How I became a volunteer firefighter

February 12, 2019

Before giving you this testimony, a clarification is necessary: ​​I do not try to be objective. Nor do I claim to represent anyone, since every firefighter woman has her own vision and feelings. Depending on our values, our relationship with feminism, we can perceive the same situation as perfectly normal or completely unjust and / or traumatic. My story isn’t rosy, but it ends well.

Becoming a firefighter, a long neglected dream

By sharing my experience, I hope to help those who are a little afraid to break down the door of a barracks. Those who say “I’m dying, but it’s not for me” Where is it ” It’s too late “. The conditions of access are much less difficult than it seems! With a little practice and determination, becoming a volunteer firefighter is open to everyone up to the age of 55.

At first it was difficult to explain why I wanted to be a firefighter. An inexplicable fascination with fire, urgency? The superhero complex, the visceral need to be useful, admired, to belong to a group, to do something as a boy? Probably some of this …

I started my work in a so-called mixed barracks (which brings together both professionals and volunteers), near Paris where I lived. I submitted my application as you apply for a job, with a CV and cover letter. following a long interview in front of a jury, sports tests and intensive training.

At the same grade, the training and skills required are absolutely identical to the so-called professional firefighters. Nothing sets us apart on the pitch. In some departments, depending on the sessions and your work, it can therefore take more than a year to be fit for all equipment.

Hello impostor syndrome, my old friend!

Firefighter, for some it’s just a job. For others, an unfulfilled childhood fantasy or dream. So when you first wear the uniform, all these myths collide. The helmet screwed on my head, I looked in the mirror and did not believe it.

Myself ? Not quite athletic, a little thin, clumsy, would I have pretended to save people from flames or cardiac arrest? I was aware of taking on a heavy and concrete responsibility and I was not sure I was in my place. It’s been nearly 10 years, and yet I still wonder. Daily. Thanks Imposter Syndrome!

From the first interventions I loved this adrenaline rush in the car, the two-tone siren, the uniform that made me different, stronger, like an improved version of myself. We quickly become addicted to this feeling of leaving without knowing what will happen. The most mundane reason for leaving can reveal a person in danger of life, a bell in the middle of the night that leads you to a fire in a house, apartment or underground parking lot where you rush into reconnaissance.

All of this requires a very broad base of knowledge, practice and experience. And the time … that I have not left. Too much self-pressure, little support, ended up taking my mistakes for flaws, thinking I’m not made for it, like a clown in an oversized costume.

Daily life in the barracks, a brutal reality

We will not deceive ourselves, it is an environment where machismo is still present, like the patriarchal society that raised us all. In the barracks it is therefore necessary to respect an implicit but very precise code, under penalty of being classified as a joker, easy girl, “sarceuse”. And even among women the judgment is no longer tender.

I was naturally very sociable, smiling and funny, so there was nothing wrong with being accepted by a group. Well, usually …

During one of my first shifts, I participate the mandatory sports session, in the sports clothing regulations for indoor football. In the middle of the game, a hand slaps my buttocks violently, I feel my fingers sliding under my shorts. A noncommissioned officer, all smiles, just slapped my ass in front of the full guard. Laughter breaks out, followed by general malaise, as I’m not laughing. At the request of the head guard, he comes to apologize pitifully. I’ve never questioned shorts.

One evening, while I was examining the van equipment in the shed, a colleague came to offer me his help. Naive, I happily accept what I feel for mutual help, cohesion. So he proposes a fun game, according to him, to spice things up. The concept is simple: “A mistake = a piece of clothing that we take off”.

Sure of my knowledge, I accept. I only removed one ranger during the entire interrogation. When I realized I was just a prey in his eyes, I went to bed. Over time they realized that no one would put me to bed and they became less friendly, strangely.

He starts crying, alone in the locker room

I was hoping to join a second family. I fell from above: atrocious atmosphere, young volunteers were not allowed to sit in the rest room (reserved for professionals nailed in front of the Playstation), we served as a counterbalance to the immense ego of never happy boys who criticized our lack of experience, belittled us.

I was crying, alone in my locker room, at the end of each maneuver. Disgusted, a little more every day. It’s easy to break a volunteer just starting out. Enthusiasm gave way to anxiety: I felt useless and no longer dared to ask for help. I went on guard with a lump in my stomach. I resisted for two years before collapsing and returning my business to general indifference.

Time has passed, the blows of life have made me mature. I have (a little) detached myself from the need to please everyone. I understand thatwanting too much to be accepted, I had skipped the stages before putting myself to the test.

Finally back on the truck

During the Paris attacks of November 2015, I felt helpless, useless. It awakened this vocation that I had tried to silence, to bury. And then, I met the man of my life, a very busy volunteer firefighter. Over time and our heated debates, I finally realized I was a victim of the Pro VS Volunteers fight. Out of ignorance of the environment, I had fallen very badly.

I ended up moving into his barracks, which is 100% volunteer. A completely different mentality, since no one is there by obligation. We share the same passion and desire to serve the population without being financially dependent on this activity. There are many training sessions, the purpose of the maneuvers is to improve the general level of benevolence.

Our foreman pushes us to move forward, for him it doesn’t matter if we are a man or a woman, only the involvement for the barracks counts. This confidence building allowed me to pass my First Aid Monitor and dare to enroll in the training of fire brigade leaders.

A personal life to the rhythm of the beep

At the same time, I am a business engineer for a large group in the energy sector. At work, I’m still asked “Ah but you like real firefighters, do you go to the fire? “

The irony would make me want to answer “No no, they call me to roll up the tubes and clean”. The worst part is, people would definitely believe me.

I too recently became a mother and it is not easy to juggle all these responsibilities. On a daily basis, I still try to find balance, but I hold on, without giving up what I love. I have my daughter looked after so that I can continue on guard duty during the most useful hours.

I have the tireless support of my spouse and my center boss. Unfortunately, many women don’t have my luck and they are forced to interrupt their progression in the hierarchical chain, for lack of time to dedicate to it or of adequate treatment modalities. We are therefore largely under-represented in leadership positions.

A slowly changing environment

In recent years, things have changed, it is undeniable. The Departmental Fire and Rescue Services (SDIS) have a clear political directive and it must promote the feminization of the workforce. The Interior Ministry has even published an action plan to diversify hiring, knowing that women make up only about 16% of the workforce.

The teams responsible for this feminization mission they have almost no allocated means. Inevitably, therefore, some laudable initiatives still carry dusty clichés, due to the lack of sufficient training on gender issues and the defense of women’s rights.

In official ceremonies we gather female personnel in a “girls’ square”, with the aim of making us advance in procession. The row of girls, in the trophies that we exhibit, only justifies that we are treated differently. From my point of view, separating is the opposite of integrating. But it’s a bit easy to criticize these promotional actions which at least have the merit of existing, I’m not sure I’d do better in their place.

More kindness and support

Returning from a beautiful surgery, I continue to bet. I see all my repeated gestures. I review, I ask when I don’t know. I try to take my doubts for perfectionism. In my eyes, I will never have enough experience.

What should establish my legitimacy is perhaps this: the sincere and persistent desire to do my best. Be aware that nothing is acquired, even an automatism is quickly lost. Not because of my “femininity”, but because a firefighter always has to train to live up to the tragedies he will have to face.

There is still a long way to go. As women, we have to be kind, empathetic, a sense of socialism very useful in helping the victims, as if we had to leave the fires to the boys.

Personally, I think the solutions lie in sisterhood, in benevolence, in empowerment. It is also up to us to fight this spirit of competition, this jealousy or this distrust that we all feel, in a world where we teach women to measure their worth on the scale of seduction rather than on strength or technical ability. When we can do without the gaze of men, we will gain credibility.

And the more we are, the less our legitimacy and reasons why we are here will be questioned.