They say that the crowning glory of a woman is her hair. My father, being a Christian and a traditional family man, never allowed us to have our hair cut short such that our nape showed. So when I first got a barber’s cut, I cried myself to sleep. I kept telling myself how ugly I was with a hairstyle that was intended for boys. It took me a long time to accept that the moment we cropped our hair and shaved our heads meant letting go of the freedom to dress, act, and speak freely.
Shaving the head of a plebe before entering a training camp symbolizes disconnecting from pride and civilian life. With our crowning glory gone, we have to embrace the military discipline that we’ve chosen for our career.
So why did I become a policewoman? The choice came as a surprise to everyone, including my family; no one ever thought I’d be one to join the service. When you graduate with honors from a premier university, there are multinational companies that would like to get you to work for them even before your graduation. There were a lot of available choices for me, like banking, real estate, and work in government agencies.
The truth is, I wanted to give back to my country. I was so drunk on Robert Frost’s poem, about taking the road less traveled. I wanted to follow my professor’s words about making an impact on the community. Before I formally joined the ranks, I was already working as a nonuniformed personnel with plantilla position in the Philippine National Police (PNP), specifically as an administrative assistant. I did clerical tasks. Then one day, I went to the office with one thought in my head: Is this the life I want to live for the rest of my life? I felt that I could give more. I could maximize my potential. And so I applied to join the PNP.
The first day you become a uniformed personnel is both a glorious and hellish moment. I remember clearly July 8, 2016, at Camp Delgado; our oath-taking ceremony and reception rites happened under a heavy downpour. The Police Regional Office 6 (PRO6) band was playing as loud as it could, but all I could hear were the shouts of our instructors on what to do. Unfortunately, I also had my monthly period that day, but I did all the drills from 8 a.m. to 1 p.m.: rolling left and right, crawling all over, doing the “tusok-ulo” in what looked like a swimming pool inside the camp.
Times like that make it difficult for us women to be in this kind of work. But we cannot complain just because we are female. Our sex is not an excuse for us not to be able to do what men can do.
In our Basic Recruit Course, we were trained together with the male recruits. What they did, we did. How far they ran, we ran as well. What they were taught, we were taught. We received the same punishments. We received the same rewards and enjoyed the same privileges. There were no special treatment just because you were a woman. At the end of the six-month training, we all became stronger people than before.
After the basic course, we had to undergo training especially designed to fight insurgency. Our batch was lucky enough to be the first batch in PRO6’s history to be trained as an all-female class. We called ourselves “105 amazonas.” It was in this three-month intensive training that I cried almost every day. But I made a promise to my family and friends: No matter what, I will finish the course. I will not give up. I will not quit. I will not go home without the pin.
I held on to that promise amid the weight of an 8-kilo sandbag on our backs and a rifle in one hand. I held on to it during the time-to-beat running challenge. I held on to it during the rope courses, when I had to face my fear of heights. If I had to die during the training, I would, but I would never ever quit. One of my instructors presented me to our class and said, “This is the face of a person who will never give up.”
There were times that I asked myself if I really belonged to the organization. It seemed like I was not cut out for the PNP. If I wasn’t meant to be a policewoman, why was I here? I could’ve resigned a year ago. I could’ve failed the tests given prior to oath-taking. But I made it through despite all the hardships. I must be here for something.
It took me a long time to realize that it is not only physical strength that is the measure of one’s worth in this organization. Despite being outnumbered by men, I rose to become company president, leading 53 other professionals. By the end of my training, I belonged to the Top 3 of my class and received special commendations. I compensated for my deficiencies with other areas of proficiency.
Five years into the service, I have already made peace with my hair. I’ve realized it is not every girl’s crowning glory. For me, my crowning glory is this badge number attached next to my name. It represents my courage to change my situation, my determination amid adversities, and my passion to serve the people. And I think that’s what makes a woman in uniform truly beautiful.
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Patrolwoman Hercharme D. Demegillo, 26, is a graduate of the University of the Philippines Visayas. She is a noncommissioned officer of the Philippine National Police and is currently assigned at Police Regional Office 6.