The Screech of an Eagle

I go to an orientation for my county's fire department. They make a big deal about how you make an impression everywhere you go, so dress the part, show up with a clean vehicle, shake hands firmly, sit up straight. I take this to heart and show up like I’m going to an interview.

A lot of people are walking in together from the parking lot, and I don’t know anyone. We find seats, and they start the orientation by playing a video about the department that looks like a preview for an action movie. The buildup music, the flashes of fire and explosions, firefighters hustling, faces dirtied from hard work, stern expressions. The video finishes with the screech of an eagle (actually a hawk, but that’s neither here nor there), and the lights turn back on.

The faces of those putting on the presentation are proud. I’m feeling like I would be fucking pumped if I were a 14-year-old boy.

“So… that’s who we are,” the lead says, nodding his head slowly and seriously, scanning the room, holding eye contact briefly with different people along the way.

He describes some daily activities to illustrate what a typical day in the life of a firefighter looks like. I’m starting to feel like this presentation was built for people who want to understand what the job is, not for those interested in the details of the department. 

When it comes to the Q&A section, I listen to some questions and then raise my hand.

“I’ve heard the last few academies have started with 10+ females and generally end with one or none passing. My understanding is that the biggest struggle is ladders and upper body strength. How do you recommend females physically prepare for the academy? Can you recommend weight goals for standard lifts like overhead press, squat, and deadlift?” 

He responds with a fist pump and starts pacing across the classroom, continuing to make eye contact with different people as he speaks, “Excellent question,” he says, “However much you're lifting now, lift more. The academy is very challenging and requires you to be in absolute prime physical condition. Push yourself, never stop pushing yourself. Only those who push will succeed. Next question…”

I raise my eyebrows. I’ve been here two hours, drove 40 minutes, washed my car, made sure I looked dialed. I researched the department to guarantee I was clear and informed on questions. I excitedly let this take up most of the last two days, having signed up for it a month in advance. I can’t tell if I’m angry or baffled. 

“Is this actually the right career for me?” I wonder.

Excellent question.

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Review

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This story is smart, sharp, and deceptively layered. On the surface, it recounts a moment during a fire department orientation, but under that it functions as a critique of performative culture, gendered expectations, and belonging in traditionally male-dominated spaces. It scrutinizes how "excellence" is defined and rewarded—muscle over method, bravado over preparation. It subtly asks: When you've done everything “right,” but you're still not seen—what does that tell you about the place?

It is a reflection on belonging vs. performance—specifically, what it means to truly belong in a space, as opposed to fitting into its image. It’s not just about preparing physically for a fire academy—it’s about preparing emotionally, socially, and mentally to navigate a culture that may not have been built with you in mind. The tone is wry, observant, and understatedly critical. 

The narrative voice remains composed and curious throughout, even when the subtext carries disappointment. There’s humor in the retelling, particularly in “...the screech of an eagle (actually a hawk but that’s neither here nor there),” and“...I would be fucking pumped if I were a 14-year-old boy.” This tone is what makes the story resonate—it doesn’t preach, it simply reveals.

This is an elegant and quietly damning story. It lands with emotional and intellectual precision without ever losing its conversational tone. It walks us into an environment where things don’t quite add up, and then leaves us with the discomfort of that disconnect.

The real “excellent question” becomes not just about training weights or belonging—it becomes what kind of space is this, and who is it built for? The final line turns the narrator’s thoughtful question inward, bringing the story full circle in a poetic, self-aware way.