Friends on social media must be seeing my recent posts about watching the FIFA Women's World Cup and wondering: what happened to her? She doesn't watch sports. She doesn't have a history of playing sports. She's never cared about sports before. Why is she talking about it now?
Some of those friends may have already figured it out, but I'm happy to explain:
America needs a clean win, and I want to witness it. Badly.
This blog has been dark for an embarrassing amount of time, and if you were available, I'd pour you something to drink and tell you all the reasons why. But you're busy, you've most likely forgotten about this blog, and I'm disinclined to yield some pesky details on such a (potentially) public platform.
Maggie Smith, American poet, posted this recently on social media:
Today’s goal: Think hard about independence—and the illusion of it. Take one action, however small, to disentangle yourself from a person or situation that holds you down or holds you back. Then take one action to help someone else do the same. Keep moving.
In the spirit of independence and keeping moving, I am going to sum up and simultaneously (overly) generalize what happened to put me in this extended funk, which kept me from writing....even though I've mentally or actually drafted (and filed away) this post TONS of times already. I have been admittedly almost paralyzed, in this strange state of feeling compelled to explain myself and release my truth and at the same time, resist all such urges in search of a higher goal. No future employer would want to employ me if I aired all the dirty laundry here, or so the Professional Voice in My Head keeps saying. If I want to be eligible for future work, I need to keep up appearances of being tough enough to take the hard knocks. Whinging on and on about crummy people who make poor decisions that have impacted me is unseemly, at best, and tedious/petty/indulgent, at worst.
If I turn this into a creative writing exercise, however, I might avoid all of that and still get at the truth. The teacher in me still believes that this could be instructive for someone, somewhere. I will make this as short as humanly possible:
About 2.5 years ago, I got an unexpected professional opportunity.
You're so qualified, I was told.
Because I am ambitious and people close to me were supportive, I went for it.
I tried to mind my Ps and Qs, so as to make the best impression upon the Deciders for this opportunity.
I helped, volunteered, demonstrated skills, participated and contributed.
I was a self-starter, I said to the mirror.
By year two, I was entrusted with new responsibilities.
More helping, volunteering, skill demonstrating, participating and contributing.
Plus, I administered, created, collaborated and consulted.
I also stupidly decided that just because I couldn't get answers to basic questions, responses to key emails or a two-way street level of collaboration with others, this was not portentious. Ditto for select individuals' unrestrained impulses to speak ill of colleagues in front of other colleagues or the odd but insistent rhythm of leadership-driven idea-spinning and subsequent fizzle, like conference room dust devils. The alarmingly brief grace period given to a new project or plan - before being soundly canceled 'because it's not working' - couldn't possibly be significant, could it?
Emboldened, I applied for a similar but higher level opportunity at the same place.
And heard crickets chirping. Contrary to expectations, no one wanted to even tell the internal applicant 'thanks, but no thanks' as other applicants came for interviews to demonstrate that they had no practical experience for the position.
Upon my final inquiry, the Deciders said 'but you're not qualified.'
Actually, I said, I am. Even you said so, months ago. Practical experience and everything, unlike the selected candidates.
'We said that you're not qualified, so you're not' was the insulting answer.
I kept moving. More work, volunteering, consultation. Entrusted with guiding others to goals.
I was never formally supervised or evaluated. Never told what I could do differently or better.
I said, how about we explore a salary bump or some imposed limitations on the job for next year, if the salary bump is a non-starter? I was even-keel about it, and so was the response: sure, said the Deciders. We'll let you know.
Two months later, an email: so sorry, but no salary bump and no continuation of the job as you knew it. Here's an offer for a reduced version of what you did, both in terms of job description and salary.
Temporarily floored, I asked: who will do what needs doing?
An unqualified person, was the answer. Take our offer or leave it.
Also stupidly, I took it.
In the coming year, the unqualified person pretended to assume responsibility, but actually allowed an aspirant hack to drive decisions, which included - first and foremost - my further diminishment and ultimate exclusion. The work I was contracted to do? Halved, with one portion given to the hack so that 'diversity of labor' could allegedly happen. The Deciders seemed to be unconcerned when I asked why my contract wasn't being honored. The office space that held supplies and confidential files, in which I was expected to perform some of the work? Ostensibly vacated to make more room (literally, a tiny triangular space with two narrow windows and three doors puncturing the walls), with supplies and files banished to a humid basement. The triangle sat empty for three months. The bathroom in the basement lacked a door, paper towels and soap. When I recover my sense of humor about this, I'll make jokes about a red stapler, but I haven't laughed yet.
I approached the Deciders about the actions of the unqualified person, who refused to answer any questions I might have about work-related matters. I heard some sympathetic noises, but no progress on the problem occurred.
So I filed a formal complaint. It was investigated by two men, one of whom - alas - lacks qualifications for making appropriate judgments.
The Deciders' ultimate decision? That unqualified person's behavior was regrettable, but we're ok with it. What we really think is that you have sour grapes about what happened when your job changed, and this is why you complained. So, too bad. Your complaint isn't valid.
2.5 years later. I. Am. Done.
While this saga, largely perpetuated by men, was unfolding for me personally, I have been watching the diminishment of women in repeated episodic events in the news and media: scrutinized and doubted for claims of historic violence exacted upon them, marginalized, diminished and even scapegoated as viable leaders, blamed for having bodies and privacy and a 21st century sense of agency, victimized and savagely mischaracterized for speaking truth to power.
I. Am. Done.
Some opine that to view or hear or read accounts of victimization is to ask members of the witnessing public to relive their own trauma. I cannot pretend to share much of that, as I have been mostly fortunate. But friends, this has been traumatic on some level or another for any and all of us, even if a portion of the population has been a partner in the crime of conducting the scrutiny, scapegoating and mischaracterization. Being a betrayer isn't good for any of us, either. Witnessing betrayal or being outrightly betrayed can be traumatizing. I'm not sure that I felt that so deeply and sincerely until the last several months. A significator of my own privilege is that I used to think that horror was for movie screens. It was invented. Fictionalized.
But when the screens in my home show me pictures of an ongoing, multifaceted but very real horror after I come home from experiencing fractured outtakes of an ongoing, work-related horror, I am at a distinct loss for what to do. Or write. I can't add anything of true significance to the international or even local conversations about these developments. I highly doubt that I will articulate a new or better angle on any of it.
But along came the U. S. Women's Soccer team when I needed them the most.
I didn't even start watching the 2019 Women's World Cup bouts until the quarter finals. What do I remember about previous years' victories? I remember an American player celebrating a win by whipping off her jersey and twirling it as she ran across the field in a sports bra. I remember the outcry over her action, and I remember thinking: why does anyone care that she did that? Was no one noticing that she was celebrating a WIN?
And that memory - not even with a player's name attached to it - is what sent me online just a couple of weeks ago, looking for a way to livestream some matches. I have to say that I have really enjoyed some of the unique qualities of this sport: the clock doesn't stop for injured players or most other kinds of similar interruptions (the referee adds time to the end of the game that reflects the time costs of such interruptions), and in case you didn't know this, women soccer players commit - on average - far fewer fouls. They tend to play cleaner games.
Duh: they work better together.
There's a lot of falling down and collision, too. And almost every time, the player winces as she lies on the ground, mentally working through the pain. You can watch her summon strength to get over it.
And then she gets up with resolve. Let's go. Gotta keep moving. I'm back in the game.
What a joy to watch seamless collaboration, like a fine-tuned machine born of committed practice and muscle memory. How nice to see all fans honor the injured player who is carried off the field. It's rewarding to observe pure jubilation over a scored goal, particularly when it took over two hours to accomplish. And how satisfying it is to see a well-matched pair of teams perform such a tight level of competition that two hours of electrifying play do in fact elapse without a scored goal. If there's a microphone near the field, the picked up players' voices call to establish positions and encouragements. The coaches are eyed by the camera, intense and focused...but never strutting to be the bigger show.
So again, here is why I'm watching:
Women need a win, and I want to witness it. Badly.
Women's soccer players are suing for equal pay. They are keen to seek out more support and build a bigger fan base. They seek to be recognized for being just as good as - or even better than - their male counterparts.
I want to grant them all the validity that they have more than earned. Is it self-evident that I see parallels between my small, individual struggle and their much more publicized one? For good and honest work. For doing the right thing. For pure and sincere effort that deserves all the pride and sweat and swagger. For being American in the best, most admirable way.
I'm watching. And they're winning.
Some of those friends may have already figured it out, but I'm happy to explain:
America needs a clean win, and I want to witness it. Badly.
This blog has been dark for an embarrassing amount of time, and if you were available, I'd pour you something to drink and tell you all the reasons why. But you're busy, you've most likely forgotten about this blog, and I'm disinclined to yield some pesky details on such a (potentially) public platform.
Maggie Smith, American poet, posted this recently on social media:
Today’s goal: Think hard about independence—and the illusion of it. Take one action, however small, to disentangle yourself from a person or situation that holds you down or holds you back. Then take one action to help someone else do the same. Keep moving.
In the spirit of independence and keeping moving, I am going to sum up and simultaneously (overly) generalize what happened to put me in this extended funk, which kept me from writing....even though I've mentally or actually drafted (and filed away) this post TONS of times already. I have been admittedly almost paralyzed, in this strange state of feeling compelled to explain myself and release my truth and at the same time, resist all such urges in search of a higher goal. No future employer would want to employ me if I aired all the dirty laundry here, or so the Professional Voice in My Head keeps saying. If I want to be eligible for future work, I need to keep up appearances of being tough enough to take the hard knocks. Whinging on and on about crummy people who make poor decisions that have impacted me is unseemly, at best, and tedious/petty/indulgent, at worst.
If I turn this into a creative writing exercise, however, I might avoid all of that and still get at the truth. The teacher in me still believes that this could be instructive for someone, somewhere. I will make this as short as humanly possible:
About 2.5 years ago, I got an unexpected professional opportunity.
You're so qualified, I was told.
Because I am ambitious and people close to me were supportive, I went for it.
I tried to mind my Ps and Qs, so as to make the best impression upon the Deciders for this opportunity.
I helped, volunteered, demonstrated skills, participated and contributed.
I was a self-starter, I said to the mirror.
By year two, I was entrusted with new responsibilities.
More helping, volunteering, skill demonstrating, participating and contributing.
Plus, I administered, created, collaborated and consulted.
I also stupidly decided that just because I couldn't get answers to basic questions, responses to key emails or a two-way street level of collaboration with others, this was not portentious. Ditto for select individuals' unrestrained impulses to speak ill of colleagues in front of other colleagues or the odd but insistent rhythm of leadership-driven idea-spinning and subsequent fizzle, like conference room dust devils. The alarmingly brief grace period given to a new project or plan - before being soundly canceled 'because it's not working' - couldn't possibly be significant, could it?
Emboldened, I applied for a similar but higher level opportunity at the same place.
And heard crickets chirping. Contrary to expectations, no one wanted to even tell the internal applicant 'thanks, but no thanks' as other applicants came for interviews to demonstrate that they had no practical experience for the position.
Upon my final inquiry, the Deciders said 'but you're not qualified.'
Actually, I said, I am. Even you said so, months ago. Practical experience and everything, unlike the selected candidates.
'We said that you're not qualified, so you're not' was the insulting answer.
I kept moving. More work, volunteering, consultation. Entrusted with guiding others to goals.
I was never formally supervised or evaluated. Never told what I could do differently or better.
I said, how about we explore a salary bump or some imposed limitations on the job for next year, if the salary bump is a non-starter? I was even-keel about it, and so was the response: sure, said the Deciders. We'll let you know.
Two months later, an email: so sorry, but no salary bump and no continuation of the job as you knew it. Here's an offer for a reduced version of what you did, both in terms of job description and salary.
Temporarily floored, I asked: who will do what needs doing?
An unqualified person, was the answer. Take our offer or leave it.
Also stupidly, I took it.
In the coming year, the unqualified person pretended to assume responsibility, but actually allowed an aspirant hack to drive decisions, which included - first and foremost - my further diminishment and ultimate exclusion. The work I was contracted to do? Halved, with one portion given to the hack so that 'diversity of labor' could allegedly happen. The Deciders seemed to be unconcerned when I asked why my contract wasn't being honored. The office space that held supplies and confidential files, in which I was expected to perform some of the work? Ostensibly vacated to make more room (literally, a tiny triangular space with two narrow windows and three doors puncturing the walls), with supplies and files banished to a humid basement. The triangle sat empty for three months. The bathroom in the basement lacked a door, paper towels and soap. When I recover my sense of humor about this, I'll make jokes about a red stapler, but I haven't laughed yet.
I approached the Deciders about the actions of the unqualified person, who refused to answer any questions I might have about work-related matters. I heard some sympathetic noises, but no progress on the problem occurred.
So I filed a formal complaint. It was investigated by two men, one of whom - alas - lacks qualifications for making appropriate judgments.
The Deciders' ultimate decision? That unqualified person's behavior was regrettable, but we're ok with it. What we really think is that you have sour grapes about what happened when your job changed, and this is why you complained. So, too bad. Your complaint isn't valid.
2.5 years later. I. Am. Done.
While this saga, largely perpetuated by men, was unfolding for me personally, I have been watching the diminishment of women in repeated episodic events in the news and media: scrutinized and doubted for claims of historic violence exacted upon them, marginalized, diminished and even scapegoated as viable leaders, blamed for having bodies and privacy and a 21st century sense of agency, victimized and savagely mischaracterized for speaking truth to power.
I. Am. Done.
Some opine that to view or hear or read accounts of victimization is to ask members of the witnessing public to relive their own trauma. I cannot pretend to share much of that, as I have been mostly fortunate. But friends, this has been traumatic on some level or another for any and all of us, even if a portion of the population has been a partner in the crime of conducting the scrutiny, scapegoating and mischaracterization. Being a betrayer isn't good for any of us, either. Witnessing betrayal or being outrightly betrayed can be traumatizing. I'm not sure that I felt that so deeply and sincerely until the last several months. A significator of my own privilege is that I used to think that horror was for movie screens. It was invented. Fictionalized.
But when the screens in my home show me pictures of an ongoing, multifaceted but very real horror after I come home from experiencing fractured outtakes of an ongoing, work-related horror, I am at a distinct loss for what to do. Or write. I can't add anything of true significance to the international or even local conversations about these developments. I highly doubt that I will articulate a new or better angle on any of it.
But along came the U. S. Women's Soccer team when I needed them the most.
I didn't even start watching the 2019 Women's World Cup bouts until the quarter finals. What do I remember about previous years' victories? I remember an American player celebrating a win by whipping off her jersey and twirling it as she ran across the field in a sports bra. I remember the outcry over her action, and I remember thinking: why does anyone care that she did that? Was no one noticing that she was celebrating a WIN?
And that memory - not even with a player's name attached to it - is what sent me online just a couple of weeks ago, looking for a way to livestream some matches. I have to say that I have really enjoyed some of the unique qualities of this sport: the clock doesn't stop for injured players or most other kinds of similar interruptions (the referee adds time to the end of the game that reflects the time costs of such interruptions), and in case you didn't know this, women soccer players commit - on average - far fewer fouls. They tend to play cleaner games.
Duh: they work better together.
There's a lot of falling down and collision, too. And almost every time, the player winces as she lies on the ground, mentally working through the pain. You can watch her summon strength to get over it.
And then she gets up with resolve. Let's go. Gotta keep moving. I'm back in the game.
What a joy to watch seamless collaboration, like a fine-tuned machine born of committed practice and muscle memory. How nice to see all fans honor the injured player who is carried off the field. It's rewarding to observe pure jubilation over a scored goal, particularly when it took over two hours to accomplish. And how satisfying it is to see a well-matched pair of teams perform such a tight level of competition that two hours of electrifying play do in fact elapse without a scored goal. If there's a microphone near the field, the picked up players' voices call to establish positions and encouragements. The coaches are eyed by the camera, intense and focused...but never strutting to be the bigger show.
So again, here is why I'm watching:
Women need a win, and I want to witness it. Badly.
Women's soccer players are suing for equal pay. They are keen to seek out more support and build a bigger fan base. They seek to be recognized for being just as good as - or even better than - their male counterparts.
I want to grant them all the validity that they have more than earned. Is it self-evident that I see parallels between my small, individual struggle and their much more publicized one? For good and honest work. For doing the right thing. For pure and sincere effort that deserves all the pride and sweat and swagger. For being American in the best, most admirable way.
I'm watching. And they're winning.
