Spare me Petticoat Pilot, Lipstick Flyer,
Winged Suffragette, Flying Flapper, Ladybird,
Bird Girl, Girl Hawk, and Tomboy of the Air.
Betty Scott ripped up that poster,
tomboy meant a loud, loose woman to her,
not someone up to her elbows in engine oil.
A reporter called me tomboy, too: slim, yellow hair,
blue eyes, looks like some high school girl.
I was twenty-five, a skilled pilot. I blame Pickens
for pitching Tiny Broadwick as Doll Girl,
Kate Stinson as Flying Schoolgirl. Champ
advised curls with ribbons, subtracted years.
Back when that reporter thought I should be
scribbling homework, I stunted
for a crowd at Narragansett, flew
in a drizzle. They handed me five hundred
damp, crumpled singles, way too little
for the risk. And the biggest risk? Men sabotage
women’s planes—slash wires, drop a tool to jam
the controls. (When Bessie Coleman cracked up,
they found a wrench.) Watch out for the guy
who drains your gas tank, spikes your fuel,
claims it’s a joke, claims women pilots have
no sense of humor. We can mark the ballot,
steer the ship. Air races are Men Only.
Time we tomboys got organized.