The Undercover Introvert

Dear Trolls: Write Your Own GD Post

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I write about racism and sexism quite a bit, and the touchiness of the subjects only seem to underscore why these are still such pervasive problems for us in this country. It’s always amazing to me that anyone living and breathing today can deny the existence of racism or sexism, but plenty of people do (why, hello, privilege, you oblivious devil, you), which is most of the reason I choose to feature these topics so consistently in my writing. Also, spoiler alert, I’m a black woman, and the intersection of gender and race happens to be my particular jam. Write what you know, as the old cliche advises.

As you might imagine, I get some pretty fun responses to my articles. In this case, fun is a convenient euphemism for disgusting, rude, racist, sexist. Etcetera. These less than witty replies are normally short and sweet, an attempt to devastate my argument in a way that normally just ends up proving my original point. Reading these kinds of responses always makes me cackle with self satisfied glee, because the commenter really doesn’t get it, and I find that level of absolute obtuseness amusing beyond reason.

But there exists another class of responses entirely. To be honest, I don’t actually read these responses in full, mostly because of how long they are. A short, grammatically incorrect insult that aims well high of the mark is hilarious and fun to read, mostly because it doesn’t waste that much of my time and provides much needed laughter. But a response that goes on for paragraphs — some seeming to closely follow the five paragraph model of writing persuasive essays that I learned as a freshman in high school — astound me. Why? To what end? Did you honestly expect me to read this novella and respond? Because most of my thoughts on the matter are in the original post, which you can reference to your heart’s content if you didn’t properly track my argument during your first reading.

Seriously, y’all, if your nasty response to my article or blog post is longer than the 700 words I originally wrote, how about you write your own goddamned post?

In light of this odd tendency, I’m just going to go ahead and put everyone on notice: I write because I have something to say and I want to share it. I actually do enjoy vigorous dialogue — in person — but the beauty part about writing is that I get to launch my opinions out in the digital ether and you can either read them or not read them. What you can’t really do is argue with what I’ve written down. You can let it simmer and change the way you think about the subject, or you can disagree with what I’ve said and move the fuck on, taking absolutely nothing with you when you go. But if you reply to something I write with an article of your own, you’ve just wasted your time. That’s a big fat TL;DR from me.

Ain’t. Nobody. Got. Time. For. That.

If you find that upsetting, don’t despair too quickly. There’s still a wonderful upside to the magical medium that is the internet: you can write what you want, whenever you want, and maybe someone will actually read it. How fabulous is that?!

If your impulse upon reading my 1,000 words is to reply with 1,000 snarky, densely packed words of your own, I invite you to kindly follow these steps:

Fully assess if this is the best place to leave such lengthy commentary.

Unless and until you perform step number one, don’t begin to reply to my original post.

Calculate the probability of your response actually being read (Spoiler: it’s 0%).

Kindly compile a list of pros and cons before you place itchy fingers on keyboard.

Only continue writing when you are sure you can keep any response well south of 100 words.

Fully edit your response to eliminate all spelling and grammatical errors.

Finally, highlight all and delete.

By carefully following my trademarked FUCKOFF method, you can save yourself so much unnecessarily wasted time and energy. Think of the free minutes suddenly opened up in your schedule that you would have spent throwing poorly chosen words into the wind.

You might be asking yourself what you should do if, after following my FUCKOFF method you still feel compelled to let loose a stream of noxious online commentary in hopes of putting an uppity black feminist in her place? Well, as aforementioned: WRITE YOUR OWN GODDAMNED BLOG POST.

It really is that simple. If I can do it, you can do it — maybe not as elegantly, but, you know, we can’t all be wordsmiths.

And if something I’ve written about racism or sexism has really hit you so hard that you find yourself enraged to a level that makes it impossible for you to let it go, maybe take a nice long look in the mirror. Sounds as though it was written with someone like you in mind. As always, reflection is your friend, as is personal growth…

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Let’s Talk About Consent, Baby

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What comes to mind when you hear the word consent? A man and a woman on the precipice of having sex? Him asking, are you okay with this? and her saying yes? Or maybe not really saying yes, but meaning yes? Because, in this culture, the lack of a definitive no is considered a yes. Hell, sometimes a no that isn’t forceful enough is considered a yes. The ever shifting guidelines are murky at best.

The problem with the concept of consent is that we don’t teach the full range of what the word actually means, only the most extreme example, and in a way that skews the reality of real world examples. We should rewind, talk about the basics, and drill them into kids the moment they start to understand the meaning behind words and how those meanings apply to everyday life.

Let’s start with a basic definition. Dictionary.com defines consent as: permission, approval, or agreement; compliance; acquiescence.

Simple, right?

Then, why the fuss over the concept? Why the perpetual confusion over what does and doesn’t indicate consent?

Well, by narrowing our collective focus to sex acts that occur between willing partners, or aggressors and victims, we fail to teach children the depth of meaning contained within the word. Because consent isn’t just about sex. It’s about leaving people the fuck alone if they want to be left alone. It’s about respecting a person’s autonomy over their own time, body, and choices.

These kinds of lessons should start early if we want them to stick. When Grandma comes over and wants to give little Susie a hug, allow little Susie the freedom to decide whether or not she actually wants to be hugged. Forcing kids into situations in which they are touched without their enthusiastic consent only lays the groundwork for future breaches of their bodily autonomy. Though girls are often treated as society’s mobile petting zoos (the amount of times I’m touched, uninvited, in a day is staggering, and pregnant women are like community property), this lesson is just as important for boys to learn. No one should be subject to unwanted touching, nor should they touch others without an unequivocal invitation.

But it goes beyond just touching. Kids should know that they don’t have to give of their time and energy unless they choose to do so. What does that mean? So glad you asked.

In public, men will often start talking to me as though they have a right to my thoughts and feelings, asking personal questions and invading my physical space as they wait for answers. These inquiries fall well outside the realm of friendly small talk. What the hell kind of nerve must you possess to demand another person smile? Or ask that other person why she doesn’t seem happier? Why she’s so dressed up? Where she’s going? Etcetera.

Think of how quickly society would change if we taught little girls that their time was a valuable possession they could spend or keep to themselves as they liked. Think of how the world might shift if we taught little boys that they had no inherent claim on a girl’s time simply on the basis of their biological sex. If we taught kids that they controlled how their bodies moved through the world, as well as the conditions in which others could touch their bodies. If we bred respect instead of constrictive gender roles that nourish toxic masculinity and the heightened sense of alarm that is so closely intertwined with what it means to be female in America.

I’ve had my time stolen, wrenched from my hands when all I wanted to do was venture out in public, safely ensconced within my own head, pondering any number of things. I’ve been touched by men without my consent, shrugging out from under the unwanted weight of muscular arms, or stepping back to stay safely out of hands’ reach, lest my proximity indicate tacit agreement to being touched again. And again.

And some of those overly demanding men — complete strangers — haven’t taken too kindly to my refusal to answer their rapid fire questions, to give freely of my time and attention. Some have seemed annoyed by my obvious discomfort at their unwanted physical contact. I’ve watched for those men as I moved through whatever public space I was inhabiting, trying to avoid another encounter. As I walked out to the parking lot, keys fitted between my tense knuckles, I fully expected them to spring from behind a car, grimly determined to seize what had earlier eluded them. I wondered what might happen when, one day, my no, my complete lack of consent to give of my time and access to my person, would not be accepted.

What then?

So, I like to imagine instead a world where little boys learn to keep their goddamned hands to themselves. To mind their own business. A world in which girls are empowered by the knowledge that they own their bodies, their time, their rich inner lives, and they don’t owe anyone access. Because when half of the population is vulnerable and at risk, mostly from the other half of that same population, it infects everything, and no one is healthy. We can be islands unto ourselves if we like. Or we can consent to allow a ship to dock at our rocky shores. The choice should be ours alone.

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The Whitewashing of Dr. King

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Over the past few years, I’ve been thinking about Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. a great deal. Not just his legacy, though that’s part of it, but how that legacy has been received, how it’s been manipulated to fit a rapidly reconfiguring status quo.

We all have an idea of the kind of man Dr. King was, reinforced by the slow parade of teachers - from elementary to high school - discussing the salient points of his most widely known public address in which he talks about his dream for the nation and its black citizens. These formative years ultimately develop the lens through which we reflect critically on history. The old cliche is true, in that those with the power to write our history also have the power to shape how it will be packaged for future generations. Words are so powerful, even more so than memory, because once memory fades, words are all that remain to make sense of our communal past.

I’d submit that the view we have of Martin Luther King, Jr. is largely framed through glasses that have been whitewashed by those wielding the words through which history is passed down. We aren’t encouraged to see him as a revolutionary, as the radical catalyst of social change, as an end in and of himself. Instead, this formidable man is neutered and made safe by the way we’ve learned to view him today. He has become a means to society’s wider, and less noble ends. Even his words are dulled to suit purposes that are antithetical to the spirit of the movement he championed.

We never speak of Dr. King’s radicalism, which underpinned everything he did. We only speak of his civil disobedience, and only in a way in which that benign turn the other cheek mentality is indicative of his inherent humble nature. To accept violence without responding with violence is a heightened form of self control, a heightened form of obedience to the law, we’re told, from the time we first learn to read until the time we begin to formulate our own arguments, and society values an obedient negro above all else. A negro who knows his place. In this way, Dr. King’s words - sharp enough to cut through the complacency of his era when he uttered them - lose their meaning, and with it, their power.

A funny thing happens then. The microscope of history tightens its focus, eliminating the more troublesome aspects of Dr. King’s persona, and zeros in on what is most palatable to the wider - i.e. whiter - audience: a man who dreams of brotherhood, togetherness, and a world in which his little black children can hold hands with little white children. A world in which his very color can be whitewashed out of existence.

In retrospect, Dr. King is conceived as a benevolent figure, one behind whom every like minded white person would have proudly rallied. But this is disingenuous at best, straight up lies at worst. We only have to look towards the Black Lives Matter movement to see how the bulk of white folks would have responded to a throng of black people demanding freedom. We only have to look at the way Colin Kaepernick’s nonviolent actions are received by the general (white) public. These are protests that fully embody Dr. King’s call for nonviolent direct action, the kind of action that cannot be ignored. The kind of action that forces society as a whole to fully face the existence of systemic racism festering in all facets of American life. In this way, nonviolent action feels like a slap to the face. But Dr. King understood that this tension was necessary to create change, that waiting for equal rights to eventually arrive was a fool’s errand. Complete disruption of the status quo was essential because “freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed.”

Change is born through upheaval. It isn’t comfortable, and it doesn’t fit the timeline of the oppressor. The March on Washington culminated with Dr. King’s most famous speech, and if I had a dollar for every time a white person told me that black people today should take what they mistakenly believe was Dr. King’s advice in the I Have a Dream speech, I would have enough to open a money market account with a competitive interest rate. These are the people who seem to forget that Dr. King’s protests often led to arrests. They forget that his protests were often met with brutal violence from the police. They forget that the boycotts for which Dr. King advocated brought entire cities to their knees. The man didn’t just have a dream, he had a plan, and white America hated him for it.

There are those who say Colin Kaepernick should just shut up and play. There are those who look disdainfully at Black Lives Matter activists, writing them off as criminals, thugs, ingrates. There are those who scoff whenever a person of color points out the network of systemic racism snaking up from the very foundation of this country to infect every institution, every social interaction. There are also those who see the injustices with clarity, but are content to remain silent as long as they are not directly affected. Many of these people hold Dr. King in high regard. Because he’s safe to venerate through those whitewashed glasses. He’s no longer a threat to the current social order. He has been fully assimilated into white American culture. His radicalism has been erased from our collective memory, leaving only the palatable parts of his legacy behind.

And, yet, Dr. King’s words in another, less widely quoted piece of writing still resonate, as though he wrote them only moments ago:

“I must confess that over the past few years I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro’s great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen’s Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to ‘order’ than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: ‘I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action’; who paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man’s freedom; who lives by a mythical concept of time and who constantly advises the Negro to wait for a ‘more convenient season.’ Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection.”

I have paraphrased the above sentiment in many a conversation with all kinds of white folks, telling them that I was less concerned with the outwardly racist and more concerned with those who can’t understand the urgency of the current situation because they themselves are not at risk. Why stand with Black Lives Matter activists when you don’t have to worry about your black son, husband, or father being stopped by police and beaten or shot without cause? Why be uncomfortable for the seconds it takes a black NFL player to drop to one knee during the Star Spangled Banner when you can simply continue to exist within a cushy, disaffected bubble?

I have had white people tell me there are more important causes for which to fight. That racial justice can wait while we figure out these other, more vital matters. They seem willfully resistant to Dr. King’s ‘fierce urgency of now’. Because for those of us struggling beneath the heavy burden of systemic racism, there is no better time than right now to act, to fight, to demand the rights promised to all men and women in this country’s founding documents.

How can you read Dr. King’s words and not see his disappointment in the apathy of so-called white allies? In their unwillingness to truly invest in the struggle for freedom and equality for all? I feel that disappointment every day, and I worry it will turn into frustrated hostility, though Dr. King warns against that too, bidding us to never “satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred.”

Dr. King kept from sinking into that pit of listless despair through his abiding faith that change would come, that people of color would be delivered to the Promised Land, though he might not live to see it himself. He advised: “oppressed people cannot remain oppressed forever. The yearning for freedom eventually manifests itself.” But this doesn’t come without struggle, without people willing to fight, even if it means losing their jobs, their freedom, their lives.
And the struggle continues to this day.

We don’t live in a post-racial society. The very idea is absurd, despite so many claims to the contrary. And a post-racial society is not what Dr. King was dreaming of in his famous speech. His dream was a country in which his blackness was no longer a liability, a barrier to access, a reason for him to be mistreated, jailed, beaten, or killed.

Those in charge of the present are also in charge of history, and they bend it however they like, weaving a narrative that suits the needs of the current era. In the here and now, the safe, whitewashed version of Dr. King is celebrated and oft-quoted. He receives his own day on the calendar filled with marches, breakfasts, and sermons in houses of worship.

Memory fades, and carefully curated words move in to fill the gaps.

Unless we decide to never allow ourselves to forget who this man really was. A member of the resistance. A revolutionary. An enemy of the status quo, creating such tension and discomfort that white America had no choice but to act.

And he paid with his life.

Honor Martin Luther King, Jr. by seeing him for what he truly was. And then see this country for what it truly is. A work in progress. A place where racism still runs rampant, though it wears many clever disguises. And accept that the fight for equality is ongoing, the torch passed from Dr. King to activists rallying under the Black Lives Matter banner, to those fighting for criminal justice reform, to those demanding to be seen and heard.

You can stand in the way of progress, or you can join the fight.

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Racism 101: White Tears

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Ever notice the way the temperature drops whenever a person of color brings up the issue of racism around a group of white folks? Things can be going great, the conversation rolling along, but then someone says something racially insensitive, and a POC holds them accountable, throwing open the gates and inviting all hell to break loose. White tears start flowing, washing the POC’s original point away in a turbulent, exhausting current of sympathy-seeking bullshit.

Non-POC readers, y’all might be tightening your alabaster brows right now, wondering what in the hell white tears are. The way I use and understand the term, it represents any situation in which a white person responds less than gracefully to a real or perceived accusation of casual or overt racism.

Still not picking up what I’m putting down? Let’s use an example to shed some clarity, shall we?

White person: You must be really happy that Amendment 4 passed. Now so many black people will be able to vote again!

Person of color: Actually, most of the former felons who are getting their voting rights back are white.

WP: I just figured you’d be excited about this since most of the people in jail are black.

POC: Wow, that’s a really racist statement. It’s also untrue.

WP: Oh my god! I can’t believe you just called me racist! I collected so many petitions for Amendment 4, and I voted for it! It’s so messed up that you would think that I could even be a little bit racist!

POC: *bangs head against wall until the white tears stop*

See? White tears don’t have to be literal tears, but they are akin to the shrill wailing of a security system that begins whenever a POC has triggered a white person’s inherent brittleness when it comes to conversations about race. Even a little pressure, applied during a conversation like the one above, can cause a white person to snap, thus soaking the POCs around them with angry, wounded, or self righteous white tears.

Think of these tears as a gentle way of reasserting the silent power of white supremacy, which underpins every institution in American society and poisons every social interaction. When you resort to sobbing white tears, the narrative undergoes an immediate shift. The old narrative involved you saying something racist. But the new narrative is this: I’m attacking you, unprovoked, with my mean words about racism, which is unfair for whatever reasons you will present, rapid fire, to everyone around us — you have friends who are black, you voted for Obama, Oprah is your favorite celebrity, etcetera.

White tears are a pretty handy tool to have in one’s arsenal if the goal is to avoid any kind of conversation about a subject as touchy as racism. You get to upset the narrative, recentering the conversation on you, your feelings, and what a terrible person I am for attacking you so unnecessarily. It’s a good trick, and it has withstood the test of time.

I can’t count the amount of times in the last year that I’ve reversed the hell out of a conversation I thought might actually reap real results because of that kind of recentering. It’s a bit like feeling the earth rearrange underneath your feet, leaving you in unsteady, sometimes dangerous territory. And because black people — and especially black women — are so often typecast as angry, we have to be doubly careful to remain calm, no matter what kind of bullshit gets slung our way. For a POC, the best response to white tears is to disengage immediately, which leaves the racist fuckery untouched to fester with time, instead of being dealt with, which was the original intention behind calling it out. This is yet another example of how racism continues to thrive in our society.

Look, racism is a heavy subject, maybe even the heaviest subject to take on in this country. Our history is filled with examples of brutal oppression, and though things have improved, we are a long way from the kind of equality the founding fathers wrote about when they were envisioning breaking free of their own, more privileged form of bondage.

To talk about systemic racism and white supremacy is to accept the discomfort that goes along with it. There will be emotions like anger, shame, and guilt. Let them come. Marinate in that discomfort until you find some internal clarity. Don’t take the easy way out by turning on the literal or figurative waterworks. If you really want things to change in this country, if you truly desire for the promise of American to match its brute reality, then it starts with being willing to see your biases for what they are. Own them, and then own the process of changing them with daily, deliberate self-reflection and action. And, mostly importantly, receive the words of the POCs around you with openness and grace instead of hostility and tragic martyrdom.

POCs don’t have a choice when it comes to facing the harsh realities of institutional racism. It affects us every day in ways that cannot be ignored. But what’s even more demoralizing is when a so-called ally can’t bear the weight of a single conversation about racism in which we imply that she could do better. If you truly want to stand with us, that means accepting criticism without lashing out and ‘putting us back in our place’ for the sake of your own emotional comfort. The world changes when we first change ourselves. It’s the only form of creation that we possess. You have the power to create change or to create a barrier keeping a better world from being realized. Choose wisely.

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Women: We’re (Not) Frauds with a Capital F

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There’s a kind of Orwellian doublespeak that festers in the dark, hidden crevices inside a woman’s head, a persistent message that underscores everything she does, from girlhood to her elder years. This doublespeak creates a situation in which she finds herself living in two separate realities that should be mutually exclusive but, somehow, coexist like host and parasite. In one reality, she’s wholly able to acknowledge that she’s intelligent, capable, innovative, thoughtful, a good parent, a good daughter, and an overall delightful human being. Yet, because of the existence of that other reality, she’s plagued with doubts about her abilities, her intelligence, her goodness, and is certain that, eventually, everyone will see her for what she is: an absolute fraud.

On the whole, I’ve done moderately well throughout my life. Good grades in school that earned a full scholarship to college, where I also performed well. Decent jobs where I received promotions and regularly took on additional responsibilities, including training coworkers and overseeing large projects. A bright daughter on whom I doted. My present career where, for the first time in my life, I find myself doing work that I actually enjoy a great deal.

And, yet, those pesky ink-black doubts persist…

Not that this is anything new. I’ve always felt less than sure about my footing, even when the more logical part of my brain tells me I’m standing in just the right place, sometimes even the best place. And these feelings of inadequacy don’t stem from a parent who was critical to the point of cruelty. Or sustained bullying in school. Or an ex who chipped away at my self-confidence until only a shivering skeleton of the person I had been remained. Overt outside judgment has very little to do with the blossoming of this doubt. Funnily enough, if anything, the external feedback I’ve received over my lifetime has been consistently positive, which only seems to make things worse, deepening the rising dread that I’ll eventually be found out, exposed, and then what?

This brand of trouble starts and ends inside my own head, where that opposite-facing commentary runs along doggedly for however long I’m awake, the criticisms and self reflection cripplingly intense. I am a master at taking my own inventory, at receiving compliments and finding a way to twist them into criticisms, at wondering just how long it will be before someone figures out my long game and exposes me for exactly what I am.

A fraud.

If only you could be seen for what you really are, that nasty bitch snarls from the comfy nest she’s built inside the shadowy, inaccessible area near the back of my skull. People wouldn’t be so quick with the compliments, now would they?

Before I can respond, that howling dread metastasizes, and the bitch continues, throwing poison tipped knives that hit extremely close to home.

Not a good enough mother: your daughter was the last one waiting at pickup, WTAF?

Not smart enough to pursue this particular degree: you might be doing fine in class, for now, but how many times did it take you to read through this analysis before you finally understood it?

Not working hard enough to deserve this promotion: there’s no way in hell you’ll be able to handle all of this extra responsibility. Good luck getting fired!

Not a decent human being in any way, shape, or form: good god, if ANYONE could tap into some of the commentary running through your head, you’d be ostracized, blacklisted, and held up as a cautionary tale for impressionable children.

Here’s the thing: fuck that bitch.

I’m far from perfect, but I know I’m not a fraud. I’m damned smart (and modest, can’t you tell?). I work hard, and that’s really the key to all of my successes, large, small, and in between. If a situation needs some elbow grease, I just so happen to carry an extra large can of WD40 in my purse and I’m prepared to grease away. I gauran-damned-tee you won’t outwork me, and I’m fan-fucking-tastically quick on my feet. Put me in a corner, and I’ll come up with a way out of it. Give me a problem to solve, a tight deadline, an impenetrable text that needs deciphering. I. Am. Here. For. It.

So, why the persistent black cloud of doubt traveling over my head, ready to spill rain on every single one of my flashy parades? Why do I listen to the nasty bitch in my head? Why does she wield so much power?

Welp, little girls are born into a society that values them less than it values little boys, that teaches them to keep their options narrowed so they’re still well within range of the realm of home and family, that informs them they just aren’t great at things like math, science, leadership, sports, and the like. Those little girls eat up all that garbage, and that just so happens to be the kind of cuisine that best feeds the nasty bitch setting up shop inside their heads, infecting their every move with doubt.

Are you sure you should tell everyone your opinion? What if you’re wrong?

No one will like you if you run for Student Body President. Leave that to one of the boys.

Awfully bossy and full of yourself, aren’t you?

College, sure, but this degree will put you waaaaaaay out of your depth, sweetheart.

And on, and on, and on, the bullshit piling up as the years proceed.

Even in these more ‘enlightened’ times, the inequities persist, and we internalize the hell out of them, ladies.

I’ve watched men to which the label of ‘mediocre’ would be an overstatement of their actual abilities conduct themselves with rock solid confidence as they bumble through life, pulling a reverse King Midas as they turn all they touch into complete shit. These men are routinely rewarded by society and called leaders. They certainly receive higher salaries than the more accomplished and better prepared women around them.

The game is unfair, the playing field far from level, the rules rigged in favor of anything masculine, deck upon deck stacked against us. So, what’s a woman to do?

Glad you asked.

First order of business: punch that nasty bitch in the throat whenever she dares to whisper those untruths at inopportune moments. You don’t need that shit. She’ll STFU if you hit her often enough. It’s gonna take time, though, so don’t give up after the first thousand hits.

Second order of business: ask yourself WWMWMD?

What would mediocre white man do?

It’s a valid question, because these are the fellas who can best skate through life by virtue of their sex and skin color, gliding over paths made just for them, usually on the backs of people of color and women. These are the guys who breeze in late, interrupting your presentation to ask a question you already covered in the beginning. When you make a suggestion, no one hears it, but when MWM repeats what you just said, everyone claps him on the back for his originality and ability to problem solve. Also, he’s your boss! Or, he answers to you yet makes more than you do. MWM never worries about reading the assignment before monopolizing the conversation during the philosophical seminar. Waiting one’s turn is for other, less white, less male rule-following suckers. He has things to say! He’s the fella who takes all the credit for the preparation and sweat equity you put into the project to make sure it’s a success. Only 20% qualified for the position? MWM will apply for it anyway and actually get the job! Meanwhile, you’re taking online leadership courses, learning the second language the position suggested applicants know, and not lying on your resume…oh, you’re also seething with soul-destroying rage at this guy’s audacity, as well as his consistent, inexplicable success despite obvious incompetence.

You aren’t going to beat the mediocre white men rocketing through life on hopes, prayers, and a kickass combination of white male privilege — this is his game, after all. But you can join him by asking yourself: WWMWMD?

He wouldn’t let doubts keep him from reaching for stars he has no business even craning his neck to stare at. He leaps first, looks later, or not at all. Not qualified for the job? Who the fuck cares? That’s what learning while doing is for. Or, better, delegating it to a lower level employee and then taking the credit. I don’t suggest being an asshole to reach your goals, but do try on some of that mediocre white male confidence for yourself. It feels pretty damned good. And after walking around encased in it for a while, you’ll find yourself making it much more than you’re faking it.

This was a lesson I finally learned the hard way last year, surrounded by men who should have known better than I did based on length of experience but didn’t actually appear to. It suddenly dawned on me: I can do this better than they can, yet I’m letting the nasty bitch inside my head hold me back. I’m competent, hardworking, intelligent, and tired of putting up with this absolute shitshow. Thus, WWMWMD? was born.

Go ahead, ladies, drape yourself in that unearned, audaciously scintillating confidence, and stride into any situation life presents as though you own the place. You might feel like a sheep among wolves at first. But I guarantee you that wearing that rich, warm coat of stolen fur will quickly turn you into a wolf yourself. And then? Sky’s the limit.

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