Membership

I vaguely remember when I first thought about joining the fire service. Now, before the horse jokes start flying around in your heads, let’s remember that you, too, will soon be where I am in your careers, if you are not already. I feel like I am not yet done racing but maybe at the beginning of the end of the final chapter—and remember, I like long books. So, no I am not going away anytime soon. When I first thought about joining the fire service and had the courage to mention it out loud, I was at a family gathering in grandma’s backyard on Hollywood Avenue in the Bronx. Making such a bold statement in that setting was not a pretty thing to see.

I come from a predominantly Irish Catholic New York City Bronx-centric family. The law in NYC states that any member of such a family has three possible career paths: cop, firefighter, or priest—that is it, no exceptions. The family was and still is deeply immersed in all three approved career choices.

We often were reminded by some kindly relative, as we got held back to repeat third or fourth grade or attend summer school for the fifth or sixth time, “Don’t worry, kid, there is always government work, and they will always need ditch diggers.” The Irish may be only second to the Russians in their pessimism; both cultures can always see how things could be worse—much, much worse. Dad called the three choices “Irish Welfare” and reminded me that deviation from any of the three approved choices was highly discouraged and could result in exclusion from all future family events.

As I milled about grandma’s backyard at one of our monthly gatherings to celebrate something, likely a new cousin’s birth, circa 1970, I sheepishly mentioned that I was thinking about joining the fire department. I openly proclaimed I thought it would be cool to be a firefighter, maybe someday even an officer. My cousins thought it was ridiculous: “You’re too small, you’re too slow, you’re too weak, too stupid, too lazy.” The “why you couldn’ts” kept coming.

My very sensitive cousins reminded me the fire department only hires really squared away guys like Uncle Robert—a navy vet, super cool, and very squared away. They only want the best thinkers, my cousins said, like Uncle Matt, who could fix anything, solve any problem, and never said quit, or people who could manage really complicated tasks all at the same time, like Uncle George, who was able to run two businesses while serving in the Fire Department of New York.

It is important to note here that my mom was the oldest of 12 kids and my dad was the youngest of five; I am the third of seven kids and, obviously, the lowest performing. So, I had at least 200 smarter, more talented first cousins to knock me down to size. As a matter of fact, when one of us met an interesting girl or guy at a bar, we would always ask their last name and family to make sure we were not hitting on a cousin we didn’t recognize.

As to being an officer, that got the biggest “never gonna happen” of them all; my uncles reminded me that Chief O’Hagan had just sent out a directive stating college was required for all future officers. They laughed hysterically when someone said, “Bobby Junior going to college was like throwing perfume on a pig.”

Looking back, you might think my family was not helpful at all, but think about it. The great American philosopher Groucho Marx once said, “I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member.” Not only that, he followed through, according to Groucho in 1959, when he resigned from a club with the following wire, stating, “Please accept my resignation. I don’t want to belong to any club that will accept me as a member.” But, I am not Groucho Marx, and I did want to be a firefighter, after my family get-together in 1970, more than ever.

And to be fair and not just funny, my Uncle Matt was totally on my side; my Uncle Robert was, too. As a matter of fact, Uncle Robert pinned me at my promotion ceremony to battalion chief, and I could not have been prouder to have anyone else do it. But think about it: Being a firefighter was not going to be easy, nor should it.

Maybe understanding that fire departments don’t take on slackers, delicate personalities, quitters, or weaklings was important for me to understand. Being strong, smart, resilient, curious, inventive, and courageous was appealing and still is to the right kinds of people—firefighters. From that day on, I knew I had to up my game. I had to work harder, study harder, and be better every day or someone would get the slot I wanted. The message was clear: Firefighters are the best—the best they can be at everything they endeavor.

Lately, some of us have been commenting about the lower numbers of applicants on both the career and volunteer side. Maybe, just maybe, the answer is not in lowering any standard, qualification, or legitimate requirement. Maybe the answer is in holding the line or maybe raising the bar. This is an elite calling. We are the bravest. We don’t want losers, quitters, malcontents, or also-rans joining our ranks. We want the best. We are the best, and demanding the best from others is not discrimination or exclusionary; it is a matter of survival—customer survival in the real world and cultural survival as an institution, an institution revered without equal the world over for its commitment to relentless improvement and the protection of God’s greatest creation, mankind.