I made my way to work in silence. I couldn’t listen to the news or to music or talk to anyone. I just drove, mindless and a little lost. Straight into the board room for a day of budget meetings – I relished the thought of pouring through endless numbers and allowing them to further numb my senses. It was the day after the election.
As the analysis of the numbers droned on and on I took a minute to look around the room. Three men, three women. The “C-Suite”. Three men. Three women. Even. For the first time in 23 years it was even. I took a moment to consider the journey that brought me here.
I was fresh from my master’s degree when I entered the workforce with a head full of idealistic thoughts about how I would make the work world better and the naïve confidence of someone who refused to accept the notion of a glass ceiling. I was out to prove something. I was never one to be shy about speaking my mind. You knew where I stood on things and I certainly didn’t leave you guessing. One day, I was pulled a side by an older male co-worker who said “You need to not show your feelings so much in these meetings. What you think is all over your face. You need to keep your emotions in check.” I answered him with one word “Why?” I remember listening intently, examining my behavior and walking away uncertain as to why showing my disagreement was wrong in words or actions. I considered each person, each man actually, around the table that day and failed to see how my behavior was different. It wasn’t. But something different was expected of me as a female – my strongly worded arguments were “out bursts”, my clear direct points were “bitchy”, my unwavering confidence was “cocky”. (Cocky? A woman? I know, I laughed too. ). I was reminded to remember my place. My place? My place is here, with you men. Here is where I belong, but thank you for your well-intended advice.
It was the late 90’s and a certain auto company was in the throes of one of the biggest sexual harassment scandals of our time. Human Resources’ departments across the country were scrambling to document policies and put training in place. As part of the HR team, I was asked to conduct sexual harassment training. So, let me get this straight, I need to stand up in front of a bunch of men, many of which were old enough to be by father and tell them why it was bad for them to place their eyes at chest level when they were talking to me? By the way, sorry to let you down there, fellas. I was to stand at the front of the room and tell them why their dirty jokes, their sexual comments and their lingering hand on my waist or ass was not appropriate? Is no one else seeing the irony here? Okey dokey boys, you got it. And so I stood in front of them that day in my shortest skirt and my highest heels towering at over 6 feet tall. What God didn’t give me up top he made up for in legs. If you want irony, I’ll give you irony. I conducted the session with a quiet confidence. When the training was over one of my male co-workers came up to me and looked me square in the eye, “Nice skirt. Way to tell every guy in the room to fuck straight off. The whole back row was high fiving you. ” I looked to the back row populated by men by age and gave them a wink. They got my point. There was hope.
Further in my career when I was flying high and taking the ladder two rungs at a time it was suggested that I dress more conservatively and had I considered cutting my hair? The comment came from someone from the IBM – blue suit, red tie, white shirts for all generation.“Why?” I asked. The response had something to do with gaining respect and removing distractions. I considered what was said. It wasn’t like I was coming to work dressed like a hooker and the Ally McBeal phase had thankfully passed, but I hadn’t given up my high heels, my tailored skirts and my pretty patterned stockings. I stretched my memory and I didn’t recall a single conversation about a man’s potential being linked to the way he dressed. Nope, not once. I’m dressing like a girl and I’m not giving that up. If that poses a distraction for you than you obviously don’t have enough work to do. I didn’t consciously stop wearing pants after that day – but a recent count of the items in my closet reveals I made a clear choice. – 37 dresses, 23 skirts (all occasions, all seasons – don’t judge) and not one pair of work appropriate pants. Not one. I guess that says something.
Then there was the person that told me that to really get to the top, I needed to learn how to golf and drink Scotch. “Why?” I asked. The answer had something to do with relationships being built on the golf course – deals made, lives are changed, and networks built. This is where you gain respect, this is how you get places. Huh? So throwing back Scotch with boys and exchanging endless testosterone drenched banter about our golf games is how I’ll make it in this world? No thanks, I’ll find my own way. And I did. I made my way because I took the time to get to know people and their motivations. I empathized with their situations, I was humble and human, I used humor (a lot). I learned about the business, I fought for what was right, I owned my mistakes, and there was a lot of them, I worked really damn hard and I was good at what I did. I didn’t drink Scotch and I didn’t golf.
At a certain point in my career I was in and out of manufacturing facilities all the time. By the way, I was smart enough to ditch the heels and skirts for these visits and relinquished myself to the standard khakis and polo and appropriate footwear. One particular line manager pulled me aside and told me that I should think about not wearing my wedding ring at the plant. “Guys see that and they gonna think you don’t need to work. They gonna think that you got a cushy life with a hubby that takes care of you.” I didn’t stop wearing my wedding ring, but I did what I always did. I spoke to people, asked them to teach me what they were doing, learned about their kids, listened to their troubles. In the end, I earned their respect. The ring didn’t matter.
I didn’t wait to be invited, I just showed up to the places where I thought I should be. I pushed not only for my own equality, but the equality of my function in the organizations where I worked. I pushed and I pushed and for the most part, I got where I wanted to go. I got that seat at the table, and once I was there proved that I should always be there. But it wasn’t always easy and I didn’t always win. In one particular case, I fought hard to be part of a global meeting being held in Europe. Reluctantly at the last minute, I was allowed to be there. So, I left my family, pregnant with baby number two and crossed the Atlantic with something to prove. I was a little anxious entering the meeting place that first day, but I was full of hope at the new path I was forging. I knew I had muscled my way in, but here I was and they were just going to have to deal with me. And deal with me they did, as I made my way to door, my entrance was blocked by one of my male colleagues. “You can’t go in there, this part isn’t for you.” “Why?” I stood there dumbfounded as the door literally closed in my face. The door closed in my face. I was made to wait like a child, in the hallway outside the principal’s office. I waited and waited. My fury burning hot. All the while I rubbed my stomach talking to the little girl wonder growing inside me telling her this isn’t the way it’s supposed to be. This is not how it will be for you, I promise you. I promise.
Eventually I was summoned to the meeting room. The head of the company was making some remarks as I quietly took my seat. He caught a glimpse of me and made a comment about how he had set a goal to have more women in the company and was pleased to see that we were making progress. I looked around the room of 50+ people and saw two other women besides me, one of which was his secretary. I stood up and walked out, changed my plane ticket and flew home. In that moment, I made the decision that I would not subject the baby growing inside of me to that kind of environment. A few short months later I left that company and never looked back.
I didn’t come to work swinging a burning bra around my head every day, but in my own quiet way I waged my little war on equality and inclusion. I heard my share of locker room talk as the years added up and was always quick to chime in “You know I’m in the room, right?” When conversations went on and on about sports, I would brightly say, “What do you think of the Fall fashion trends?” I’m pretty sure that I never got the guys to talk about topics like age appropriate skirt length (by the way, it’s whatever looks good and feels good on you) or the cardigan craze, but I got them to consider the exclusive nature of their conversations and we found our way to topics that we could all discuss. Although, there was one particular time where they indulged me in a long conversation about mascara. Thank you for that boys. There’s hope for you yet.
I’ve been called a guy more times than I’ve been called by my name and was told many times that I was “one of the boys”. I suppose this was meant as a compliment and so I tried to not be too hard on these men. They were really trying, and I knew in their hearts that they respected me. This was big shift for them, years in the making. I was, after all, in the middle of one of the most male dominated industries in the world. I was, after all, in the midst of the “old boy’s network”. I wasn’t going to change their vernacular or thinking just like that. Although I sure did try and in one meeting actually convinced a man that calling everyone “guys” was not a gender neutral term and that if that was really the case then, we might as well say that “gals” is neutral too and begin to use that as recklessly as we use the word guys. And so for the remainder of the meeting he referred to everyone, regardless of gender as “gals”. My point had been made and I was infused with a bit more hope.
And just when I think we are almost there that we are almost to equal, something happens that reminds me that we have a long way to go. I recently travelled to the UK to attend a meeting, I had been invited, no strong arming here. The meetings went well, we were rounding out our last day and a healthy debate ensued about a topic squarely in my space. In the human space. The ideas and challenges ping ponged across the room. I listened to the comments, held my ground, considered their points, argued back….. And just like that in a split second it all fell apart. A male colleague lashed out – challenged me personally, said things that I can only quantify as horribly disrespectful. All eyes were on me to see what I would do. My skin turned hot and I felt the sting growing behind my eyes. I wanted to run, but instead, I took the high road. I turned to him and said “I’m sorry you feel that way” and I calmly carried on with the discussion while inside a storm raged.
It took me days to unwind from that experience. I went to a place where woman go all the time, where society takes us in fact. I was the scantily clad woman who had asked to be raped. I spent three days in this horrible space in my mind examining every word and gesture and in the end I came up with nothing. Not. One. Thing. This was not about me or something I had done. This was a man whose frail ego had been damaged by a woman who challenged his thinking. My hope waivered.
I realized then that I had grown a little complacent in my quiet fight. This man reminded me that we are further away from equal than I thought. Three men. Three women. It wasn’t enough. This man with his unwieldly insults lit a flame that had lost some of its fervor. And you, Mr. President elect, well, you just caused an explosion.
Regular Girl Musings 