact, would soon discover that the college could provide almost everything that they might need. It was a world unto itself, tightly closed and strictly regulated, complete and all-consuming.
To cadets and visitors alike, the parade field and the few buildings situated around it captured the school's central themes of God and country, might and purpose. Idled tanks and jets stood sentry. An enormous cannon loomed below Bond Hall. A cross rose prominently above the arching crowns of gnarly trees outside the chapel. At the parade field's head, an oversized American flag flapped huge and lazy in the humid air. Though cadets arrived on their first day as nervous adolescents barely starting out in life, not one would leave that ground an innocent. Succeed or fail, thrive or falter, they would learn life's hardest lessons there. That was the school's promise. That was its oldest threat. Those few acres would reshape their lives and redefine their destinies. That was what they came for. That was what they most desired.
Shannon Faulkner, a tall, large-boned teenager with a quick wit and extraordinary self-confidence, had hardly paid the school any mind while she was growing up in a rural enclave outside Greenville, South Carolina. No one in her family had ever studied there. But her brother joined the Navy after high school, and Shannon was impressed by the changes it had worked in him. She hoped The Citadel might give her the same discipline and drive. And she was tantalized by the thought of taking that old institution on. So, early in 1993, she applied. Her application was accepted by a college official who mistook her for a boy. Then she was rejected. After that, she sued.
The woman who showed up on The Citadel's campus for knob training in 1995 had changed in the several years that her court case had dragged on. Long-haired and relatively slender in high school, she had cut her smooth chestnut locks to shoulder length and gained some weight and had taken on a certain toughness in the long battle that ensued. Never given to stereotypical feminine charms (she laughingly called herself "Hostesszilla" while at one restaurant job), she did not tolerate fools with grace or ever sweeten what she had to say. Instead, she faced the world with an unvarnished bluntness. It was a trait that could either charm or shock, depending on her audience. Her humor was sharp, her opinions pointed. Her ire was equal-opportunity. Though teams of lawyers sweated on her behalf, convinced her suit had overarching merit, Shannon never lost sight of one simple fact that lay at the litigation's core. "They work for me," she said without self-consciousness. When she did not like their work, she fired them with neither hesitation nor remorse. She was an unsentimental rebel in that way, a girl caught in an awkward chasm between her disappearing childhood and the nation's own difficult coming of age. Puckish and determined and certainly a bit naive, she was a modern teenager who did not believe in rote obedience yet chose to pit herself against an institution that taught it as a religion. The fireworks she sparked burned and showered from the start.
For nearly three years as Shannon's lawsuit against The Citadel moved through the court system, she was threatened, intimidated, vilified and humiliated. The Scarlet Pimpernel, an anonymous columnist writing in the school's newspaper, the Brigadier, dubbed her "the divine bovine," leading some cadets to moo whenever she appeared. ("Who will be the first to mount the cow?" the Scarlet Pimpernel once mused.) Her parents' house in Powdersville was sabotaged and sprayed with obscene epithets. "Bitch." "Dyke." "Whore." Death threats came by telephone. Hate mail raged with no return address. Still, she won her legal battles. But even after the latest court victories her medical records were subpoenaed, and her weight was leaked to local newspapers. That fall, pink bumper stickers reported her arrival, perhaps aptly, as a birth: "it's a girl! 186 pounds, 6 ounces." Sharper sentiments showed up as well. "Die Shannon," other messages taunted, echoing a sentiment once printed on a highway billboard to cast an even darker spell.
Some alumni found themselves amused by all those threats. "Die Shannon"? Well, that would stop her, they said laughing. Couldn't everybody see that it was all a joke? Cadets always poked fun. Now they merely aimed their fun at her. What did she expect? She asked for it, students agreed. What did she want with them, anyway? Was she a lesbian? An Amazon? A nymphomaniac? A fool? She did not fit their neat conceptions.
Furor over the case gripped many across the state. On Charleston's streets, Shannon was sometimes applauded. More often she was jeered or coldly snubbed. Her face was known to everyone, and everyone had an opinion. On the radio, disc jockeys spun a country tune with Shannon's court case as its theme. Callers sometimes requested it with raspy cackles of delight. The song never made it to the national airwaves. But at The Citadel demand for "It Don't Make Her a Bulldog" grew so intense that a sports booster organization called the Brigadier Club sold cassettes out of a bottom drawer to anyone who knew enough to ask. For a time, at least, the tune became a noisy anthem for the school. In it, Shannon was a "bitch" caught in the thrall of liberal New York lawyers. The "Bulldogs," as cadets were known, were set to keep tradition strong. The lyrics made it clear which side should win. Over the twang of a steel guitar songwriters warned: "There's two thousand boys on the coast fired up, and they ain't backing down, and they'll never give up!"
That atmosphere had worn on Shannon's nerves. If she was cocky and self-confident at the fight's start, she was less so three years later when the time finally came to live as one woman among almost two thousand men. Her distress showed up in minor ways. In the weeks preceding that fall term she asked her mother to make her an appointment with a gynecologist. Her mother, Sandy, agreed, without asking any questions. The Faulkners had a pattern that allowed the kids a certain measure of responsibility over their own lives. It was Sandy's thinking that the best support any mother could provide was to make her own opinions crystal clear, then fade back and leave her door wide open. So she kept quiet until Shannon herself demanded: "Well, aren't you going to ask me why, Mom?"
Sandy nodded warily. "Okay, why?" she prompted, swallowing.
"If I get raped," Shannon answered coldly, "I don't want to have a child."
Val Vojdik, Shannon's lead lawyer, rolled her eyes with disgust when confronted with the uglier aspects of the case. Her anger and contempt had only grown from year to year. But by that Saturday in August when Shannon finally arrived to don a cadet's uniform, Vojdik's distress was tempered by the knowledge that her side was close to victory. Dressed conservatively, her gold-brown, blunt-cropped hair straggling in a gentle wind, she rocked and swayed, too excited to stay still. In her early thirties then and sitting on the greatest masterpiece of her career, she smiled broadly at a colleague and raised her eyebrows wordlessly in cheerful signals of delight. Though she had left her law firm for a teaching job while that long case stretched out, she maintained good relations with former colleagues and stood side by side with Henry Weisburg on that day. Taller and grayer (yet dressed more casually in khakis and a baseball cap for the occasion), Weisburg was more used to billion-dollar deals. As a partner at the giant firm of Shearman & Sterling in New York, he often juggled matters that affected affairs of state. But he grinned broadly, too, down by the Ashley River. Swept up in the mood of it, he swayed and bobbed alongside his former colleague in unmindful syncopation.
Standing on a slope of grass outside the music hall, those lawyers made a happy tableau while Shannon swept through a last-minute tryout with the band. Even that detail had been before the judge. Shannon's attorneys hoped to leave Charleston confident that their client was safely ensconced in one of the school's less ferocious companies. Yet Shannon failed her first attempt to tote a musical instrument and not a gun during parades. Citadel officials argued she should not have a second try. Vojdik's entreaties to the judge prevailed, and Shannon's performance went well enough for Herb Day, the flat-topped former Marine in charge of the band, to welcome Shannon then and there. He did not do so. College administrators required more formal procedures of him on that day. The bandleader took it as an insult, but stayed quiet and did as he was told. Even so, as Shannon headed off to Law Barracks she did so with new confidence. She knew her playing had gone well and hoped to soon be out of India Company. It was a minor shift, but an important one. Room 3344 in "the Thundering Third Herd" meant running up and down three flights of stairs on a bad knee every time an upperclassman barked. By contrast, a slot in the band meant a gruff protector in Herb Day and a ground-floor room with no stairwell to navigate as upperclassmen hovered close. After the tryout, Vojdik grinned and administered a friendly pat. They would get it solved, she said.
Elsewhere that morning, Dawes Cooke, shaggy haired and dressed in a dark suit and cheerful tie as was his habit, tended to some last details. He knew the fight was far from over. Though the U.S. Supreme Court had declined to grant an emergency stay, and Judge Houck had dealt the school a rapid sequence of disappointments, Cooke was confident that further struggle lay ahead. The men who paid his bills were hardly ready to give up. In Bond Hall, from his post in the president's chair, Bud Watts had vowed to fight until the end. Several doors away, his former roommate, Lewis Spearman, a Georgia divorce lawyer who by his own count had handled thirteen hundred marriage breakups before he let his bar credentials lapse, was more adamant, still. Their old friend Jimmie Jones, the smooth-coiffed, smooth-spoken head of the board of visitors, was plainly with them, too.
Those men were nothing if not like-minded. No only did each among them wear the school's gold band, but they were classmates and old friends, South Carolinians who had marched together with the class of 1958. Born on the cusp of World War II and weaned on the harsh rhetoric of the Cold War, they came of age in a segregated South under the guidance of General Mark Wayne Clark, a man so deeply averse to social change that he considered the fledgling civil rights movement and moves to racially integrate the United States Armed Forces not only an assault on his sovereignty as a white male but, indeed, a communist design to poison his great country from within. The general retired before the first black ever donned a Citadel uniform. Now, faced with an equally provocative challenge, his former students recycled some old fears. Dogged to the end, they kept their sights on victory even as Shannon opened her few boxes and unpacked.
Several doors down from Watts's office on that morning, Terry Leedom, the school's new head of public relations, fielded calls from around the world. In conversation after conversation he proved monotonously upbeat. Yes, he said blandly into the telephone, the school's first female cadet was now on campus. Yes, he added smoothly, pulling at the sleeves of his mint-green college-issue uniform, students would do all they could to make the system work. Leedom had been severely chastised in recent days. Though normally outspoken and quick to go off the record with insinuations, gossip, and acidic asides, he stayed on his best behavior. He had good reason to. After Shannon's weight appeared in news reports and in a spate of newly minted memorabilia, Vojdik urged Judge Houck to cite the school's public relations representative for contempt for disseminating information then held under a court seal. With Judge Houck clearly angered and an FBI investigation under way, Leedom moved gingerly that morning. If there was trouble, it surely would not come from him.
In fact, there would be no trouble on that day. Everything was battened down. Federal marshals moved across the campus to ensure that all went well. Outside Shannon's room, video cameras with interlocking views of the open gallery outside her door beamed live images to a guardhouse near the college gate. Venetian blinds had been installed inside her room to ensure a veil of privacy. A women's bathroom, the barracks' first, was situated down the hall. In the cool and humming recesses of Bond Hall, Leedom repeated the school's new mantra time and time again. "We have great hopes," he said, defying years of bitter volleys in and out of court. "So far, everything is going well."
On that first morning, someone sent her roses. As Shannon quietly unpacked her things, their delivery sparked a minor drama at the gate. Students at the sally port passed those flowers hand to hand like primed grenades. A note was tucked beside one stem. A tall, hard-faced sophomore opened it and read the message with disdain, then made a face confirming every worst assumption they all shared. The card contained a simple token of good tidings. "Shannon! Best of Luck! This is one giant step for womankind. Think of yourself as a modern day Scarlett. All good wishes from the mother and sister of Citadel graduates!" No signature was scrawled on that small square, not even in a florist's hand. It was an anonymous cheer from women somewhere back behind the scenes. And it made those cadets crazy with contempt. A cluster of uniformed boys shook their heads and scowled, unsure of what to do. Then one among them took control and barked an order sending those flowers back to the main office. "Roses!" he scoffed in a sour whisper of despair. "Shit."
Three floors above, Shannon tied her sneakers tight and touched a tiny charm she had attached discreetly to one lace. In her white shorts and pink T-shirt, her hair pinned neatly back and a silver angel coasting silently above one crumpled sock for luck, she was ready to begin.
"Pretty in pink," hissed an upperclassman as soon as she appeared. Shannon frowned and moved away. She did not see the long-stemmed roses that had come, nor hear, until much later, the good wishes they conveyed. Indeed, those wishes did not take. For in about the time it took those rose petals to fade, Shannon would be gone as well, her life misshapen and her optimism spent.
From the Hardcover edition.
|Prologue: An Awkward Question||3|
|Part II||A Dance Among the Cannons|
|Once There Was a Grand Celestial Map||29|
|A Game of Slave and Master||41|
|When War Became Familiar||50|
|As Though God Himself Walked There||63|
|Lessons from the Field||88|
|An Astringent for the Soul||129|
|Masculine All the Way Through...||157|
|From the Ashes||185|
|Part IV||Lone Wolf|
|Smile, Because Tomorrow Will Be Worse||195|
|Old Maps for a New Wold||219|
|Epilogue: Fear Is like a Tree||295|
Posted June 24, 2004
The Citadel is not simply a good old boy network; it is honorable and distinguished institution. It is known to be the toughest military institution in the country--perhaps, the world. Its greatest tradition is standing firm and righteous against all that is immoral and detrimental to its 'high purposes.' I know a few of those who decided to fight against Faulkner. Many of them did so knowing that they would lose. They did what they thought was right and what they knew was best. I personally know the man that escorted Faulkner from Third Battalion to the infirmary--he said she smiled sadistically. From then he knew that her presumed intentions were fallacious. She had no desire to join the school--she wanted to break it. She succeeded in gaining admittance and opening the door for females, but she failed in breaking the school. Though she failed in breaking the school, she has made its noble goals far harder to achieve. The Citadel, a school already poor in funding, now has to pay for co-ed facilities and athletics. Because of the extra financial strain, only privileged students can afford to go there. Training is achieved with greater difficulty. Discipline, at least when compared to its former level of intensity, is not possible. There are ways you can treat men that are utterly unacceptable for women. Subversive methods of training (not to be confused with hazing) have to be employed to keep the institution at a minimal functioning order. Also, it is proved impossible to keep men and women from totally abstaining from engaging in intimate relations with one another. With each infraction, the school is tarnished. With every breach of regulation that goes unnoticed or unpunished, cadets lose their seriousness and sense of importance felt for the system. From cohesiveness, strength is drawn, but all females are treated different (get it easier), which causes distrust and resentment. If all energy is spent in merely keeping order, then no improvements can be made. Despite all the rhetoric, in reality, The Citadel has been hurt by the integration of females. Many of the females are quite admirable, but their existence at The Citadel detracts from its mission. The author attempts too hard to paint the school in a bad light in order to somehow vindicate Faulkner's failure. Academically, The Citadel requires a student to take about 150 hours to earn a bachelor's degree. A civilian college doesn't come close. It is more than academically proficient--it is exceptional. The author's claim that it is or has been declining in enrollment is wholly false. It turns away a vast number each year of wanting applicants. Its alumni network is relatively unparalleled. Its graduates are among the most respected in the country. Employers seek with great earnest Citadel grads because they know that they are hiring someone of inconvertible integrity, sincere honesty, potent leadership, coolness, resolve, competence and reverence. The Citadel teaches so much beyond academics that it is ungraspable and for many only appreciated after graduation. No other college that I am aware of stirs such loyalty and love from its graduates, as does The Citadel. Attrition the first year nearly always reaches close to a third. Cadets unable to handle the strenuous atmosphere continue to drop each subsequent year. Those dishonest and immoral are weeded out with a fervent passion. What a great school it is and its derived benefits are endless. Surely the author is ignorant in her analysis of it. Any objective person would stop to consider why any such place that is so arduous commands such respect and reverence from those who were its supposed victims. The traditions that the author tries to discredit are none other than the stressing of God and county, while keeping in mind that morality (as ordained by God) governs all. If the author objects to the above, then it is no wonder why she attWas this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted January 22, 2002
The author makes many claims that either are not supported with evidence or are supported with poor evidence. Throughout college and graduate school, I never dreamed of turning in a paper without footnotes-- yet, this book goes to publication without them. When such strong claims are made, strong and clear evidence should back them up. Most importantly, know your sources.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted November 15, 2000
I am a 27 year old woman, a business owner and a mother, and know what it is like to succeed and survive in a male-dominated institution. I believe that this book, while it had good intentions for Shannon Faulkner, did little to convince myself and many others that she was totally equipped to handle this battle. Shannon Faulkner defied my belief that if your heart is consumed by something, and you want something so badly, you NEVER give up. Preparation and steadfast nerves coupled with desire and determination should prevail over the most seemingly unsurpassable obstacles. I am currently engaged to a man that was in the Navy with her brother and dated Shannon Faulkner and, not that I judge by what others say, but from many people that knew her have had a little bit of insight, she was not particularly interested in being in shape or in taking any initiative with her career. My motto and the key to my own personal success, NEVER GIVE UP!!!! While I admire her attempt, I must confess that I was embarrassed for all women because she took a position that effected the way that men view women, too often called the 'weaker' sex. I don't appreciate being judged by someone else's actions. She could have at least prepared herself. Sorry if this sounds coarse, but I'm sure many other women feel the same. Strong convictions precede great actions, and obviously her conviction was not strong enough to get her through.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted December 8, 2011
No text was provided for this review.