The Undercover Introvert

One ‘Year of the Woman’ is Not Enough

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2018 was called the Year of the Woman. The first election cycle to take place fully ensconced within the #MeToo era came to a close with a historic number of women running for office and winning. Many of these newly minted legislators were women of color, and the doors they flung open simply by their mere presence at the table reverberated through the nation’s marginalized communities. As a black woman, I felt the power of it. Representation matters, and I saw more faces that looked like mine in a crowd of lawmakers than I’d ever seen in my life.

More of us are at the table. That means we made it, right?

Well, not quite.

We still have a long way to go before we reach the fabled promised land of racial and gender equality. Last year was yet another baby step in a seemingly endless line of baby steps. Slow and steady wins the race. We step forward twice, get pushed back once, maybe even twice, ad infinitum. Meanwhile, the road ahead of us goes on past the horizon, the goal completely out of sight. No one quite knows the distance between where we stand and where we want to be, but moving forward is the only option, because we know exactly what dangerous territory lies behind us.

Thanks to the many hundreds of thousands of women who came before me, being a woman in 2019 is better, but it’s still not easy.

I may no longer pass from the dominion of my father to that of my spouse, but I’m not paid the same as a white man for identical work.

Birth control and access to safe, legal abortion may give me the kind of control over my reproductive system that women living decades ago could only dream of, but the war on women waged by old white men rages on and, if successful, would leave me with few options that didn’t include being either celibate or perpetually barefoot and pregnant.

I may be able to go wherever I want, whenever I want, without asking any man’s permission, but I’m not safe walking alone after dark, being too friendly to a male stranger, being too dismissive of a male stranger, or leaving my drink unattended at a party for fear of what might happen.

I may be able to set my sights on any job that strikes my fancy, but I can’t be taken seriously in most professional spaces, and I often have to push back extremely hard on men who believe, simply by the grace of their gender, that they are more learned than I am, no matter the subject or situation. When confronted on their mansplaining, most men seem taken aback, because they don’t even notice themselves doing it. Yet it happens ALL. THE. TIME.

And those are just a small sampling of the many complications of being a woman in this country.

When you add being black on top of that, all of the aforementioned difficulties magnify, and the discrimination becomes labyrinthine in its complexity.

After an incident, I often find myself wondering: was this because I’m black? Or because I’m a woman? Or both?

But there are no clear answers, only the dark, ugly feeling of being targeted, humiliated, overlooked, or attacked.

Discrimination exists as a claustrophobic maze for those of us that call more than one marginalized group home, and the uncertainty inherent in its twists and turns often makes it impossible to find our footing. You flounder, you double back, you forge ahead, hoping for something better around the next corner. An exit, though you don’t ever expect to find one.

I live in a country that once owned people who looked like me, and also a country in which people of my gender we never expected to contribute to society in any meaningful way. Women were to bear children and look pretty. Black women were to bear children and toil until they died. And though we’re no longer seen as property or lesser than men in the eyes of the law, we’re still nurtured by a society that views us as fundamentally weaker than men, both mentally and physically. Our bodies are still the subject of a dogged legislative agenda that won’t stop until it completely strips away control over our own reproductive destiny. Our bodies are still seen as existing almost exclusively for male enjoyment.

It would never occur to me to tell a man minding his own business in a public space that he should smile, that he’s good looking, or that I’d be interested in dating and/or sleeping with him. These are all things I’ve heard from complete strangers, and not just once. Not even just a dozen times.

It would also never occur to me to interrupt a man who was a subject matter expert because I assumed I knew more than he did, though I was not a subject matter expert, nor was I invited to speak on the topic. Yet this is also something that happens to women with annoying regularity. Even when we are speaking about our unique experiences as women in the world, men will often dive headfirst into the fray to talk over us, muscling their way into a conversation that shouldn’t even feature them.

Again, these are just small things, but if you add enough of them together, they become weights heavy enough to hamper our upward mobility and obliterate our spirits.

So, yes, let’s celebrate 2018 as the Year of the Woman. But let’s not forget that there have been thousands of years celebrating men, their achievements, and their exclusive centuries’ old dominion over the world and all the women in it.

We women can’t be content with a single year that only sees our total representation in Congress reach 25% while we make up more than 50% of the population. We have to keep pushing until the many layers of glass ceilings shatter, and we can breathe the fresh air and feel the full strength of the sun on our faces.

The thought of a world in which the full range of possibility and promise isn’t limited on the basis of sex, race, disability, who you love, or how you self identify is what keeps me going every day, despite the constant backsliding, the defeats, the frustrations, and the heartache.

As always, women of color, disabled women, women identifying as LGBTQ have a harder path, one we’ve often had to walk alone as our more privileged sisters moved quickly along the path ahead of us, leaving us behind. But none of us will truly be free until we all are, meaning we’ll have to wait for that last woman to make her way across the finish line before we can consider the battle won.

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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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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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Sexism 101: the Benevolent Misogynist

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Women have a strange relationship with compliments, mostly because so many come unsolicited from strange men whenever we venture out in public. But there are other kinds of compliments that are more backhanded than creepy, and the men offering them aren’t the folks you might expect. These guys respect their mothers, love their daughters, and would take a bullet for their sisters, wife, or girlfriend. Oftentimes, these are men we know and with whom we have close relationships. We love them and they love us…but they are also perpetrators of the deepest, most insidious brand of sexism.

These men are products of a society that forever tilts in favor of the masculine. They are raised to respect women while also reinforcing a women’s biological limitations. They are well versed in gender roles, and the sexism they exhibit upholds and validates those societal norms, taught from cradle to grave, to all children, regardless of race or socioeconomic background.

This kind of sexism works like a lullaby. We walk through life hearing this soothing music, and it doesn’t occur to us until much later that there might be a problem with the underlying melody…if it ever occurs to us at all. Many of us simply internalize the music and it provides the persistent soundtrack to all of our life decisions and movements in the world.

The benevolent misogynist, always marching to the beat of this insidious tune, delivers his gentle oppression by way of a complement:

Women are just natural born nurturers.

That seems like a harmless observation, right? Maybe even a good thing? But let’s unpack the statement.

What roles do nurturers play in our society? They typically concern themselves with the raising and teaching of children. They take care of elderly relatives. They nurse folks back to health. Most importantly, they remain in positions devoid of power while others take care of running the world.

Think about it.

What kinds of ‘compliments’ have you heard about women’s perceived skill sets in the past?

Women are better at raising children.

Women are the backbone of the family.

Women are better at managing a household.

There is nothing inherently wrong with these statements. But, beneath the sparkly pink veneer, they perpetuate stereotypes about women and their so-called limitations. They turn a weakness into a seeming strength, creating a gilded cage that doesn’t simply keep women from rising too high in society, but actually keeps them from wanting to escape the cage in the first place. The cage is good, because women are just the kinds of creatures that must be contained and, therefore, thrive in such places.

Women are biologically equipped to birth children, but that doesn’t mean they should be the sole source of childrearing. As a group, women have come a long way in the last 50 years, but society still expects them to be the primary caretaker of home and family. Wanting more is seen as odd — a woman woefully outside of her element.

Men who reinforce these stereotypes are part of the problem, whether they intended to hold women back or not. Misogyny is systemic, y’all, which means it underpins every institution in American society. We’re all raised with sexist ideas about gender roles and what men and women can and can’t do. And not just can and can’t do, but should and shouldn’t do. Despite the advances in the workplace, things still look like the 1950s inside the home, with women doing the majority of the heavy lifting even if they are employed elsewhere full time. As with most forms of widespread oppression, these kinds of stale ideas hold back both women and men.

Benevolent misogynists seem supportive, and they probably think they are supportive, but they are actively upholding outdated stereotypes about ability on the basis of gender that put unnecessary limits on the women around them. When a man tells a woman she shouldn’t seek full time employment outside the home because he can’t soothe their child as well as she can, that’s not a compliment. It’s a way of keeping her wings clipped, but nicely, so she might not even notice she’s lost the ability to fly.

Socialization plays a huge part in this, and we’re all victims of it as well as perpetrators. Step one is to stop listening to the lullaby. Wake up and be intentional in your words and actions. And never accept a boundary masquerading as a compliment, no matter how nicely it’s offered.

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