Into the wilderness: Story 36
I have begun writing a memoir. Saying this in my blog shifts me from potential goal to a commitment. I’m good with that.
As I contemplate my story, I obviously reflect on the past. Since I left corporate work a year ago, the past has hovered about me. The pain and joy, the rights and wrongs, the triumphs, regrets and blank spaces- they are all with me. Which ones do I pick to jigsaw a cohesive picture?
Memory is a capricious companion. Attached to your very identity, it shifts like a funhouse mirror reflection. It shrinks when exposed to light. It expands in darkness, exposing secrets and shadows. Living in this space is sometimes fun, but more often terrifying and unrewarding.
I suppose this depends on what one has to remember and how to frame those memories. Storytelling doesn’t recreate the truth. It creates a new truth hardened by the sunshine of exposure. That’s not to say that memoir writing is fake. Rather, words never capture the mind’s movie.
Lately, I am remembering my first boyfriend. He was older- 20!- when I was 17. He loved The Rolling Stones; I listened to classical music. He was tall and olive skinned. I practically glowed in the dark with my white-blond hair and moonlight skin. We had little in common. He was a worldly New Yorker visiting a remarried father in Oklahoma. I was a naive girl committed wholly to the cruel world of ballet. We didn’t last long. He faded away in what today is called “ghosting.” I barely noticed.
Here’s how I process this memory today. What if I hadn’t been so dedicated to perfecting my turnout in ballet? What if I had been less reserved? I hugged chastity like a teddy bear. What if I had been able to unravel thoughts into words so he knew how truly smart I was? Instead, I seemed ditzy and utterly blonde.
But I can also see how honorable this young man was. He listened to “no,” and understood my firm, if not overly wide, boundaries. He hung in longer than most boys his age would have.
I’m sure such honorable young men exist today. I know women who have raised such young men. These men could be examples to others, either their own age or to future generations.
What I’m hearing about a lot lately, however, is the surge of 20-year-old young men turning to MAGA. Formerly open minded, these young men now are cursing feminism and civil rights. They are preaching, “your body is my body.” As a mother of a sexual trauma survivor, this phrase turns my marrow to ice. How any man could believe he owns a woman is horrifying to me. That concept was verboten my entire life, until now.
What has happened?
We are in a period of horrendous backlash. Futurist Eddie Weiner has preached for years that every forward movement will be counteracted by its opposite force, eventually. This opposite force is a last gasp, however. Once it has expended itself, the forward movement becomes the new set point or norm. And the pendulum swings again.
In the 1970s of my youth- middle school- the forward movement was an energy demanding equality for women. I embraced this fully. I graduated college in 1986 and moved to New York City. As I interviewed for jobs, I was repeatedly asked about my typing skills, my marriage plans, my willingness to work long hours. After the repetition of interview after interview, I realized this was about being a woman.
Before every interview, I was given a typing test, even though no role required it. I applied for production editor, copywriter, advertising account manager, reporter. Yes, typing was necessary for the job, but not the speed. As long as I got the work done, all good, right?
No. Speed was everything. At one interview, I was so nervous I placed my hands on the wrong keys. I was immediately dismissed from the next stage of interview. At another- a very large and famous advertising firm- the female partner told me, “I really like you. You’re sharp. But your typing is a problem.” I told her that being nervous slowed me down and that I was actually quite good. I had even come in top 10 in my typing class. Even still, no second chances. I was out.
I finally found a non-typing role in advertising placement at a trade magazine. Not once did I have to sit at a typewriter. I placed adds in the magazine and actually determined what went on which page. Only 3 months into this job, I got a promotion. A few months later, I got another. I would likely have stayed longer if not for the publisher who squeezed my breasts and propositioned me if I stayed late, which, with my ambition and perfectionism, I did often. I reported him to a newly established hotline, and he was fired. But the damage had been done. I left for another job, which required typing. I had finally passed the typing test.
I never saw a young man waiting for an interview at one of these jobs. In every one of these jobs, we were a team of young women. My manager and director were women. Across departments, other women had male managers. All of upper management were male. That told me clearly: it’s a man’s world. Play by the rules or lose.
As I moved from work to graduate school, I left behind the multi-layered sexism of the corporate world. I met young men who believed in progress for women. The future had so much potential.
But the potential fizzled. With each job, I was lesser than my male colleagues. At NYU, for example, a male colleague was paid almost $10k more for a job at the same level and job description I had. I actually had more job experience. When I learned this fact, I raised it with my manager. With my naivety, I didn’t realize it was against the law. A month later, I got an apology and a raise.
As I progressed across many jobs, I always earned less than men, by thousands of dollars. I was more or as qualified and more driven, committed and talented. Only when I had a female director who had experienced similar circumstances did this change. Soon, I earned on par with or more than men.
My point is this: I never worked in a time when sexism wasn’t a specter around which I managed. I had to work harder, be better, do more, more, more. Equality wasn’t “fixed,” it was a constant fight in public and non-public spaces. I feared retribution. My sister, an attorney, guided me to document every circumstance, and I did with detailed diligence.
In my corporate work, I felt the pall of inequity. Men spoke more freely in meetings. Women were guided to speak less. Or, to speak with less assurance and authority. When I raised issues of inequity, I received no response or chastisement for appearing too “aggressive.” Aggression is a term often used for women who speak the truth.
Everyone meant well. My male colleagues were/are good men. They are trying. Unconscious bias runs so deep, however, that the rock blocks the flow of knowledge from awareness. It’s not that men don’t want to see it. They can’t. They believe too strongly in being the good guys.
As I look back, I realize the past is no longer something to get over or leave behind. The past is something to carry and reconstruct, not as a packed valise, but as a ladder to scale. Each level climbs, eventually to equity and freedom. Each rung is the bone of another woman, the past, who struggled and triumphed before us. Her strong bones steady our feet as we ascend. Remember her and give thanks.
I will continue to place one foot then another on the ladder’s rung, knowing each last rung will materialize a wholly new ladder leading ever upward. As of yet, the ceiling for women doesn’t end. It expands, upwards, upwards. The continual climb requires energy, personal belief and commitment. There is no rest, except for peace within one’s own mind. That is enough, for now.
I would love to hear from you, even if, especially if, you disagree. Perhaps we can bring. back the American tradition of debate.
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