By forcing the Citadel to let her in, Shannon Faulkner broke down the doors of one of the toughest all-male clubs in the country. But that was just the beginning of the battle. In her new book, In Glory's Shadow (Knopf), excerpted here, Catherine S. Manegold offers an up close look at Faulkner's historic achievement--and the price she paid for it.
For 157 years the Citadel--the famously rigorous military academy in Charleston, South Carolina--has been associated with austerity, sexism, and cruel hazing rites. In its attempts to produce an elite, loyal fraternity, the academy effectively weeds out "unfit" cadets, who usually drop out within the first few weeks from exhaustion or intimidation--or both. For 153 of those years, only men were allowed to endure these punishing rituals. But in August 1995, against the school's wishes, all that changed: Nineteen-year-old Shannon Faulkner dared to join this exclusive brotherhood, rocking the very foundations of one of the most entrenched good-ol'-boy institutions in America.
After a landmark three-year legal battle, which was ultimately brought before the Supreme Court, Faulkner won the right to attend the Citadel on the grounds that a public institution could not discriminate on the basis of sex. The victory, however, was largely a symbolic one: The school hadn't wanted her in the first place, and she was despised by many of her fellow cadets. Faulkner quit the Citadel after just one week, worn out and defeated.
Still, as a result of her efforts, the doors at the Citadel, as well as other all-male institutions, had been decisively opened to women, and the next year four female cadets enrolled in the academy's freshman class.
Okay, so it was true, he [the Citadel's commandant, Roger Popham] acknowledged, old traditions would survive. The corps would stay all-male for now. He shrugged. That was fine with him. He would pick up Shannon and her family and that woman lawyer who had come down, too, and drive them all off campus. It was a job like any other job. "Of course," he said stiffly, sounding utterly unconvinced, "I'm very pleased the school will stay all-male." He pulled his Jeep in front of the low white infirmary and eased it to a stop. The windshield wipers splashed in a sudden burst of rain. "I think the school should stay the same," he said. "Yes, sure, I am happy about that. But I'm not happy for her." He left the engine running and turned the airconditioning up high, then peered distractedly into a low kaleidoscope of clouds. "I'm sure this must be hard for her. I have daughters of my own."
As Popham spoke, Shannon bolted from the infirmary and headed toward her barracks. Suzanne Coe, bedraggled and in tears, followed in her wake. Stopping underneath a tree for shelter, Shannon's lawyer answered questions in her normal rush. "She has been in this fight for three years," Coe said shakily. "She's not up to this. She's all alone. She doesn't want to stay. She doesn't want to go through life like this. This was a hostile atmosphere."
There was a roar above her. The news was out. The only thing still missing was a quick drive off the campus. From one building to the next cadets began to yell. Coe looked up and wiped a stream of water from her face, then raised her voice above the uproar. "These are the people who testified against her in court," she said, fighting back tears. "She has had death threats and constant harassment. She's upset. She's very tired. Nobody likes what we're doing here today. Nobody is happy. But it's been an emotional roller coaster for three years, and she wanted to step off."
Reporters peered in a side gate in Shannon's barracks, straining for a glimpse. A cadre member saw them and pushed a crowd of knobs [freshmen] up to the gate. He lined them up three deep and kept them huddled in a human wall. "Click," he said. Twenty boys locked into close attention, all eyes upon the corporal.
When Shannon reemerged she planted herself in front of a sodden huddle of reporters, choking back a surge of tears. Ed [Faulkner, Shannon's father] hovered in the background, ready for the end. "It's hard for me to leave," Shannon said with her voice cracking. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her stomach heaved, her voice choked, a sudden downpour cascaded in thin rivulets down her brown hair and shaking legs. "This is something I have worked toward for so long."
A lot of people thought she should have skipped that sad last act. The Citadel had prepared a car and an easy escape route complete with a police escort. They expected her to slip out a back door, the picture of defeat. But that was never Shannon's style. And that was not her exit. Instead, she stopped out on the wet concrete and faced reporters with her hair in tangles and her cheeks drenched in salty tears and her clothes all soaked with seaside rain and sticky as she thanked a lot of people but haltingly admitted that, no, she could not do it. Three years in court had been too much. The toll of that long fight was more than she could bear. The isolation was too painful. The ordeal had been too long. She could not keep her food down now. She could not face the year alone. She would not break the barrier. The barrier had broken her. Now she was terrified. And she was sick. And she was quitting.
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(He's the one on the right)
