Skygod
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The 21st Century's Answer To the Wright Brothers
Father and Daughter Team Up in 737 Cockpit
By Keith L. Alexander
Washington Post Staff Writer
Tuesday, August 5, 2003
PHOENIX -- Nicole Lewis was at the controls: focused, methodical, bringing the Boeing 737 in for a landing. The rookie Southwest Airlines pilot, barely 26 years old, pulled the nose down and aimed for Lambert-St. Louis International Airport on a bright morning last year.
In the seat next to her, the captain, 52, noted her speed -- 500 mph, too fast for this late in the process -- and, as he recalls it, mentally flashed through his options: Take over? Speak up and tell her she was going too fast? Or give her another few seconds to correct it herself?
If he spoke too soon, he knew, he was likely to hear about it from this young co-pilot.
For the rest of his life.
The captain, Mike Lewis, is Nicole's father. According to the Air Line Pilots Association, they are the only father-daughter pilot crew at a major airline.
The Lewises stand out for another reason: They are among the 2 percent of the nation's pilots who are African American. Nicole is in another exclusive group: Only 3 percent are women. If you count her youth, you're down to an infinitesimal proportion of the people at the controls of U.S. aircraft.
How she was able to succeed -- even excel -- in an industry dominated by middle-aged white men shows how much American aviation has changed since the 1963 Supreme Court decision that opened the cockpit to blacks. Why there are so few others like her is a more complex story, but one that Nicole Lewis attributes to factors other than discrimination. Dealing with management, she said, she has always gotten a fair deal. As for passengers, her race and sex aren't really an issue.
"People see my age first," she said. "I don't think they care that much that I'm a woman or a black woman. They say, 'Oh, my God, how old is she?' "
Life of a Pilot
A pilot's life is a lot of waiting -- for weather to clear, for a slot on the runway, for the aircraft to arrive -- punctuated by brief periods of intense activity and concentration when lives ride on split-second decisions. Pilots spend nights away from home and family, have erratic sleep schedules, and work under the threat of terrorism. But talk to any pilot and the main thing that comes across is a passion for flight. Most never considered doing anything else for a living.
Marlon Green, the man whose years-long legal battle opened the cockpit to blacks, envisioned this life for himself. Remembering it now, 40 years later, from retirement in Miami, he reflects on his historic fight without a trace of anger.
On May 8, 1957, a date etched in his memory, Green was discharged from the Air Force after nine years of flying B-26s and SA-16s and he began seeking work in the private sector. That was the normal career course for white Air Force alums.
Green applied to 10 national airlines for a pilot's job that year, either submitting a photo of himself or checking the "colored" or "Negro" box on the applications. In each case, he either got no response or was told no jobs were available.
One of the last airlines he applied to was United. With his prospects fading, he recalls, he went to a recruiting office in Seattle for a walk-in interview. He remembers sitting in the personnel manager's office, dressed in suit and tie, and listening as the manager calmly explained that although Green had excellent flying credentials, he would never work for United "because I was a Negro."
That meeting changed his strategy, but not his determination. "I had never, never visualized the wall as being as solid as that," Green said. "I thought the wall was gone when I left the Air Force." Even so, "I didn't see any other prospect that I wanted to apply myself to. The carrot was dangling, and I kept pulling the cart."
Finally, when he applied to Continental Airlines, he didn't send a picture or check the race box. Weeks later, the airline invited him for an interview and a series of pilot tests at its Denver headquarters. When Green showed up, he said, "the complexion of the case changed." The meeting was cordial, and no one mentioned his race. But some time later, Continental notified him that no positions were available.
He filed a complaint with the Colorado Anti-Discrimination Commission, which discovered that the airline had hired five white pilots with less experience than Green had, and ruled in his favor. That was the beginning of a long series of legal actions that eventually took the case to the Supreme Court, which found in 1963 that the hiring of "Petitioner Marlon D. Green, a Negro" as a pilot would not place an undue burden on interstate commerce. The court ordered Continental to make a place for him in its next training class.
Green began work in 1965. Two years later, he was made captain. By the time he retired in 1978, the airline credited him with an extra eight years of service because of the time spent on his legal fight.
The battle was worth it, Green said. "I always thought of it as a job that was the best in the world." In the cockpit, he aimed for a polite relationship with his colleagues, avoided small talk and tried to focus on flying. "There were some people who were close acquaintances, but never friends."
An avid golfer, Green, now 74, jokingly says that retirement has been the best part of his professional life. "There was too much grief and struggle to look back on," he said. "The operating of airplanes was always the thing I found great pleasure in. It was a precious experience for me to be able to do it. I was part of a sea change in aviation."
Later this month in Seattle, where his eyes were first opened to the "wall," about 2,500 members of the Organization of Black Airline Pilots will honor Green on the 40th-anniversary year of his court victory. This will be the organization's 28th annual convention. It owes its existence in large part to Marlon Green.
Father and Daughter Team Up in 737 Cockpit
By Keith L. Alexander
Washington Post Staff Writer
Tuesday, August 5, 2003
PHOENIX -- Nicole Lewis was at the controls: focused, methodical, bringing the Boeing 737 in for a landing. The rookie Southwest Airlines pilot, barely 26 years old, pulled the nose down and aimed for Lambert-St. Louis International Airport on a bright morning last year.
In the seat next to her, the captain, 52, noted her speed -- 500 mph, too fast for this late in the process -- and, as he recalls it, mentally flashed through his options: Take over? Speak up and tell her she was going too fast? Or give her another few seconds to correct it herself?
If he spoke too soon, he knew, he was likely to hear about it from this young co-pilot.
For the rest of his life.
The captain, Mike Lewis, is Nicole's father. According to the Air Line Pilots Association, they are the only father-daughter pilot crew at a major airline.
The Lewises stand out for another reason: They are among the 2 percent of the nation's pilots who are African American. Nicole is in another exclusive group: Only 3 percent are women. If you count her youth, you're down to an infinitesimal proportion of the people at the controls of U.S. aircraft.
How she was able to succeed -- even excel -- in an industry dominated by middle-aged white men shows how much American aviation has changed since the 1963 Supreme Court decision that opened the cockpit to blacks. Why there are so few others like her is a more complex story, but one that Nicole Lewis attributes to factors other than discrimination. Dealing with management, she said, she has always gotten a fair deal. As for passengers, her race and sex aren't really an issue.
"People see my age first," she said. "I don't think they care that much that I'm a woman or a black woman. They say, 'Oh, my God, how old is she?' "
Life of a Pilot
A pilot's life is a lot of waiting -- for weather to clear, for a slot on the runway, for the aircraft to arrive -- punctuated by brief periods of intense activity and concentration when lives ride on split-second decisions. Pilots spend nights away from home and family, have erratic sleep schedules, and work under the threat of terrorism. But talk to any pilot and the main thing that comes across is a passion for flight. Most never considered doing anything else for a living.
Marlon Green, the man whose years-long legal battle opened the cockpit to blacks, envisioned this life for himself. Remembering it now, 40 years later, from retirement in Miami, he reflects on his historic fight without a trace of anger.
On May 8, 1957, a date etched in his memory, Green was discharged from the Air Force after nine years of flying B-26s and SA-16s and he began seeking work in the private sector. That was the normal career course for white Air Force alums.
Green applied to 10 national airlines for a pilot's job that year, either submitting a photo of himself or checking the "colored" or "Negro" box on the applications. In each case, he either got no response or was told no jobs were available.
One of the last airlines he applied to was United. With his prospects fading, he recalls, he went to a recruiting office in Seattle for a walk-in interview. He remembers sitting in the personnel manager's office, dressed in suit and tie, and listening as the manager calmly explained that although Green had excellent flying credentials, he would never work for United "because I was a Negro."
That meeting changed his strategy, but not his determination. "I had never, never visualized the wall as being as solid as that," Green said. "I thought the wall was gone when I left the Air Force." Even so, "I didn't see any other prospect that I wanted to apply myself to. The carrot was dangling, and I kept pulling the cart."
Finally, when he applied to Continental Airlines, he didn't send a picture or check the race box. Weeks later, the airline invited him for an interview and a series of pilot tests at its Denver headquarters. When Green showed up, he said, "the complexion of the case changed." The meeting was cordial, and no one mentioned his race. But some time later, Continental notified him that no positions were available.
He filed a complaint with the Colorado Anti-Discrimination Commission, which discovered that the airline had hired five white pilots with less experience than Green had, and ruled in his favor. That was the beginning of a long series of legal actions that eventually took the case to the Supreme Court, which found in 1963 that the hiring of "Petitioner Marlon D. Green, a Negro" as a pilot would not place an undue burden on interstate commerce. The court ordered Continental to make a place for him in its next training class.
Green began work in 1965. Two years later, he was made captain. By the time he retired in 1978, the airline credited him with an extra eight years of service because of the time spent on his legal fight.
The battle was worth it, Green said. "I always thought of it as a job that was the best in the world." In the cockpit, he aimed for a polite relationship with his colleagues, avoided small talk and tried to focus on flying. "There were some people who were close acquaintances, but never friends."
An avid golfer, Green, now 74, jokingly says that retirement has been the best part of his professional life. "There was too much grief and struggle to look back on," he said. "The operating of airplanes was always the thing I found great pleasure in. It was a precious experience for me to be able to do it. I was part of a sea change in aviation."
Later this month in Seattle, where his eyes were first opened to the "wall," about 2,500 members of the Organization of Black Airline Pilots will honor Green on the 40th-anniversary year of his court victory. This will be the organization's 28th annual convention. It owes its existence in large part to Marlon Green.
