Olaf Growald
It was sometime near the turn of the 20th century that Lucille Elizabeth Bishop Smith received her first cooking instruction courtesy of her grandmother. According to a September 1974 article in the Star-Telegram, Lucille recalled that her grandmother, who had been a slave prior to emancipation, wasn’t particularly impressed. “You’ll never learn to cook,” she told her.
Lucille, it states in the article, likely used this criticism as motivation for her future vocational choices. Perhaps flexing an innate desire to prove people wrong, Lucille brushed off an abundance of barriers and would become a caterer, a program chairman for Fort Worth Public Schools, and a culinary innovator who became the first Black female business owner in the state of Texas.
Take that, Grandma.
Of course, Lucille is just one of many Fort Worth women who have swung against the odds and managed to break through that proverbial glass ceiling, excelling in male-dominated fields that were once uncommon or even disallowed. And almost all who did so would say it was worth the trouble. After all, a job is more than a place to gather paychecks, say “yes” to a boss, and punch a clock at 9 and 5. For glass-breakers and world-shakers, a vocation is a big part of what gives a person purpose and helps shape one’s identity — for better or worse. Outside of family, it’s where one can build a legacy and leave a mark on their respective field or within their community.
So why not have a job that you love?
Lucille received her certificate in vocational education from Colorado State College, where she says, “There were 23 white student teachers and one fly in the buttermilk.” While no statistics exist regarding the percent of Black women receiving bachelor’s degrees in 1912, according to the National Center for Education Statistics, in 1940 only 1.3% of African Americans aged 25 or older had received a bachelor’s degree. And, in the early 20th century, the number of college-educated men outpaced the number of college-educated women. Something that wouldn’t shift until the 1920s.
Lucille moved to Fort Worth soon after graduating with her husband, Ulysses Samuel Smith, who would go on to have an impactful culinary career himself, opening North Side’s iconic U.S. Smith’s Famous Bar-B-Q. When they arrived, the two opened a catering business, and Lucille would pull double duty as a seamstress during the day and caterer at night.
In 1927, Lucille became chairman of the vocational education program for Fort Worth Public Schools. And she soon became one of the district’s most vocal employees, demanding the school provide 25% of the cost for supplies related to vocational instruction. Ten years later, Prairie View A&M recruited Lucille to create one of the nation’s first collegiate commercial food and technology programs.
In 1942, during a period of extended rest due to poor health, Lucille developed the first mass-produced hot roll mix, Lucille’s All Purpose Hot Roll Mix. Though initially created as a fundraiser for her church, due to high demand, the mix would begin production in a North Side factory in 1944. According to a 2004 article in the Cleburne Times-Review, “the product paved the way for the convenience cooking we know today.”
Lucille died in 1985 at the age of 92.
It was 20 years after Lucille first began mass producing her mix that Title XII under the Civil Rights Act, which prohibited potential employers from discrimination on the basis of sex, became law. And its passage in 1964 created more opportunities for women, as the predominately male workforce could no longer immediately dismiss or disallow female candidates.
Today, women make up 47% of the country’s overall workforce — up from 39% in 1973 — and account for 14% of our armed forces, 12% of local police forces, less than 5% of firefighters, and 16% of engineers and architects. In fields that remain typecast as male-dominated, women account for 38% of medical doctors, 25% of professional chefs, 41% of attorneys, and 22% of software engineers.
While there exist logical reasons certain jobs are made up of predominantly men, other vocations simply retain a false stigma and have yet to attract an abundance of female candidates.
But that doesn’t mean women can’t pursue these jobs, land them, and excel and rise through the ranks. Whether it’s Joan of Arc, Marie Curie, or Lucille Smith, history is chock-full of women who defied all the norms and naysayers to perform the job they were born to do.
“If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun.”
— Katharine Hepburn
Head of the Herd
Olaf Growald
Georgia Cartwright applied in 1998 to become the first trail boss of the Fort Worth Herd, the world’s only twice-daily cattle drive. “I didn’t get an interview,” Cartwright says. “But I’ve done a lot more living and a lot more learning since then.”
Despite the rejection or, should we say, ghosting, Cartwright had found her dream job. It’d just take another 27 years to get there.
Following in the footsteps of Kristin Jaworski’s 23-year stint as trail boss of the Fort Worth Herd, Cartwright came on board only “one month and seven days” before we sat down to chat. Yeah, she got the gig and is still pinching herself to make sure her current state of living the dream isn’t, like, an actual dream.
And one would be hard pressed to find a hire that makes more sense; she checks all the proverbial boxes for what makes an excellent trail boss. She showed horses as a youngster; roped calves in the rodeo “long before breakaway roping was cool”; worked as a day-working cowboy, which I learned is a freelance cowboy whose horse and personal herding experience are for hire, on a bevy of East Texas ranches; toured with horses and stage coaches representing Wells Fargo at events across the country; and clocked 11 years at the Tarrant County Clerk’s office, where she gained management and budgeting experience. She even used to chew on saddle reins as a toddler during lead line classes — not a prerequisite, but it doesn’t hurt, either.
Almost every one of the above experiences, Cartwright will put to good use as the leader of the Fort Worth Herd. And we should remind you, this is a legitimate herd.
“Even though it seems like a simple task of walking 17 longhorns down East Exchange,” Cartwright says. “It’s not. And our prime responsibility is the care of the animals. Every morning, we assess all of our horses and all of our cattle to ensure they’re healthy and in the best possible shape. We have a great herd of cattle here, and we have very well-trained horses here. The very least I can do is make sure that their every need is met.”
The thing that makes the Fort Worth Herd so dang majestic is its authenticity. These folks — the drovers, the trail boss, the equines, and the bovines — they’re the real deal. They aren’t actors putting on a show. They look good doing what they do because, well, it is what they do.
That said, the trail boss and drovers are some of Fort Worth’s most prominent and accessible ambassadors, which brings Cartwright to the Herd’s other main responsibility: the visitors. “I want to ensure that my drovers, they go out on the street before the cattle drive to visit with our guests, to answer questions, to take photos, to make someone’s trip to the stockyards a memorable one.”
And leading a crew of legit drovers, albeit with her as the lone cowgirl in sight? Well, it seems it hardly occurred to her. “The wonderful thing about cowboy culture is you gain your merits on your ability, your knowledge, and your work ethic,” Cartwright says. “Just like when I was a day-working cowboy and I would be the only woman in the pasture, I still had the same responsibilities as anyone else that was on horseback. And I was welcomed because you’re there on your merit. If you don’t have the skills, you’re not going to get the phone call.”
She’s a Landman
Olaf Growald
When one thinks of West Texas, wind, dust, and gas stations that double as cafes are likely to come to mind. We’re also willing to bet oil, gas, mineral rights, and pumpjacks as far as the eye can see will pop into that noggin, too.
So, when landman and PlainsCapital Bank senior vice president Kathy Robertson told me she was born in Fort Worth but grew up in a West Texas town called Dell City, I figured her vocation was a return to her roots. But it turns out, Dell City is in what Robertson dubs “far, far West Texas — on the west side of the Guadalupe Mountains. Population: 500. It’s in the middle of nowhere.” But it’s no doubt beautiful country, and it’s an area Robertson continues to regularly visit.
She’d make her way to the South Plains and attend Texas Tech, where she studied animal science and eventually found her way back to where it all began: Fort Worth.
Of course, anyone who keeps up with what goes on below ground in Cowtown knows that Fort Worth was one heck of a place to be circa 2002, thanks to the Barnett Shale boom. Working in real estate at the time, the boom saw Robertson transition to becoming a landman after being convinced by a local developer to work for him under that capacity.
Now, if you have yet to watch an episode of Taylor Sheridan’s Fort Worth-filmed show “Landman,” don’t sweat it. If you have, Robertson suggests not using it as your textbook for understanding the role of the show’s titular vocation. And, though women making up on only a quarter of landmen, the work itself isn’t laden with machismo energy. A landman is a mineral rights deal maker, someone who, through hours of arduous research of public and private records to determine property ownership — which can sometimes evolve into studying multipronged, multigenerational family trees — to ensure the right people receive the right compensation when the drilling and fracking begins.
But after the Barnett Shale cooled off and the price of natural gas dropped, companies headed for the hills — or, Pennsylvania, toward the now-booming Marcellus Shale, to be specific.
“I had a young daughter in junior high, so I didn’t want to leave and go to Pennsylvania,” Robertson says. “So, I sent my resume out to a few companies, and Petrodata Systems out of Arlington picked it up.”
A niche accounting software for managing oil and gas assets, Petrodata Systems gave Robertson experience on the accounting side of the industry, while also providing her account management experience after the company “dumped seven banks into my lap” during a coworker’s extended absence. With this welcomed responsibility, Robertson was now getting experience in every aspect of oil and gas property operations.
Taking on more banks as clients, Robertson would eventually parlay this job into her current position. “I found out that PlainsCapital Bank acquired the software and started the department. So, I applied for and got the job,” says Robertson, who now serves as the company’s senior vice president and manager of oil and gas property operations. “And we’ve built the department from the ground up.”
Robertson now manages 105 clients — of whom she could tell 105 fascinating stories about — and is a respected voice and veteran leader within the industry. As she and I were leaving the breakfast joint where we chatted, she mentioned speaking at a conference and having young women approach her, telling her, “You’re a badass.”
Robertson then tells me, “I never thought I’d be a badass at 62.”
A League of Her Own
Olaf Growald
Perhaps not a widely accepted fact that would rival Isaac Newton’s second law — or even his third, for that matter — but coaches, especially those in the realm of gridiron football, have a specific air. Sure, it’s an aura of confidence, authority, and a dash of intimidation. But there’s also a je ne sais quoi that I can only define as empathy and genuine, heart-on-his-or-her-sleeves caring for their players.
In what might be one of the most male-dominated career paths, it’s incredible how Kylie Johnson, coach and athletic director at Southwest High School, embodies all of the above. She was born for this stuff.
One doesn’t even have to mention that the football she coaches at Southwest, while still on a gridiron, played with an oblong ball made of swine skin, has the same positions, and includes metal bleachers for fans, is actually flag football. The main differences become apparent when one realizes it’s an all-girls team and tackling is supplanted with stripping flags from a waist band. But the games, they’re just as an intense, strategic, and dare I say physical — but not I-was-just-in-a-car-crash physical.
Johnson says, “Fort Worth was the first district in Texas to initiate flag football, and now Dallas and Houston and all the other metroplex schools are getting involved, too.” Kicking off play in 2022, Johnson was at the forefront of the establishing the new sport in the district, starting at Diamond Hill-Jarvis High School during the sport’s inaugural season before moving to North Side High School, where they made it to the district championship and the Final Four the following year. Last year served as her first year at Southwest, and the team finished in the Elite Eight in district.
And, according to Johnson, who also coaches women’s volleyball and serves as the school’s athletic coordinator, the sport has continued to increase in popularity, and past team members can’t wait to get back on the field for the 2026 season.
“I think girls being able to play a ‘boys sport’ is just so empowering,” Johnson says. “I think that it really brings a lot of confidence that maybe other sports don’t. And everything [these girls] are learning is beyond football. They’re learning work ethic, dealing with hardships and adversity, all those things that will help them in the future. The fact that they can now see themselves as a football player — something none of them ever even dreamed was possible just a few years ago. It shows them there’s nothing they can’t do. It’s making them better women. It’s making them better human beings.”
And it’s not as if Johnson’s green to spread offenses or calling audibles, her football experience is extensive. She played in the first All American Flag Football game and played in the same game the followed year. She also played intramural flag football while a student at UNT, which is where she would graduate with a degree in kinesiology.
“And my [intramural] team was really, really good,” Johnson says. “And we went to Texas Tech and played in many different leagues. So, I’ve been playing, but I’m always learning.”
You can catch Southwest High School’s flag football team when they begin competition in spring 2026.
The Fire Inside
Olaf Growald
When one is attempting to become a Fort Worth Firefighter, the first test they require potential candidates perform is a climb up a 135-foot ladder — the tallest ladder in the city — just to ensure one is able to do it. To put this in perspective, this ladder is still taller than the tallest building in Vermont by nearly 20 feet. The department also makes one perform a black-out challenge, where a trainee is wearing a mask in a pitch-black darkness,
“It’s facing and overcoming fears,” says Abigail Sanchez, a firefighter who’s been with the Fort Worth Fire Department for eight years. “Fear of heights, claustrophobia, disorientation; these are legit phobias that can cause panic, which is never ideal for our job. If they want to join, they better get over them quick.”
The training is nonstop, Sanchez says, because they’re never sure when they’re going to get a call that will be something extraordinary; and they need to remain as prepared as possible for any scenario. Every day, you have to be in the best shape of your life, ’cause you never know when someone in need might depend on you.
Firefighters typically work 24-hour shifts and receive 48 hours off. Their days-on consist of making breakfast, cleaning the firetruck — it’s emaculate — regularly scheduled PT, and answering any calls that happen at the drop of a pen.
Sanchez was in an early college for high school students when she found out was precisely what she wanted to do for a living. With firefighters and EMTs offering courses she started easily seeing herself donning their sharp uniforms one day. “I feel like people love a man in a uniform,” Sanchez says. “And I was like, man, screw that. I think I would look good in that uniform.”
Looking around Station 45 near Harmon Ranch, where Sanchez is assigned, it’s not difficult to deduce that she’s the only woman in the station. Women make up less than 5% of all firefighters. But when I bring up this obvious observation, she seems unphased.
“I don’t feel like I have to take on a certain role,” Sanchez says. “I think they treat me as their equal; I don’t feel like I’m any different. We know that I’m a female, and I know that they’re men. But we joke around. We have fun. I’m just one of the guys, and I don’t feel like I get treated any differently. I’m very glad that’s the case.”
Echoing something similar to what Georgia Cartwright said earlier, whether it’s drovers, firefighters, mechanics, etc., yes, it’s likely a woman will have to contend with a certain amount of prejudice. But, once one proves themselves capable, they’ve earned respect based on skill and merit. When it comes to jobs like these for women, there’s no room for feelings of imposter syndrome, no time-to-get-your-sea-legs moment, and no “can you show me that again but slower?” When a woman has a job like this, one can be assured she’s earned it; and she’s damn good at it, too.
