My Trip to Mars

I was born in the late 1950s, the only daughter of an only daughter, and the only grand-daughter among a sizeable stable of grandkids crossing both sides of the family and spanning over two decades.    I was raised in a male dominated world within a male dominated world.  As the sole female child, I was taught to sew and cook.  I was required to make the salad and set the table each evening.  I did a large share of dusting and vacuuming.  I think my brothers were probably never asked to fold my father’s boxers.

Suffice it to say, I was not weaned on a diet of Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem.  I was groomed, as was the custom, to be girlie, ladylike, and submissive.  My father liked to instruct me in his preferences (he didn’t like limp lettuce in his salad, for example) admonishing me that learning to please a man was important.  Ouch.

At some point, the screaming voice in my head became deafening.  I heeded its call and followed my own path.  This involved an education, a career, and adopting an assortment of powerful female role models.  By the 70s I learned that women were at least as smart as their male counterparts.  By the 80s I discovered that although it was challenging, a career and motherhood could be integrated into a workable lifestyle.  By the nineties I recognized that expertise conveyed a brand of power that was capable of penetrating the old boys’ network.

During our generation, women scored a lot of “firsts” in the fields of business, education, politics, science and technology, not to mention traditional taboo fields such as the military and the clergy.  Each of us was aware that we were trailblazers in some way.  I met a lot of fabulous women armed to the hilt with brains, determination, talent, and chutzpah. 

As we of "the fairer sex" collaborated to change forever the role and perception of women, there was just one problem:  the men didn’t get the memo.  I was excited to be recruited to work at a large corporation, hungry to affect positive change on a large scale in an industry that was changing rapidly and financially regulated.  But they were not ready for me.

I should have known what I had gotten myself into when the big guy from corporate called me ‘honey.’  Determined not to be one of “those women,” who inadvertently rub their colleagues’ noses in their femaleness by whining too often about sexism, I vowed to make gender a non-issue.  I was determined to be seen on the merits of my work, not judged as either a typical female or an exception to the rule.  Refusing to play the game, I kept my head down and did my job. 

Eventually, I decided to start a family, soon becoming pregnant with my first child.  During my maternity leave my position was transferred to a new manager.  He made no provisions to give me my annual increase because he assumed I would not return to work.  He looked me straight in the eye and said, “I’ll tell you right now, I think a woman’s place is at home with her babies.  I don’t approve of your coming back to work.”  I made a mental note to send flowers to his wife.

Fortunately, there was exciting work to be done.  The healthcare industry was in the midst of a perfect storm, facing regulatory upheaval on the eve of a technological revolution.  I brought to the table first-hand knowledge of the challenges our clients faced as well as a sound education in health policy.  Most days I was happily consumed with helping our developers harness technologies that would make our client hospitals more successful, or helping our clients to equip themselves for what was coming down the pike.  I learned that you cannot be successful alone; you must help your boss and co-workers to be successful as well.  But secretly I wondered: did this rule apply to the men?

As long as we were all about the work, I could tolerate—nay, thrive in—the male dominated corporate environment.  In fact, I remember arguing to new female hires that being of our persuasion was not an obstacle to success or upward mobility.  But who am I kidding?  One year, as each member of my department waited for their “annual review” (a euphemism meaning five minute meeting where we are informed of our raises) one of my co-workers—a fine intellect with a PhD—approached me and said, “You know, you really shouldn’t get a raise.  The money should go to the men who are supporting their families.”  To this day, I wonder whether he knows he said that out loud.

From that moment forward, it no longer bothered me.  It all became hilarious.   At some point you realize that you and the Neanderthals speak different languages.  You can’t reach them; you can’t change them.  If you are lucky, the best you can hope for is to step on their knuckles with a stiletto heel as they drag along the corridor. 

Tomorrow's blog:  Time Traveler