TEAM PLAYERS?

COMMENTARY

TEAM PLAYERS?wusa_312 561..568

Lisa Whalen

Based upon my experience as the only female working for a construction company, this essay examines theimpact of gender roles upon professional and personal relationships. It opens with a narrative of my first-everattempt at playing paintball with my co-workers; incorporates my reflections about the increasingly war-likeand misogynistic nature of the games as the day wore on; and concludes with an analysis of how genderdetermined how we played games—both on the field that day and in subsequent interactions when wereturned to work.

Team Players?

The only sounds I register while tramping through barely-green woodstrailing twenty-five men each at least a head taller are my shallow breathing andthe mantra in my head that drowns out anything else. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.I can’t do this. I’m scared. In fact, I can’t remember being this scared in a longtime. The most bizarre thing about this situation is that I volunteered to be here.I always wanted to be part of this group, so now I have to play the game.

I joke and boast with the others, but it’s a façade. Uncertainty leaks throughit like the rain that soaked these grounds last night: I cling to my spot at the backof the group; I tug at the mask strapped to my face; I edge Nike cross-trainersaround puddles and flinch at the muck that sprays our camouflage pants as theothers’ combat boots stamp through the mud. The giveaway, though, is myhands: damp and shaking, they grip a sleek, black, semi-automatic gun loadedwith two hundred paintballs.

All too soon, Troy Kraus, our team leader, reaches the base camp from whichwe will begin battle. The referee’s reminder of the rules does nothing to ease myanxiety:

Don’t shoot anyone from closer than 10 feet.Don’t play dead and leave the game unless the paintball leaves a mark on you.Don’t shoot at players after they’ve yelled “hit.”Don’t forget to check a player’s armband before you shoot him, unless you wantto shoot your teammates.

Workingusa

The Journal of Labor and Society

WorkingUSA: The Journal of Labor and Society · 1089-7011 · Volume 13 · December 2010 · pp. 561–568© The Authors

WorkingUSA: The Journal of Labor and Society © 2010 Immanuel Ness and Wiley Periodicals, Inc.

Calm down, I tell myself. This is just a game—only paintball. It’s not like real war.People do this every day—for fun. What’s in front of me, however, is nothing likethe lighthearted laser tag/water balloon hybrid I’d imagined when myco-workers invited me to The Combat Zone paintball acreage. I’m the onlyfemale among a group of armed forces reservists and avid hunters in a remotewooded area playing a game that could—and most likely would—leave scars. I’min way over my head, I whisper.

An air horn signals the start of our first battle. I’m suddenly alone, pickingmy way through brush as quickly as I can. The mask distorts my vision, makingit difficult to determine what causes the shrubs ahead to sway. Is it the wind ora member of the opposing team with his crosshairs trained on me? I’m certainthe back of my fatigue jacket bears a bulls-eye composed of synonyms for“gullible.” I want to go home and slide into a bubble bath.

The Road from College to Paintball

My first encounter with paintball is not unlike my introduction to theco-workers with whom I’d now become hunter and hunted. Lack of familiaritywith St. Paul, the city where I attended college, led me to apply for a summer jobat a company I thought was just around the corner from campus. As it turnedout, Snelling Avenues appeared in both St. Paul and Minneapolis. The Minne-apolis Snelling is pot-holed road three blocks long, located between an industrialarea and one of the most violent parts of the city. Naturally, I got lost and waslate for my interview.

I didn’t realize until I began job training that despite hiring me as a recep-tionist, the human resources manager placed someone else in that position andpromoted me to Sales and Operations Assistant—a job for which I was unquali-fied, inexperienced, and completely unprepared. The roofers must have takenone look at me that first day and cringed. To say that I didn’t fit in was puttingit mildly. I was a fresh-faced, sheltered, private school college student just out ofmy teens and the epitome of many Catholic schoolgirl stereotypes. In additionto telling me frequently, though not unkindly, that I was very innocent, myco-workers initially shielded me from many of the harsh realities of the roofingindustry.

Still, for the first three weeks, I had nightmares about overflowing inboxes,indecipherable sheet metal orders, and 10-page sales contracts. After the secondday on my own, I called my parents crying and claiming I would quit. I’m sure myco-workers also had nightmares: about my unfamiliarity with how to pronounce(much less spell) roofing terms, decipher green blobs on the weather radar screen,and communicate via citizens’ band (CB) radio. It was a rough start for all of us,but for reasons I still can’t pinpoint, I decided not to quit. Eventually, the job, thecompany, and particularly my co-workers, grew on me, and I on them.

Initially, a sense of mutual fascination held us together as a company. I wasawestruck—sometimes horrified—by how utterly different their world was frommine. Their blue-collar attitudes and language; their past experiences, which

562 WORKINGUSA: THE JOURNAL OF LABOR AND SOCIETY

sometimes included jail sentences; their ability to have fun while maintaining aproficient workplace; and their habit of embarrassing, berating, or slugging eachother in the shoulder as a means of showing affection fascinated me. And I didn’tunderstand how they could survive sixty-hour weeks of grueling labor in theblistering sun without complaining, and then relish their time off with absoluteabandon.

My co-workers, in turn, seemed fascinated by my naïveté about life in theirworld; my odd collection of knowledge about impractical subjects; my prim,white-collar, suburban language; and my need for a sweater in the air-conditioned office. For a long time, they apologized profusely every time theycursed in front of me, which I found amusing.

Fiercely protective, occasionally suggestive, and very rarely bordering onpredatory, my co-workers treated me like a little sister, a single woman, and acompetent—if naïve—central figure who kept the office running. They lit upwhen I laughed at their stories. They reacted with awe at my ability to read theirhandwriting, to find misplaced objects among the clutter on their desks, and to“find” missing sunglasses resting atop their heads. During the course of my firstsummer there, one co-worker changed my CB call sign from “Operations Base”to “Den Mother,” a role I found myself falling into without any awareness of theimplications.

Perhaps an odd and even disturbing relationship in hindsight, I clung to thesense of safety their presence provided, especially at a time when I was uncertainabout where my life after college was headed. They were physically strong andlife-savvy, and they made it clear that as long as I was one of them, they woulddo anything to protect me from harm. They were also a source of excitement,inviting me to rock concerts and providing my first encounter with ice fishing.But even as they delighted in baiting my hooks and teaching me how to tie fliesand lures, I was aware of being the only female in an “old boys’ network.” Neverwas that feeling as keen as during my first attempt at paintball.

Survival of the Male-est

At a loss for what to do now that the game has begun, I hunker down in anout-of-the-way spot surrounded by trees. I lie on my stomach and wait. Sweattrickles down my back, and gunshots and shouts echo in the distance, but I focuson the mosquitoes hovering in a patch of sunlight just ahead. I’m grateful for therepellent covering every inch of my clothes and skin. I barely breathe until I heartwo blasts from the air horn signaling the end of the game. Then I skulk backtoward the entrance.

I cross the threshold where the teams have regrouped and am embarrassedto hear a chorus of “Liiii-sa! All right! Way to go!” Apparently, my surviving thegame has come as a surprise to the guys. They wait for the referee to set up forthe next game and rehash every combat detail, comparing wounds and debatingthe effectiveness of Andy’s homemade “ultra-camouflage flak jacket.” Witheach retelling of events, thirty-yard shots become forty- and fifty-yard pickoffs.

563COMMENTARY

Paintballs that had missed by inches become near-death averted by millimeters,and short bursts of gunfire become hailstorms of ammo. I find myself gettingcaught up in the frenzy and wanting to be part of the group. Ribbing andcompetition for the best anecdote escalate, and I think, I need a story. Next time,I decide, I won’t hide out; I’ll move forward with an offensive unit.

“The next game,” our referee explains, “is called The Alamo.” He leads us toa wooden fort surrounded by open field and a few wooden pallets standingupright. “You’ll be stationed around the perimeter. Your job is to capture thefort,” he says to our team.

I don’t notice until the other team occupies the fort that there isn’t enoughfoliage in March to allow us to move unseen. As the air horn blasts, Eli and Iduck behind a pallet, but we’re spotted as soon as the game begins. I wince at thefirst whap of paintball splatting against wood, coming much faster and harderthan I anticipated. I actually hear a high whine and feel the concussive breeze asa second paintball whizzes past my face. Spray splashes across my mask asanother blue orb splats against the pallet. The barrage that follows sounds likehail striking the wood siding of my childhood home in Omaha.

Every time either of us peeks around the corner, we invite anotheronslaught. We’re pinned, unable to move.

“Next time we play this, I’m buying grenades and taking ‘em all out with onethrow,” Eli tells me. I picture an explosion of blue across camouflaged arms andlegs and decide his strategy is probably right on. As it is, our team is killed withinminutes and the game is over.

At the start of our next game, I become uncomfortable with what appears tobe escalating vigilantism. Before the game begins, Troy shoots Andy in the backat close range, claiming retribution for an earlier friendly-fire incident. Andyagrees the retribution is fair—even laughs about it—and declares now they areeven.

Later, the referee reprimands the two of them for shooting players who arealready dead and trying to get off of the field.

“Hey, they got in the way of an intense shootout with the enemy!” Troyshouts. “They should have watched where they were walking.” The refereeshakes his head but doesn’t say anything more. When he turns his back, theypoke fun at him. They continue making fun of all of the referees throughout therest of the game.

Troy is also the one who advocates for re-dividing the teams into sales versusoperations in keeping with an already-established office rivalry. A tug of warerupts, as each team tries to claim me: I work for both sides. To avoid anargument, I join operations, which has fewer members than the salesmen’s team.Troy, considering this a victory in itself, shouts, “Yes! Now operations can finallytake out our frustrations against the pretty-boy salesmen for bidding jobs withimpossible deadlines. Better yet, we can tie the salesmen to a tree and have targetpractice!” Unfortunately, the salesmen’s animosity seems to override their integ-rity. Minutes later, I watch as Nick takes a shot to the goggles, looks around tosee if anyone notices, and then continues playing as if he’s never been hit.


Nick’s conflict with operations becomes the subject of what they all play offas a joke, but that I know from sharing an office with Troy that it isn’t just in fun.Troy confirms my suspicions by yelling to the salesmen’s team near the end ofthe game: “Hey! Just send out Nick, and we’ll let the rest of you live.” This isfollowed by accusations that one team wears skirts and shoots like girls. Thesalesmen ask whether operations needs a break to get more tampons, adding,“You guys whine worse than a bunch of women!”

Enough is enough. I stand up in the middle of the field and yell, “Hey, what’sthat supposed to mean?!” After a pause, Andy says, “We don’t mean you, Lisa.You’re not one of the girls. You’re an awesome sniper!”

My stomach sinks as I mull over his response. It dawns on me that in theirminds, violence is strictly a male trait. In fact, it serves as a measure of mascu-linity. Females are those who fear or shun violence. Our team has become “we,”protectors of our flag. The opposing team, then, is “other,” an impediment toour goal of capturing the flag and therefore an acceptable target of violence.“We” are masculine, aggressive, logical, rational, and brave. “Other” is feminine,passive, illogical, emotional, fearful and therefore, less admirable or deserving ofrespect.

I reflect back to an earlier game, in which I picked off three members of theopposing team, including Andy in his special jacket, from my sniper’s position.For this accomplishment, I was bestowed the nickname, “Killer.” That was themoment my status changed. Previously, a member of the opposing team apolo-gized when he shot me, something he didn’t do after shooting one of the guys.Later, however, the same player bragged about having taken me out of the gamewith a single shot. My new nickname and distinction as one of the guys was theirway of paying me a high compliment. But I found their increasing levelsmisogyny frightening. I was no longer sure I wanted their nicknames if acceptingthem meant I condoned their battlefield behavior.

Traitors in Our Midst

“This next game,” the referee tells us, “is called Benedict Arnold. Onemember of each team has already been approached and has agreed to be a mole.Both teams will fight their opposing team while also hunting down and killingthe mole among their own teammates. In the meantime, the mole’s objective isto shoot and kill as many members of his own team as he can.”

“Liiiisssaaaa, are you the mole?” Andy asks me as we make our way to basecamp at edge of the woods.

“Nope,” I reply, shaking my head to underscore the validity of my denial.“I think it’s her. It has to be,” Shawn concurs. My teammates seem to agree

unanimously.I insist I’m not the mole, but they eye me with suspicion as soon as the game

begins. I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose, but I am. More than that, I’m hurt.Despite their earlier designation of me as one of the guys, being female is still

565COMMENTARY

enough of a detriment that they keep me on the periphery of the group, considerme someone to be wary of. Though a member of their team, I am still “other”enough to be assumed a traitor.

“The mole! The mole!” Andy shouts, pointing to his left.“Shoot him!” Troy replies. I spin around to see Andy shoot Shawn, who had

been sneaking up to kill me, his teammate.We decide to cap off the day with one last game of capture the flag. Teams

are reorganized a third time. Troy and I army crawl to the edge of a clearing,where we spot a red flag lying limp from the other team’s base pole. Hoping tolessen my status as “other,” I volunteer to grab the flag and run it back to ourbase.

“OK, I’ll cover you,” Troy says. I creep forward until the flag is almostwithin arm’s reach. But when I jump to my feet and lunge for the pole, I’mtagged by three shots that seem to come out of nowhere—and at very closerange. One of the shots nicks my right side; the others slam into my right bicepand left forearm. As they later describe it, I scream “like a girl” and drop theflag. Andy, invisible in his homemade flak jacket, had been lying in wait amongthe weeds.

I scramble to get out of the way as a rapid-fire gun battle breaks out betweenTroy and Andy. Their duel ends with both men so covered in paint no one candetermine who hit whom first. The referee tags both of them dead and sendsthem out of the game with me. The stinging in my arms and side disappears asI’m walking toward the entrance, but I can tell the shock and adrenaline surgefrom Andy’s ambush will haunt me for the rest of the night. I’d been shot a lotearlier and didn’t think much of it, but I hadn’t been prepared for an assault likeAndy’s.

After our last battle, a few of the guys I rode with ask the owners if they canshoot target practice with their real handguns. I don’t like the idea, but I don’thave another ride home, so I agree to wait. The guys want me to try firing oneof the guns, but I refuse. Real guns are where I draw the line. While they shoot,I search my arms and legs for wounds I might have missed, flinching at the crackof each shot.

Frailty, Thy Name Is Not Woman

Stories of Andy’s ambush took on legendary proportions at the officethroughout the following weeks. Co-workers who had never played paintballhyped versions of the ambush story. Employees of our sister company acrosstown stopped by and asked to see my arms. Each bruise from Andy’s ambushfanned out from a central white circle into a three-inch radius of purple andblack. The central circle indicated where each paintball had connected with myflesh; the purple and black were collateral damage.

My co-workers were fascinated by my bruises, but they were even moreimpressed by the fact that I didn’t complain about them. I didn’t complain


because in spite of their grotesque appearance, the bruises didn’t hurt much aftertheir initial impact. Besides, I had agreed to play the game knowing that gettingshot was part of the deal.

To my co-workers, however, the bruises and my lack of reaction to themwere an atypical and therefore commendable female response to being on thereceiving end of violence. To them, my bruises and lackadaisical attitude towardthem were further proof that the violence and misogyny they’d depicted that daywere acceptable not only in their culture, but within a broader American cultureas well. The more I thought about it, the more complicit I felt, as if by acceptingthe bruises and the guys’ fascination with them, I endorsed everything thathappened that day—including the fact that Andy had broken the rules byshooting me from a distance of closer than ten feet. The idea left me feelinghollower than the blanks fired from the guys’ real handguns.

My co-workers’ behavior at the office also changed as a result of paintball.They stopped apologizing when they cursed in front of me, loaded me with extratasks when they knew I was already overextended, and ceased to stop goryhunting tales or misogynistic jokes mid-sentence when I entered a room. “Lisacan handle it” seemed to become the company motto. I was no longer “one ofthe girls” who would create a fuss about some of their coarser and more violentways.

I had wanted to be accepted—and still did, to a degree. However, I nowrealized that acceptance came with a price. I became angry and resentful attheir unwillingness to play paintball by the rules and to separate the game fromthe reality of day-to-day office interactions. I was faced with a dilemma: objectevery time they brought the paintball mindset into the office and risk becomingan outsider—or worse, a “girl”—or keep quiet and live with the complicity ofmy silence. Initially, I chose not to object and quickly became the companydoormat.

I found myself waiting for the day when they would push me too far and Icould righteously tell them off or quit my job. The more they dumped additionalresponsibilities on me, the more time I spent scripting out exactly what I wouldsay and how they would react when that moment arrived. Eventually, thosescripts had me feeling like a grenade whose pin had been pulled: It was only amatter of time before I detonated.

The day came when I had been pushed too far. I’m proud of the fact thatrather than detonating, as I had so often imagined, I walked calmly into mysupervisor’s office and said, “We need to talk.” Yet I remain bothered by the factthat I envisioned detonating at all. The truth is that the image of explodingbecame immediate and familiar only after my paintball experience. I was politewhile in my supervisor’s office, but it didn’t change the fact that I hadenjoyed—at least partially—participating in a game as violent as paintball.Images of violence related to paintball had stayed with me when I left TheCombat Zone. Previously certain I had definite ideas about when, where, andwhat kind of violence is tolerable, suddenly I was no longer sure I could defineor explain those ideas with any confidence.

567COMMENTARY

I no longer work at the roofing company, but I continue to negotiate therugged terrain of when, where, and what kind of violence is tolerable and how tocombat misogyny that is often so intertwined with the violence so many aspectsof American culture perpetuate. Perhaps in my co-workers’ eyes my excuses fornot participating in subsequent paintball games makes me a wimp—“other,” orworse yet, a “girl.” That’s okay; I prefer those labels to Killer.

Lisa Whalen earned a B.A. in written communication from the College of St.Catherine, an M.A. in creative and critical writing from Hamline University, anda Ph.D. in post-secondary and adult education from Capella University. Shecurrently teaches English at North Hennepin Community College. Addresscorrespondence to Dr. Lisa Whalen, North Hennepin Community College,7411 85th Avenue North, Brooklyn Park, MN 55445, USA. Telephone: +011-763=488-0418. E-mail: [email protected].


TEAM PLAYERS?

Documents

Transcript of TEAM PLAYERS?