Firefighting may be the ultimate ‘identity job,’ and while the passion will always burn bright, it should never consume us entirely
How do you know if somebody you just met is a firefighter?
Wait five minutes and they will tell you!
If ever there was an “identity job,” firefighting is it. Becoming a firefighter is a rite of passage. From the moment we swear the oath of office, who we were becomes a smaller part of who we are. On duty, off duty, in training, or retired, it really doesn’t matter. Somehow, in some way, the vast majority of us will find a way to let people know who we are and what we did. Decals on our windshields, hydrants in our garden, plaques on our walls, or helmets on a hook, we exude firefighting.
I love the identity. What makes it truly special are the firefighters who came before me, the ones who worked by my side, and those still answering the call. They all come together to make my identity something to be proud of. Without the tradition of excellence and the faith the public has in us today, the moniker would be something to let go when all was said and done. Having done my small part to make the rest of us proud to wear the uniform is one of the things I am most proud of.
People need purpose to feel engaged in the world, especially when the world is passing us by. Retiring from the fire service is a difficult transition for most; the sense of value, knowing we are trusted and depended on, respected, and appreciated dissipates as the years pass. But those feelings are always there, just under the surface. We simply cannot shake our past, and who would want to? We were giants once; we did our best work out of sight, inside burning buildings or deserted highways in the dead of night when it was only us, the victims, and a few bystanders to witness our work. We had the privilege of having our mettle tested, facing the challenges, and passing.
It doesn’t last forever. There is a lot of life to be lived after the smoke has cleared.
We have a difficult choice to make—become what we do or did or remain true to who we are. What we do matters, but who we are matters more. What we do is not always heroic; in fact, it seldom is. Who we are, on the other hand, is the very personification of heroism. The heroic deed is going home, being part of the friends and family we have created, and leaving the memory of the victims we lost in a safe place to be dissected when the time is right. The heroic part is waking the next day and putting on the uniform and going back to work. Or leaving work for the last time with no regrets, rather a feeling of pride and accomplishment.
What we do or did is powerful, and will become our dominant character trait as we age alongside our job, and long after. Who we are will develop alongside our job if we are able to leave the job at the station and embrace the rest of everything. We take chances that often end in defeat. We crawl through smoke-filled hallways, the heat unbearable, our tank running low, and yet still manage to get to the seat of the fire and put it out, only to find the victims who did not make it out. We swallow those feelings, and they become part of our DNA, and will always be there. Those experiences are only part of our whole, and, though powerful, are only part of who we are. If we fail to pay attention we become firefighters first and people second. But firefighters retire, and people go on. The stories get old, the things we once did will never compete with what we are doing, especially if we are doing nothing but living in the past.
Old firefighters who talk about nothing but “the old days” are boring.
Old people who used to be firefighters among a ton of other things are full of wisdom, wit, and experience who learned the value of service, commitment, and consistency by showing up, doing the job, and going home. The job is a great journey but home is the ultimate destination, and making it there intact a noble endeavor.
Michael Morse is a retired captain with the Providence (RI) Fire Department. He is a husband, father, grandfather, hobbyist, adequate guitar player, amateur fisherman, terrible carpenter, pet lover, gardener of weeds with a few flowers, and a writer.
This commentary reflects the views of the author and not necessarily the views of Fire Engineering.
