I used to be a firefighter. And among the many important moments I had in the fire academy, two come to mind. The first was when I acknowledged the fact that there was a very real possibility I could die responding to a call on this job. Of course I “knew” this going into the nine month application process – which included two extremely challenging physical agility tests, a two-hour psychological screening, three interviews with the chief of the fire department as well as the entire metro city council, and a polygraph to confirm that I had no criminal record and an acceptable drug history – but this specific moment of acceptance, and this feeling, were different. It wasn’t theoretical anymore or romantic.
The second moment was when I accepted that fact – becoming a firefighter came with a heck of a caveat. And this felt powerful. We don’t often have certainty in our lives, and yet I knew in my body that I accepted death in this instance.
Firefighters like to think of their community as brothers, as a brotherhood. You go, I go, so to speak. And most of the knots that braid together the rope of this brotherhood are solidified in the mutual understanding that they all accept the risk of the job. Now whatever avenue allows for each individual firefighter to reckon with that risk and accept it is a personal story. But what makes the brotherhood viable, and in a sense, alive, is precisely because it is a group of people who believe in this common system. Family fights for family. Family dies for family.
At graduation from the academy, I was the oldest and the only afab recruit, and the top graduate. And to my knowledge, the first out trans firefighter in the state of Kentucky.
Around two a.m. on a Thursday morning shift, tone drops. We are violently awakened by the alarm and announcement of a developing fire in the kitchen of a fast food restaurant. Although this was my fifth fire alarm on shift, the first four were minor or false. Pulling up to the restaurant, there were visible flames coming from the roof and the sky was heavy with dark smoke. The sergeant drives the truck and is in charge of managing the flow of water. The senior firefighter whom I follow, ran ahead and left me to figure out entrance and priorities alone. This wasn’t the first time and it wasn’t the last.
I found my way and we subdued the fire with a standard one and three-quarter inch hose, which, when coupled and full of water, is around 110 lbs. Wielding this weight and watching flames melt to smoke is unlike any other feeling. During overhaul, which is when the main fire is extinguished and we recheck all areas for safety – pulling ceiling and feeling walls – I noticed the singed edges of a piece of paper sticking out from under the floor panel. I pulled it gently to reveal a child’s drawing, clearly kept by one of the back of house staff members and hung on the wall. It showed four members of a family – mother, father, son, and kitten. The little boy drew each character in different colors and finished by sketching a big heart around the whole family. I remember seeing this piece of paper and feeling grateful it survived and that the restaurant was closed when this fire happened. I showed the rest of the crew and we finally headed back to the firehouse as the sun came up.
Next shift, the senior firefighter drove in with a dead deer he had killed while hunting over the weekend. After completing our training for the day, I walked into the kitchen to find the deer’s heart placed on the kitchen counter, next to the living room’s easy chairs, bloody and raw. There it sat, all day and all evening, until he cooked it for dinner.
Several shifts later, I was in the parking bay hosing down our ambulance when my captain walked over. As the soap dripped down the driver’s side window, she asked if I minded her calling me ‘he’ because ‘they’ is too difficult. I thought about the multiple tests it requires to become a sergeant, a lieutenant, and a captain. You must memorize the pressure per square inch (psi) of water flowing from several different sized hoses combined with balancing the pressure coming from the fire truck’s water system. This is only for the sergeant’s exam.
I resigned from the fire department on February 21, 2023, because I loved myself. But my acceptance of risking death didn’t quit that day, and my understanding of ‘family’ expanded. In lifesaving professions, of which I have had three, there are always self-perpetuating hierarchies of power. The beginners are at once coveted, as well as abhorred. Coveted by those who fell short of the prize of being hired, and abhorred by those who are supposed to lead. Once the rookies make their time, gain their experience, they become the kingmakers who dole out punishments to those below. And so it goes.
This family, then, is gatekept. The knots that braid together the rope of this brotherhood are conditional and the sacrifice, unrequited. The bar for admission is mutable according to the kingmaker’s will. We are not all one. And that is the point they fail to confront. We are taught to pledge allegiance to the idea of a job rather than to each other. But to acknowledge our differences requires both a mutual understanding of our shared humanity and a moral obligation to one another, regardless of profession or identity.
In February of 2024, I was arrested along with several others for protesting outside of Raytheon Corporation and BAE Systems, arms companies that manufacture and send weapons to the zionist entity. My case was gag ordered – we were not allowed to discuss *why* we chose to protest at these specific locations or how that makes us complicit in the ongoing land theft and genocide of Palestinians. We chose to push for trial, knowing the potential of facing jail time.
So almost one year to date after I left a career that postured fellowship in order to obscure abusive authority, I became truly free. And in this final clarifying moment of certainty, I realized: I accept the risk – of censure, of dismissal, of imprisonment, of death – in protest against injustice of my family. I accept this precisely because I love myself. And I love myself precisely because I love you. I do not love either of us first or second, or more or less. I should not have to pull you from a burning building to witness your humanity, or my own. If you do not have brotherhood, then neither should I; and if you do not have safety, then neither should I; because if you are not taken care of, then neither am I.
Scott Rosario Mottola is a writer, organizer, and service industry worker. They combine theory and creative writing to form their own unique style. They are an original founding board member of Locals for Liberation and currently live in Louisville, KY.
