Maggie Fikefrankum

Maggie Fikefrankum is a gutsy, yet reserved woman who served over twenty years in the United States Air Force. When I first met Maggie, I knew I would like her. With a smile on her face and a frequent giggle, she told me her story over a soda. Her optimistic attitude shines through in all experiences, good or bad, throughout her life. But it was her commendable dedication to her job, government, and country that truly shined. Her satisfaction in what she had accomplished, and her ability to overcome whatever came her way shows her perseverance and devotion to all challenges that have and may come in her life.

Staff Sergeant, Maggie Fikefrankum, in the 1970s.

[I] was born in Independence, Missouri; and then my mother and father divorced. My mother and my sister, we moved here [Pittsburg]. And my father stayed in Blueville, Missouri. That’s our whole family. [We] moved here in 1964.

Let’s see, I graduated from PHS (laugh)** in 1971, and then I went into the military right after that. It was in the ‘70s, during the women’s lib [movement]. (laugh) I was very shy, very insecure, if you’d believe that now. And I wanted to become a semi-truck driver. And I wrote to several companies. I didn’t want to go to college--that was not my idea. I wanted to become a truck driver, and I wrote to several of ‘em, and I only heard from two back. One said I had to be twenty-one, and I was seventeen when I graduated, and the other…I think they… they had some kind of remark they didn’t take women or something to that affect. So I’m sayin’, “Okay, what am I going to do now?” And a girl came who was in the class ahead of me who went into the military. And it was (imitating an intercom-like voice), “All girls, Senior girls, have to come to room so-and-so.” And we went there, and she talked about the military; and I said, “Hey! I could do that!” But, she just talked about it, and I said that would give me four more years, and then I could become a semi-truck driver. That’s all there was to it.

And after I got in, I said, “I like this!” So I signed up, took the test, and then I went in. That was when Vietnam was going on and I was seventeen. I had to have my parent’s permission, written permission. I had to convince my father to let me go in; and I finally got all of their permission and I was able to come in. They wouldn’t take me, though, until after I was eighteen; they wouldn’t take me at seventeen. I had to be eighteen, and then I still had to have their permission. So, they didn’t take me... it was October. It would’ve been October of ’71.

My family, like I said, you know, I had to get permission from my dad. My sister and I were extremely close, and she was having nightmares that her baby sister was leaving and going away. Mom was mom. [She] didn’t want you to go; but, she didn’t really say she didn’t want me to. But she didn’t buy me some suitcase for graduation to say you gotta go. (laugh) It was just--mom was mom. My friends, they had a surprise going away party for me ’cause I was the only one. Out our class of ‘71 there was only three who stayed in the military for twenty years. Two was guys, and I was the only female. And one guy was a colonel, one guy was a captain, and I was a staff sergeant. So I was very proud of [out of] two hundred something kids, that I stayed in. And for our family, a lot of cousins and all that went in the Navy, and in the Army and all that. But I was the only one, male or female, who did twenty. So, I was very proud of that.

Okay, my first basic training was in Texas, San Antonio, Texas. And then I went to technical training. I went to Biloxi, Mississippi. And I was there for seven weeks, I believe it was; and then I got to come home for a visit. And then my first permanent station was Duluth, Minnesota. I loved it up there. I loved the cold. I loved the snow. It was just wonderful; and it was the coldest it’d been in many years, and it got to fifty-seven below. That was without chill factor. It was cold. (laugh) But, I loved it. I loved it up there. I always say I went north, east, west and south because I went to Minnesota, then I was stationed in Turkey--the country Turkey--and then I came back; and I went to California, and then I retired in Florida.

Maggie Fikefrankum reenlisting into the Air Force in Florida.

Basic training for women at that time was different. You know a lot of the women that go in now, have to go through climbing the ropes, and goin’ through the mud, and the shooting, and all this. We ran around the track. We marched places. We went to classes to learn different things [like] how to put on make-up. I always thought that was kind of neat. I just, you know…Is this the military? But it was Air Force also, and I don’t know if that makes a difference or not. I went into personnel, which was administrative--paper work; I think you just learned paperwork and how to do it. You know a lot of stuff you took in high school, anyways. So, it was just you were learning more about what you would be doing once you got to those permanent stations.

When I got to Minnesota--Duluth Minnesota--that was in ’72—yah, ’72. I was the thirty-second female on base. Women were just starting to come in. They were just trying to get women to come in. And when I left two years later, there was hundred and sixty-somethin’ girls; but I was the thirty-second girl there, and I was proud of that. I was in room thirty-two, that was how come I could always remember, and we had a WAF squadron. WAF--Women in the Air Force--is what they called us. And we had just one building, and then they extended it to two buildings. So, it was good. It was good.

Maggie Fikefrankum at her first Leadership School in California after becoming a Srg. III Stripes in 1976.

It [the gender of my superiors] changed through the times. When I was at Duluth, Minnesota, I was there two years. Well, there’s always people coming and going and such like that. At that base and at that time, women were authorized a first sergeant and a squadron commander. Because we were female, they thought they needed to have a female first sergeant and a female commander. We were sort of set aside, because they were not used to women being in and around and such. But later on, when more women came in, you still belonged to another squadron. My first job was personnel, you know, typing at the hour at the Base Ops, where base operations, where the planes came in and out and such like that. Picking up secret messages. Doing that. I also, at that place, had a commander and a first sergeant. So you had them both. But that was only at the very beginning that I had a female first sergeant and female commander. After that, I didn’t have any. Like you’re there two years, and let’s say they’ve been there three years. Well, they move on another one comes in. Same way is you were here you get orders to go elsewhere, so somebody comes [and] you leave; somebody else comes in takes your spot.

I was married in there [the military]; a lot of women want to have children. I admire the women who can do that because you’ve got a husband, you’ve got children, and you’ve got the government, and you work for the government 24/7. You know, family and kids come second there, and I admire them if they can do that. When I first went in, though, you couldn’t have any children. You couldn’t get pregnant either. If you got pregnant, you got out. And a lot of people got pregnant so they could get out. You know, that wasn’t good. [I had] no children. I didn’t feel that I could split all three up, children, the government and a spouse. And I loved the military. I liked that they said I had to work overtime. I had to work all this weekend, and it was no a big deal. Same with my husband. You know if you have to work, if the government tells you have to work, then you have to work. There’s no sense in—well, you heard a lot of wives (in whiny voice) “Ohh, he’s always at the job. He’s never home.” It’s the military. That’s what it is. You have no rights.

You know the bad [examples of treatment were]; the men who didn’t want women there; the men who didn’t think women could do anything. And you had the ones [who] would try to start a fight with you, the ones who would treat you bad. You couldn’t do anything about it; you just sat there and took it. And thank God, I have that personality that I could just sit there and take it. And let it go in one ear and out the other. Because everybody has the right to feel however they want to feel. They was wrong--but…

The one [memory of something] I didn’t like [was] when I was working at Base Ops--it’s Minnesota. They really didn’t have women fatigues at that time. We had skirts and we had boots; and Minnesota the snow gets thirty feet. And I was at Base Ops. You always pick up trash. So the male boss--I’m in my skirt--the male boss comes in and says, “There’s trash outside; you need to go pick it up.” I go out there. I get on my coat, my boots on, in my skirt. I make my way. It’s a mound of snow. I’m making my way to get that piece of paper, and I almost get to it, and some guy comes along and grabs it. I did so well without falling, and I knew they were just watching. It was just one of those things.

They [the uniforms] did change. They did change as time was changing. They did come out with fatigue, it was fatigue pants; but it was real light cotton. You bend over once, and they tear. You know they weren’t like the fatigues that the men had. They [the men’s fatigues] were sturdy, they’d hold up and women were coming in at that time, and they were tire-kickers. Hate to say that; but, you know you’re workin’ with the jets. You’re pickin’ up tires, you’re changing, you’ve got great big ‘ole heavy tools and you’ve got this flimsy material?! And they didn’t change that for a long time. I’d say probably four or five years later that they changed those.

But before I went over to Turkey, which would’ve been in ’72, we all had to qualify in guns. We had to qualify in shooting a 38, a pistol, and you had to qualify. And you know, I had never shot a gun in my life. (laugh) But, you know, this is something that you had to do. When I get over to Turkey, and they always have alerts, practice war games. And I’m there, in my skirt and in my heels, just newly processing in [and] a whole fake war breaks out; and they give me a helmet, and a canteen and a canteen belt. I’m walking down the streets with a helmet on, a skirt, heels... I can always remember that picture. So...shortly after that, I got fatigues.

And when I was in Turkey, the Greeks and the Turks were always fighting. We weren’t at war with them, but they were always fighting. We lived downtown, and when we road the bus in, we had to wear civilian clothes. And when I flew over to Turkey I had to wear civilian clothes, so they couldn’t tell I was military. I’m young, nineteen maybe, then the style was long, brown hair split down the middle. I had a sear-sucker, bright, yellow shirt, the pants were sear-sucker with mint green, and yellow, and pink. I get to the airport and all the women are wearing black. Talk about somebody who’s standing out. She’s gotta be the military.

I wasn’t a traveler. I don’t like to travel, but I did. But I really didn’t travel. Out of the twenty years I only went to what--one, two, three, four, five--places. And that’s not, not very many places at all. Then when I did go overseas, it was in Turkey. Very, very poor country. Very poor country. You see ’em do a lot of different things. Well, you’re not in America. That’s all there is to it. You’re not in America. And they have a lot of rules. You couldn’t act like you were cussing them out, or you’d be thrown in prison--not jail--prison. So, you know, I’m not that type of person anyway. They have a lot of rules. And when I was leaving, you know, some of the women carry their babies on the back. And we had an American section, you know, we lived downtown, and she [a Turkish woman] was going through the American’s trash, you know, which a lot do. That’s just what it is. And she was pouring some powder in her hand, and she doesn’t read English. And I saw her go like this (licking hand), tasting it. And I was thinking it could be Comet, it could be…and you know, everything comes out in this lemon flavor. How would you know if it was poisons or not? And the baby had sores all over its face, and it was a sad thing, you know, with such a poor country. It opened my eyes to a lot. I’m from Kansas, you know, I didn’t know anything. Bad in history. I didn’t know what was over there. You know, I only saw in the movies palm trees, sand and camels. I mean you know, you don’t hear of anything else.

[The food in the military was] okay. Chow halls is a chow hall. Nothing’s going to be like mama cooked, but, it didn’t bother me. I liked food so I ate it. [In] Turkey, I tried a lot of different things. I don’t remember ‘em real much now, but, but it was okay. You know you just got to place in your head that you’re not in America. It’s not your mom’s cooking, and it’s going to taste different. The smells are going to be different, things are going to be different. They had this carpetche, I think that is what they called ‘em; and it was a man who sold things—food--going down the street. They had like great big ‘ole soft pretzels looking things, but they smelled like burnt peanut butter. So you kinda never wanted to try one.

They [the Turkish] had a man carrying a fruit wagon, and they were [living in] high rises and he would be hollering [something]. We never knew what he was hollering. People in the high rises, they’d open up their windows [because] nobody had air conditioners. You’d open up your window and she, [the woman inside would] says, “I want bananas, or I want some tomato and whatever,” and he’d go get it. Then he’d put it in there [a basket], and she’d wheel it up. And then she’d put in the money, and he’d take the money; and then [he’d] go back and then start callin’ again. In Turkey, I was there in the seventies, and it was like the fifties. It was twenty years difference. And here’s the man you know carrying his fruit, and they always said wash your fruits and vegetables when you’re over seas; and you know, they’re saying that now here. But always, you know, wash your fruit before you eat it. Anyways, so he’s callin’, and he went off around the corner taking somebody’s order; and here comes this cow moseying down the street. This is so funny; and you see ‘em and [impersonating a cow’s voice] “Ohhh…vegetables!” and he [the cow] starts eating off it [the cart]; and as a cow would, drop it back in the thing. I was in the balcony watching, and there was a Turkish man down around the corner, and the cow [impersonating a cow’s voice] “Mmmmm”. I wanted to see if the guy would notice. He could tell somebody had been messing with his cart; and then the guy across the street told him it was a cow, I guess. He picked up all what the cow had dropped out of his mouth, and flung it back up in his cart. He took off around the corner around after the cow. So, I always made sure I washed my vegetables.

When I was in Turkey, because the Greeks and the Turks were always fighting, we’d have blackouts and that was interesting. You had to cover all your windows with blue tissue at nighttime. You had to cover your flashlights, your headlights from cars with blue tissue ‘cause at a distance you can’t see the tissue. This is what you were doing, you were blocking out all the light, and you had no light on. The base that we were on was a Turkish base, the Americans just rented it. But the Turkish was still there so we intermingled with each other. I was with this guy, and we was sittin’ in this bus stop. You know the bus stop benches are not high; and over here was the Turkish housing and such like that. Well, over here we heard this dog barking. It wasn’t, it didn’t sound right. I’d never seen a mad dog [rabbies] and it sounded mad. And [then] the dogs in the housing started barking [at] this dog, and he was coming closer to us. We’re in this little bus stop, and if we just stood up on the bench--he’d still [be able to] get us. We were trying to be real quite, ‘cause we didn’t want him to take notice of us, and then a car passed by; and he started chasing the car. And then another car going the other way went [by], and then we took off running. He started to chase us, but then he went back after that car. That was about the only danger.

Rank [was why I left the military], and I wanted to do twenty. I wanted to do twenty was my main goal. A lot of times, if you made more rank, you could’ve stayed in; But I didn’t want to stay. When you make a goal in your head, and twenty was my goal, I did it. [I served for] twenty years, two months, and twenty-two days. It was a lot of twos.

I still am [shy] in certain ways; but, I can go up to people and I can do things without the fear factor. (laugh) I served my country for twenty years, and I am proud of that, and I should be.

You go through a transition because you’ve been in something twenty years you think that, you know, (a different voice) “Everybody’s going to want me! I’ve been in twenty years, I know how to do this,”--and I had an eye-wakening experience. Nobody wanted me. They were proud that I served, and that was it. But, it was okay. I learned. I learned. What was my first job? A bank was being closed down, so it was a temporary service; so, I worked at a bank. I worried about money because money was a big difference. They say it’s less than half of what you normally make, normally get after you retire. But it’s less than half; so, it’s a real shocker. And I was worried [about] the money, you know. Just the normal stress of everything, of trying to find a new life, trying to [figure out] what you’re going to do in the real world. And I started working at a drug and alcohol place; and I really enjoyed that. And God, I feel, told me not to worry about the money; worry about the job. What about the job? Do you want the job? Don’t worry about the money, the money’ll be there, you’ll make it. And as soon as I quit looking--and I was just filling in at this drug and alcohol place until they found somebody permanent. Then a month later or so, they said have you ever thought about lookin’ at this job?

I said, “No.”

And they said “Do you wanta work for us?”

And I said, “Well, yeah.”

And they said, “Well, don’t you wanna know what the money pays?”

And I said, “What? No.” ‘Cause I knew what the job was. I enjoyed the job; so the money wasn’t important. Then I came back home.

Nothing’s in Pittsburg. I worked for UPS. I worked for UPS for a while; and then they were having the bumping--everyone losing their job, and that happened to me. That’s okay; it was alright because it worked out. Then I worked at Pix T-shirt Screen Printing. I did that you know. I tried it; it wasn’t really me, but I enjoyed it while I was there. I’m working with the state of Kansas now, with SRS, and I drive for a blind man. Let’s see, both my mother and father are deceased now; but I have my sister and her daughter. We all live here in Pittsburg.

Good [memories]. Just a lot of the things that you did. You know, you learned a lot. You saw a lot. You met different people from different areas of the state, you know; and you learned about them. Your family is back here in Kansas, but you make other families and you meet friends. You kind of stay together and you do things together. You have Thanksgiving, everyone brings something. So you still have that connection, that camaraderie, of people. What I learned from that. What I learned from that are the people that you gain. We don’t write as often, but when you do talk to ‘em or write ‘em, call ‘em or whatever you can just pick up. It’s like you’ve only been gone a month. It is so close. I think that’s where that camaraderie comes in. You are so close to these people that you’ll never lose that. I’m just so close to ‘em, you know, and you don’t feel bad that you haven’t talked to them for a long time because we all got our own lives; but when you do, it’s just “Yawhh!!” And it’s just, you know, and it’s just talk, talk, talk, talk, talk. And it’s great (laugh).

The bad [part about the military was that], I’m a big person. So, at the tail end they were trying to throw me out because I was overweight; and that was very hard. That was very hard. Because you, you know, it was like sixteen years. You’ve made your life, this is your life. This is what I want to do. And I was proud. But, you know, we all have different dysfunctions, I don’t know. They were trying to throw me out, and that hurt; it hurt really bad. And it took a long time to get over that. It took like six years after I got out of the military to get over that; I think that would be the worst. But I was very, always, happy go lucky because I believe in that. I believe you have to be happy. I believe you have to look at the good. You have to…you have to. When they were trying to do all the paperwork to get me out of the service, I had the commander--after it was all over and I won my case--he said he was very …he didn’t say proud...but he admired me to carry on my work that I was to do, for all the bad circumstances that was happening. And you have to divide that. You know I wasn’t at war or in war, but you have a job to do; and whatever’s going on in your personal life, whatever, that can not interfere. Because, you have a job to do, and you do it; and that’s all there is to it. And I did it!

Maggie Fikefrankum in December of 2005

This oral history was conducted by Alexandria Murnan in December of 2005.

* [ ] indicates words used for clarification purposes

** ( ) indicates sounds made by the interviewee