From a reader, on crying:
I am an overly emotional woman and it’s something I try to accept and control the best I can. (I blame my mother) Though I have this ‘issue’ I am a strong believer that you leave your personal problems at home. Even when I was recently sexually harassed while simultaneously receiving hate email from my client calling me a ‘raciest’, I held myself together. The way I handled the situation though composure was something the executives in the company noticed and I was given a higher position and a raise.
At one point, I requested a meeting with our COO simply to ask his advice on how he would handle a certain situation. He is a well respected man and we both share the same love for psychology. His advice to me was to grow thicker skin; he said it would take me further and people would see I could handle anything. I must have made a face while I thought “he clearly doesn’t know me. Thanks a lot!” Then he said something I still live by. “Even if you can’t shake it off, don’t ever let them see you sweat. You are in charge of your emotions. When you’re not, just make sure they can’t see it on your face. You’re half way there, just take the stress off your face.”
My mother has told me that my whole life. “You show it on your face. Don’t show it on your face. Etc.”
In life, I have a difficult time differentiating between when to show my emotions and when not to. However, in the workplace, I am a strong believer on being the stronger woman, playing harder, and never let them see you sweat.
On the one hand, we agree. Keeping a stiff upper lip, so to speak, is a smart move. On the other, it just really blows that being “overly emotional” is some kind of problem to be kept in check. It seems to us like just another example of having to act like a man in order to get ahead. Ugh.
Our last post about crying at work certainly hit a nerve, and we’re sure you all have a lot more to say. We want to hear it. Email us.
And please share your own Tales from the Frontlines.
From reader Julie, who lives in Japan (!):
As a kid I didn’t understand that just wanting to be treated decently made me a feminist. I thought it was normal to expect equality and to ask for fair treatment. I was probably a teen before I realized that I had been a feminist all along… I also know I get reminded of WHY I am a feminist every day.
When I do just as well or better than my male coworkers, partners, friends, or what have you, I watch the compliments and congratulations they get. He’s a hard worker. He did a good job. He is a great leader. He shows promise. Then it is my turn.
“She’s the prettiest girl/teacher/worker/student/employee we’ve ever had!”
Not once in all my life have I heard anyone praising a male coworker, fellow student, group member, et cetera, by praising his looks. Sure, I am happy you think I am pretty. I work hard to stay in shape and to look nice. I do. But, I also work hard to be the best damn employee/student/friend you have ever had, too. And I KNOW I am performing just as well if not better than the men sitting around me, being told how clever/hard working/productive they are.
What I want to know is, what about the girls who aren’t “pretty”? What are these jerks complimenting those women on? Making a good pot of coffee? Or are they just totally invisible?
My accomplishments are my own. My accomplishments are just as good. My accomplishments are just as admirable and deserving.
So why, as a woman, are my accomplishments less important than my pretty face?
Readers: We want to hear from you. When did you know you were a feminist? What have you experienced in the workplace? Want advice? To vent? Email us.
And please share your own Tales from the Frontlines.
From Rosie, an Orange County social worker:
I have been a feminist since birth. I grew up in Seattle, and my parents were both self-proclaimed feminists. I was in the local newspaper at a week old, with a story about my father’s struggle for paternity leave from his job as a public bus driver, to bond with his new daughter. But I do have a “click” moment in my professional life. I was a psychology major, and my first job out of college was at a substance abuse treatment center for teenagers. It involved a lot of rule setting and enforcing, and trying to discipline teenage drug addicts to behave. One afternoon, I was sternly telling a 14 year-old boy that his behavior was completely inappropriate, in the exact same language and tone of voice that many of my male co-workers used every single day. One of these male counselors walked by, heard me, and said, “REOWR! (the angry female cat voice) It is so HOT when you get all angry!” It was so condescending and blatantly sexist. And it ruined any shred of credibility I had with any of the adolescent clients within earshot.
Readers: We want to hear from you. When did you know you were a feminist? What have you experienced in the workplace? Want advice? To vent? Email us.
And please share your own Tales from the Frontlines.
We promise we’ll be back in less-depressed form next week. In the meantime, write to us! We’d love to hear what you’re thinking about this weekend.
Today’s “Tales from the Frontlines,” from a Colorado VP of Human Resources:
See my title? Well, three years ago, I was promoted to VP when the then-MALE VP got caught with illegal drugs in his system. I was promised the same salary and still as of today do not have that, in fact, when we had to reduce salaries due to the economy I took a hit as well. The BOYS have gotten their salaries and then some back, but not me! Respect, what is that? In the Oil and Gas field it is the “Good Old Boy” rule. Why am I still here? I make good money for a woman in this town! Sad, very sad. Before I retire, I want to see equality in pay. I could go on and on, but why bother? I still have hope!
Today, a “Tales from the Frontlines” from Jennifer Pozner, the executive director of Women In Media & News.
My first journalism job was an internship at Courier Life Newspapers in Brooklyn . Summer of 1993 … It ran on a small staff. There were no women working as reporters, and only one woman who wrote a column. The editors were all men, too. So, because the columnist only came in a couple of times each week, I was usually the only woman in the office — and, being 19 or 20, I had to choose my battles. So, for example, I let most of the generally sexist and racist comments that were part of the air and water there go by without challenging them, so that I could call them out when they said something particularly egregious (as when I insisted that perhaps it was completely inappropriate for the crime reporter and the editor to be making jokes in the middle of the newsroom about how overweight a rape victim was, and how maybe she was lucky to have been raped because how else would she have gotten some guy to screw her…etc.)
In any case, this photographer would come in to the newsroom every couple of days to drop off his pictures. He reminded me of the blustery, heavyset bird in that old comic strip “Shoe” — crossed with Al Bundy. He always gave me these very exaggerated visual once-overs, would make minor comments about my body, and would be generally gross… but I figured that since my editor saw what was going on (we all worked in the same area) and no one was calling him on it, there wasn’t much I could do to get him to stop it. I figured I’d just ignore him until the internship was over at the end of the summer.
But I finally lost it one day when, in addition to the leering once-over, he started blowing kisses to me. Blowing kisses! In the newsroom! I gave him the dirtiest look I could muster and kept on typing, but then he said — within earshot of my editor — something along the lines of, “Why don’t you smile more? Like a lady?” and then something about how he always “compliments” me and I never thank him.
I just lost it. I got up from my desk, marched over to him and went off, screaming, “I’m not a LADY! I’m a REPORTER!” I remember saying that word for word …
The photographer never bothered me again. A week or two later, the editor said something about how I had “spunk” or “moxie” or some ridiculously outdated phrase that reminded me of black and white films, and started giving me better assignments.
Email us to submit your own Tales From the Frontlines.
A 30-year-old New York ad recruiter writes:
I was working for a creative ad agency and one of our clients (a now defunct cell phone provider) had us in their LA office for the week presenting ideas. The creative director presented a round of scripts, and the client’s response was: “The work is awful, I don’t know how you guys come up with this crap.” Then he pointed to me and said: “At least your tits look good today.” A few mouths dropped and I turned bright red, but it was never really discussed again.
Submit your own “Tales from the Frontlines”—and a special call to the women of the advertising world—here.
Today in reader-submitted stories, from a 23-year-old teacher in northeast Indiana:
When I was 15 years old, I worked at a tiny, local restaurant. I had only worked there about a week when I went to take a customer’s order at the drive-up window. When I asked the man what he wanted, he looked me right in the eye and said, “I’ll have a waitress with nothing on it.”
I didn’t know what to say or do, so I just stood and looked at him. He immediately got defensive, “It was just a joke!”
No, asshole, it was NOT just a joke.
I don’t know which aspect of how wrong that statement was made me the most angry. Was it that he treated women as just a consumable commodity, even going so far as to use the pronoun “it”? Was it the fact that I was only 15, and looked only 15, when he said this to me? Was it the fact that there was small boy sitting next to him in the car, learning how to treat women and food service workers as things? Was it that he acted self-righteous because it was sooo my fault that I couldn’t take a joke that would have made him not only disgusting, but also a sex offender? Was it the fact that when I told my boss, he laughed? Or, was it because I had no idea what to say back to him?
I should have screamed the preceding paragraph. I should have taken his license plate number and reported him to the police. I should have refused to serve him. I didn’t. I made his ice cream.
No one will ever treat me like that again.
Share your own “Tales from the Frontlines.” Email us.
Today in reader submitted stories, from a 20-something woman working in Congress:
I’m in my first real job after college… surrounded by capable and powerful women. [But] I’m still judged largely on my appearance by both men and women. I’m constantly worrying that my shirt is too tight or my skirt is too short, and that no one will ever take me seriously if they see an inch of leg. I end up dressing like a librarian. I find that female colleagues are often the harshest critics.
Sometimes, I smile too much, and people mistake my bubbliness for a lack of intelligence. My male coworkers like to make jokes about me being stupid, which is ironic considering they also ask me to edit their work. I have stood up for myself before, but it often comes off as a little abrasive or — goodness, no — bitchy.
Coming from [college], the real world is a slap in the face.
Submit your own “Tales from the Frontlines” here.
Today, a 25-year-old Oakland woman writes:
I worked in a cafe, in a bookstore. One night I worked late with the manager, because that week some regional manager was visiting for an inspection. We had to scrub down every surface and make everything as organized as possible. I spent my time on my hands and knees, scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing. The manager dawdled, threw out some trash, and basically accomplished nothing. After an hour of this, I stand up, sweaty and tired, and he says to me, “Wow! Great Job! Some day, you will make an excellent wife!”
As if that was my aspiration in life.
I complained to someone higher up. He came to me and apologized and explained it was meant as a compliment, as if that would make it okay.
Not two weeks later, a coworker and I are working. Helping customers, cleaning, doing whatever needs doing, but we hadn’t done the dishes yet. This same manager says to my coworker, “There are two women here! Why aren’t the dishes done?!” We both refused to wash the dishes that night. The manager never got in any kind of trouble for any of this.
It’s three years later and it still makes my blood boil when I think about this.
Submit your stories of sexism here. We promise to respect anonymity.
It’s pretty amazing to hear that our blog reached a woman working at a beer company in the Midwest. She writes:
Our company has 80 employees, 5 are female. When I first started, I didn’t notice the lack of respect for females right away, because I was working so closely with the only other women. Then I started to get to know our salesmen, merchandisers, inventory controllers & drivers: all men who thought that no matter what my position in the company was, I [was] here to make their lives easier. Even after I got promoted, I had salesmen asking me to do menial tasks they could easily complete themselves (think stapling). I was constantly referred to as “Hunnie”, “Sweetie”, “Dear” and my personal favorite, “Kiddo” (this by a man who happens to be 3 years older than me). My final straw came when our warehouse foreman was discussing a promotion at a Hooters restaurant and asked the sales manager to send me along so he could see me in those shorts.
After bringing my discomfort to the attention of my sales manager and boss, I was told that I needed to get a thicker skin. He reminded me that the guys didn’t mean it to sound as condescending as it was and that I needed to be a grown up and deal with it. I dropped it. Ever since, I’ve been denied the raise I was supposed to get a year ago when I got promoted because I “need to work on having a professional relationship with the sales force.” It’s been frustrating and upsetting, mostly because I really enjoy my job. At times I’ve felt like the problem here was because we’re a small, male-dominated company. And then the 77 cent statistic, it makes me worried that it will be like this no matter where I go! Your blog gets my energized and thoughtful of ways to get involved though, so thank you! I appreciate being able to read it right after I hang up from “Thanks for taking care of that, babe!”.
Submit your own tales from the frontlines here. We promise to respect anonymity.
Today in reader-submitted stories, from a 17-year-old Bay Area high school student, a self-identified feminist (yes!):
One of my many extracurriculars [in school] is Mock Trial, where I am the lead prosecutor. I remember one trial at the county courthouse, where one female judge — who is a judge in ”real life” — and all three female scorers told me and the five other women attorneys (there were six attorneys total — all female) that we look like “black widows” when we wear an all-black suit. I wear an all-black skirt suit because I like the color black — I wear every day mostly blues, grays and blacks.
They then collectively suggested that we wear a suit in a color other than brown, black or dark gray, instead colors like sea green, blue or purple, or even wear a broach. At the very least, some red lipstick, the judge said. This is all in order to, as she put it, “use our femininity”.
Submit your own tales from the frontlines here.
Today we launch an ongoing collection of reader-submitted stories of workplace sexism. Email us and share yours! (And please indicate whether you’d prefer to remain anonymous.)
Today, a 20s-something New York writer, on looking for her first job out of college:
I applied for every writing position I could find in the months before graduating. I received a few interviews, but had nothing confirmed when a prominent New York journalist/professor emailed me. He received my resume from a position I applied to at the New Republic and was looking for a research assistant. I was overjoyed—especially after he said he wanted to cite my senior honors thesis in a new book he was writing—and agreed to meet him at a diner near his apartment on the Upper West Side.
He spent most of the meal explaining the position and ended by saying, “I’m glad you’re a girl.” He told me he “works better with female research assistants than with male ones” because he was “much more comfortable ordering women around than men.”
This should have been a warning sign … [but] I continued with the interview, following him back to his apartment … As he explained my salary, he rummaged around on a shelf full of DVDs. He handed me a cause with a red “Adult Content” label pasted under the title, “Taxicab Confessions.” He turned to me and said, “You could watch that with your boyfriend to get you started.”
The worst part is—despite all of this—I still almost accepted the job. The rest of the positions I was offered were administrative. It was almost impossible to get a research or writing job straight out of college and I was sure this opportunity would lead to many more. [I didn’t take it, and] I’m happier in my current position, [but] I still think about what would’ve happened if I’d taken the job. Would I now be writing for a prominent publication? Did I ruin my chances for a career in journalism? Should I have taken the job and simply dealth with the sexual harassment?
But what it really comes down to is this: Why should I have had to choose between working for a sexist boss and giving up my dream career?
This comment, submitted to Andrew Sullivan, who had questioned whether “dashed” was really the right word for our experience, reminds us that we want this site to be a place for you to share your stories. This one is specific to journalism—but ladies (and gentlemen) please feel free to let em rip! You can comment or send us an email: equalitymyth@gmail.com. Until then, this:
“Dashed?” Yes, dashed. I’m a 37-year-old woman with a journalism degree from a top school and 19 years’ experience in alt weeklies, a very specialized journo subgenre.
A few years ago, after a dozen years as a very-well-respected alt’s senior editor and our editor-in-chief’s right-hand gal, I began applying for editorships as they became available. I applied for a dozen; I didn’t hear back once, not so much as a form letter. Then I won a national award, and immediately was being flown all over the country for interviews. In each case, I was the runner up, and in each case, they went with a (white) man who was the city editor for the local daily. Their leg up on me? They knew the market. My leg up on them? Guys who work for mainstream dailies have an absolutely ZERO understanding of the alt-weekly ethos.
In some cases I was told I didn’t have enough experience (only 15 years at the time, with tons of responsibility and a track record of concrete achievements). In some cases, I was told they didn’t think I’d be tough enough to fire people when warranted. Once, I was told I wasn’t a good enough listener. Twice I was told I exhibited “too much confidence.”
It’s entirely possible I just don’t interview well, and that I come across abrasively or as a know-it-all. But while there was for a while plenty of work for a workhorse like myself, I was absolutely shocked that in the 21st century, there still remained a big thick stupid glass ceiling. It really, really does exist, even in the most progressive of workforces.
A lot of readers of our piece (especially male) have become mildly obsessed with the quote we include wherein one of us was told to “use their sexuality” to get ahead. The question of sex, and sexuality, in the workplace is a tricky one. As one Newsweek commenter put it, “Women have internalized that the only way we can get ahead is to give head.” We don’t agree, but let’s try to unpack the S word a little.
The reality is that a woman’s appearance, her attractiveness, or, sure, her sexuality, can be a powerful tool. And there’s no question that men are affected by it. They just are. (As our favorite Newsweek commenter put it, “no matter how much I respect my female co-workers, I eventually think about putting my hands on their chest.”) Removing sex entirely from the workplace is an impossible proposition. As Nora Ephron told us, humans are sexual beings. “You simply can’t have it that 16 hours a day you have sexual feelings and for 8 hours you don’t.”
The problem is, when men hold all the power, that tool turns into a double-edged sword. On the one hand, catching a superior’s eye can mean more face time, opportunities to talk about your ideas, and so on. On the other, any subsequent promotions or success will be poisoned by self-doubt: was it because I deserved it or because my boss likes the way I look?
Once upon a time, working women hid all semblance of feminine attractiveness for purely this reason. But as young women, we balk at having to subvert our sexuality. Which is fine when we’re roaming the halls of the high school cafeteria, or out at happy hour, but when we’re hunched over our cubicles in a male-dominated workplace, its easy to spin into a paralyzing cycle of self-doubt.
So what do we do? Once there are really enough women at the top, these issues won’t matter so much. Our male boss can ogle us and his female counterpart can roll her eyes. But until then, what to do? Back to boxy “Working Girl” suits?
