Macho macho men
Women got the right to vote in Canada thanks to a suffragette movement, led by Dr. Emily Howard Stowe, beginning in 1878. The province of Manitoba was the first to grant all women the right to vote (previous efforts had allowed the vote to spinsters and widows only, or to married women but only if their husbands were ineligible) on January 27, 1916, with the other provinces seemingly reluctantly following in the years subsequent. Of the many notable displays of female strength during this time was Nellie McClung’s famous mock parliament speech in 1914, in which she reversed gender roles and speculated on all the horrible things that would happen were men to have the vote.
Women in Russia began to take active roles in worker revolts in 1872 at the Krenholm factory, followed by the Lazeryev textile factory in 1874 and the New Cotton-Spinning Plan in 1878. As a result of their resistance, the tsarist government rushed through legislation protecting the rights of women and children in 1885. By 1905, women demanding the right to vote and protesting the war with Japan were storming military and police headquarters, armed with rakes, pitchforks and brooms, kidnapping the men and driving armed guards from the villages.
The stories are endless: Mary Wollstonecraft, Christina of Sweden, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Marguerite Durand, Tahirih, Florence Blackwell, Celia Sanchez, Agnes McPhail, Louise Michel, Katti Anker Moller, Virginia Woolf, Sojouner Truth, Clara Zetkin, Gloria Steinem, Germaine Greer… and on and on and on… tremendous, strong, unstoppable women who hammered on doors and suffered in prison and shouted until they were hoarse in order to force the change that they and their (my) gender were owed.
The legacy of whom make it a bit hard to stomach the fact that I have decided to sit down and shut up.
I have been in my job for over six months now, and what was once bright-eyed bushy-tailedness has faded to sullen disapproval of the status quo. While I still respect the company as a whole immensely and have not yet doubted my ability to make a career of the work, the machismo has been hard to stomach. I have watched a manchild in his early 20s, fresh out of school, torn and ripped jeans, chronic lateness, famously incompetent work, be sent off to deal with a client while I, apparently, am “not ready.” I have watched one of the two bright, strong, competent female managers break down in tears because she feels her job is threatened, while the other admits to dumbing herself down in order not to threaten the overwhelmingly male power structure. I, recently, was told that I am too “delicate” to be a consultant, based, I’m assuming, on the day I was sad because my cat had sliced himself to death, because I’m not sure where else I’ve shown delicacy.
I guess I did jump in at the deep end, choosing (naively) to work in a Latin American branch of this particular industry (I’m going to spare details to protect the company and, well, my job, but to give you a sense: half my colleagues are retired Navy S.E.A.L.s and Colombian military commanders…). In my interview, one of the managers said, “In this company, if you shine, you REALLY shine.” “Oh!” I thought to myself, “Then shine I shall… Bring it on!” What they neglected to mention is that a penis a prerequisite to shining.
Ah, you may laugh, but this has actually been said. When I went to productively express my frustration on being systematically pushed to the side for learning opportunities that would help me achieve me goals here, my (male) boss said, “Well, you have to be one of the boys, and they’re pretty much comparing penises all the time.”
“[The baby-talking female manager] is one of the boys!” I protested. “Yes, well,” he said, “She has a bigger penis than any of them.”
Right. So. The message is clear, then: A penis is mandatory, be it literal or figurative.
The problem is that I am not a penis-bearing woman, either literally or figuratively.
I am not a girlie-girl. I don’t wear pink and sparkles and decorate my desk with poodles and fuzzy bunny Post It notes. I don’t giggle and flip my hair when boys speak to me. I can talk about more than nail polish and how pretty Angelina Jolie may or may not be. I am a girl in that I have two X chromosomes, am theoretically able to incubate a baby and am allowed to wear skirts. I have moments of emotional sensitivity, which I am getting better at overriding and moving on before anyone realizes I’ve triggered. I wear v-neck shirts because I am amply-endowed and anything scooped or turtled makes me look enormous, not because I think cleavage will get me anywhere I particularly want to go. My gender is who I am, not a performance of femininity or masculinity, and neither hinders nor helps my innate abilities to do a job and do it well.
I am furious that I have been written off as “delicate.” Gah.
My stepmother, she who was Vice President of an enormous national company by her mid-30s, has given me some tips and a stack of books on how to be a female executive (which I’m not… yet…) and the mistakes women make. She says to be a sister to the boys, if I can’t whip out my own appendage in answer to theirs. The books say not to sit with your foot up underneath you (I’m sitting like that right now) and to never ask for permission and to never show emotion and to never bring in cookies (I can’t cook so that’s not an issue) and to just assume that you’re the best in the room.
And I’ve tried all the above (save the sitting position one – it’s so comfortable!) and I’ve had some success, but I’m realizing something key:
I’M IN MEXICO.
Her advice and the advice in the books, it's good. It's really good.
But it's good advice for a woman seeking to succeed in 21st century Canada, US, Britain, not Latin America.
To succeed here, in this business, in this country, surrounded by these men, I am going to have to be something that I really don’t think I am. I am not going to put a crack in that Mexican tiled ceiling because to do so means being either super girlie and launching a surprise attack when they least expect it or by macho-ing up and talking about shitting in the garbage can with deep belly laughs along with the boys. Proudly, I think I am even less capable of being Barbie than I am being Joe.
And I have to admit it: the battle in the last six months to be considered for projects, to be allowed to participate, to be heard, has worn me out. I don’t want this enough to keep fighting as hard as I have been. I am not the woman to take down this Goliath, Nellie, I’m sorry.
They want me to be the editor, fine, I’ll be the editor. They know this leaves me with free time but, rather than agitating to fill said time with work, I’m going to do my own thing: blog, work on my plays, maybe some freelance writing. In the meantime, in place of the frustration and anger and jealousy that has been quietly pecking holes in my work ethic and self-esteem, I’m going to rest calmly in the knowledge that my job is secure in an otherwise insecure labour environment, that it pays me enough to slowly pay off my albatross debts, and that it gives me an unlimited supply of Coke Zero and occasional fantastic lunches and dinners. I’ll be the best damn editor they could ever hope for, and I’ll ride that glowing reference to a career where my genitals do not dictate my abilities.
My brilliant and provocative friend Lance came to visit me in November, during which time he asked virtually everyone I know the same question:
“If you could change two things about Mexico, what would they be?”
The men’s answered were varied, and came after some thought, ranging from pollution to money to inherent hope (or lack thereof).
The women all snapped back the same answer, with not a second’s hesitation or thought. The second thing took more time, but that first thing, that one thing they’d like to change, that one thing that they feel is holding back their country and themselves, was, of course… Yes. Of course it was.
If I may be so strong, machismo is a plague in this country. It teaches men that they must be aggressive idiots in order to be masculine, and women to be submissive, temper tantrum-throwing womb-bearers in order to be loved. Several of my smart female friends are leaving Mexico for countries wherein they are allowed to pursue burgeoning notions that being smacked around by your husband is not something to grin and bear - a gender drain of some of the best and brightest that, if given the chance, could start to turn things around. It makes me angry and it makes me sad, given how much true, real, unique beauty there is in this country.
Women in Russia began to take active roles in worker revolts in 1872 at the Krenholm factory, followed by the Lazeryev textile factory in 1874 and the New Cotton-Spinning Plan in 1878. As a result of their resistance, the tsarist government rushed through legislation protecting the rights of women and children in 1885. By 1905, women demanding the right to vote and protesting the war with Japan were storming military and police headquarters, armed with rakes, pitchforks and brooms, kidnapping the men and driving armed guards from the villages.
The stories are endless: Mary Wollstonecraft, Christina of Sweden, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Marguerite Durand, Tahirih, Florence Blackwell, Celia Sanchez, Agnes McPhail, Louise Michel, Katti Anker Moller, Virginia Woolf, Sojouner Truth, Clara Zetkin, Gloria Steinem, Germaine Greer… and on and on and on… tremendous, strong, unstoppable women who hammered on doors and suffered in prison and shouted until they were hoarse in order to force the change that they and their (my) gender were owed.
The legacy of whom make it a bit hard to stomach the fact that I have decided to sit down and shut up.
I have been in my job for over six months now, and what was once bright-eyed bushy-tailedness has faded to sullen disapproval of the status quo. While I still respect the company as a whole immensely and have not yet doubted my ability to make a career of the work, the machismo has been hard to stomach. I have watched a manchild in his early 20s, fresh out of school, torn and ripped jeans, chronic lateness, famously incompetent work, be sent off to deal with a client while I, apparently, am “not ready.” I have watched one of the two bright, strong, competent female managers break down in tears because she feels her job is threatened, while the other admits to dumbing herself down in order not to threaten the overwhelmingly male power structure. I, recently, was told that I am too “delicate” to be a consultant, based, I’m assuming, on the day I was sad because my cat had sliced himself to death, because I’m not sure where else I’ve shown delicacy.
I guess I did jump in at the deep end, choosing (naively) to work in a Latin American branch of this particular industry (I’m going to spare details to protect the company and, well, my job, but to give you a sense: half my colleagues are retired Navy S.E.A.L.s and Colombian military commanders…). In my interview, one of the managers said, “In this company, if you shine, you REALLY shine.” “Oh!” I thought to myself, “Then shine I shall… Bring it on!” What they neglected to mention is that a penis a prerequisite to shining.
Ah, you may laugh, but this has actually been said. When I went to productively express my frustration on being systematically pushed to the side for learning opportunities that would help me achieve me goals here, my (male) boss said, “Well, you have to be one of the boys, and they’re pretty much comparing penises all the time.”
“[The baby-talking female manager] is one of the boys!” I protested. “Yes, well,” he said, “She has a bigger penis than any of them.”
Right. So. The message is clear, then: A penis is mandatory, be it literal or figurative.
The problem is that I am not a penis-bearing woman, either literally or figuratively.
I am not a girlie-girl. I don’t wear pink and sparkles and decorate my desk with poodles and fuzzy bunny Post It notes. I don’t giggle and flip my hair when boys speak to me. I can talk about more than nail polish and how pretty Angelina Jolie may or may not be. I am a girl in that I have two X chromosomes, am theoretically able to incubate a baby and am allowed to wear skirts. I have moments of emotional sensitivity, which I am getting better at overriding and moving on before anyone realizes I’ve triggered. I wear v-neck shirts because I am amply-endowed and anything scooped or turtled makes me look enormous, not because I think cleavage will get me anywhere I particularly want to go. My gender is who I am, not a performance of femininity or masculinity, and neither hinders nor helps my innate abilities to do a job and do it well.
I am furious that I have been written off as “delicate.” Gah.
My stepmother, she who was Vice President of an enormous national company by her mid-30s, has given me some tips and a stack of books on how to be a female executive (which I’m not… yet…) and the mistakes women make. She says to be a sister to the boys, if I can’t whip out my own appendage in answer to theirs. The books say not to sit with your foot up underneath you (I’m sitting like that right now) and to never ask for permission and to never show emotion and to never bring in cookies (I can’t cook so that’s not an issue) and to just assume that you’re the best in the room.
And I’ve tried all the above (save the sitting position one – it’s so comfortable!) and I’ve had some success, but I’m realizing something key:
I’M IN MEXICO.
Her advice and the advice in the books, it's good. It's really good.
But it's good advice for a woman seeking to succeed in 21st century Canada, US, Britain, not Latin America.
To succeed here, in this business, in this country, surrounded by these men, I am going to have to be something that I really don’t think I am. I am not going to put a crack in that Mexican tiled ceiling because to do so means being either super girlie and launching a surprise attack when they least expect it or by macho-ing up and talking about shitting in the garbage can with deep belly laughs along with the boys. Proudly, I think I am even less capable of being Barbie than I am being Joe.
And I have to admit it: the battle in the last six months to be considered for projects, to be allowed to participate, to be heard, has worn me out. I don’t want this enough to keep fighting as hard as I have been. I am not the woman to take down this Goliath, Nellie, I’m sorry.
They want me to be the editor, fine, I’ll be the editor. They know this leaves me with free time but, rather than agitating to fill said time with work, I’m going to do my own thing: blog, work on my plays, maybe some freelance writing. In the meantime, in place of the frustration and anger and jealousy that has been quietly pecking holes in my work ethic and self-esteem, I’m going to rest calmly in the knowledge that my job is secure in an otherwise insecure labour environment, that it pays me enough to slowly pay off my albatross debts, and that it gives me an unlimited supply of Coke Zero and occasional fantastic lunches and dinners. I’ll be the best damn editor they could ever hope for, and I’ll ride that glowing reference to a career where my genitals do not dictate my abilities.
My brilliant and provocative friend Lance came to visit me in November, during which time he asked virtually everyone I know the same question:
“If you could change two things about Mexico, what would they be?”
The men’s answered were varied, and came after some thought, ranging from pollution to money to inherent hope (or lack thereof).
The women all snapped back the same answer, with not a second’s hesitation or thought. The second thing took more time, but that first thing, that one thing they’d like to change, that one thing that they feel is holding back their country and themselves, was, of course… Yes. Of course it was.
If I may be so strong, machismo is a plague in this country. It teaches men that they must be aggressive idiots in order to be masculine, and women to be submissive, temper tantrum-throwing womb-bearers in order to be loved. Several of my smart female friends are leaving Mexico for countries wherein they are allowed to pursue burgeoning notions that being smacked around by your husband is not something to grin and bear - a gender drain of some of the best and brightest that, if given the chance, could start to turn things around. It makes me angry and it makes me sad, given how much true, real, unique beauty there is in this country.
Comments
I guess my point is this. We all need to choose what we want to fight for. Most often, our enemies are far weaker than we believe.
This stupid macho job? I'm not convinced it's worth it. At one point I was willing to consider this as a potential future career, but it was open-mindedness and not rampant desire. I'll save my fight for another arena.
Their loss, right? Ha!
ST