Well, hey there. Are you over my condemnation of cheugy and basic? Are we still friends? If not, that’s okay. You do you. That’s the brilliant part of this space. You don’t owe me anything and I’ll never ask anything of you. Don’t give up vocabulary you are attached to, don’t change your mind about anything, and don’t look inside. Don’t do any of it OR do all of it. I’m just sharing my feelings and thoughts with the hope that you will just think a little. A teeny tiny baby thought.
I’m not asking you to do anything that I don’t do myself. I step outside the walls that confine my thoughts all the damn time. I form opinions and then I reconsider. I shift. I may not always understand the other side of things but I sure as shit attempt to. That’s all I’m asking.
That feels like the perfect lead it to today’s topic, which was supposed to be yesterday’s chat until I got myself all hot and bothered about cheugy. Before I introduce the word, I’m going to tell a story (yay, story time!). I think it’s best to set the stage and then, we can throw on all the labels.
I was working on a project with a gentleman I work with and our counterparty delivered documents for review. I’ll never tell you that I’m some sort of wizard, but something I pride myself on is my ability to admit when I don’t know something. I also like to learn, so I use my unknowing moments as an opportunity to educate myself and broaden my horizons. Anyway, I informed my co-worker that I wasn’t all that comfortable opining on the sort of documents we were looking at and advised that I would hunt around to find the right party to do so, and try and learn something in the process so I could personally assist next go-around.
My first stop was a co-worker who had dealt with similar types of accounts historically. I explained to him what had happened thus far, including the reason for the account, the parties involved, and where I felt less comfortable. He patiently listened and then advised that he would drop a line to the co-worker opening the account to get more color. I was a bit put off but convinced myself that I was being too sensitive. He is a nice guy. Maybe he had very specific and pointed questions to ask? Maybe he was acknowledging my admission that I was a little outside my comfort zone and he was just being respectful? I never want to be one of those women. You know, hyper-sensitive because of the fact that women get repeatedly shit on in business settings. They do. Trust me. I would be cool, calm and collected. I wouldn’t feel threatened. It’s all good.
Until….
He called me back a few hours later.
You know what I’m going to say, right? Or no? He told me that he had spoken to the individual who was trying to open the account and then proceeded to REGURGITATE MY WORDS BACK TO ME. I shit you not. He was going to explain to me what I had previously explained to him. I want to be very, very honest here. Before I got pissed, I questioned myself. I want you to read those words to understand how perverse and deep seated this kind of shit is, this imposter syndrome peddling that goes on. I don’t think I need to disclaim things in this space and yet I always do, so let’s do this. Imposter syndrome happens to men and women. Everyone. He, she, it, they, them. Everyone. I’m just talking about a very specific kind of situation, so please give me room to do so without being judge-y, k?
Okay. So, there I was, questioning my first-round delivery of information. Was I clear? Did I explain properly? Did I leave something out? Was clarification required? Yes. Yes. No. No. This was a very simple, straight-forward case of mansplaining. There it is guys. That’s the golden nugget of vocabulary I wanted to drop like it’s a steaming hot pile of turds. He was explaining it to me as if I couldn’t comprehend and needed it simplified such that my teeny, failing brain could get on board and absorb all this magical information. I would fucking love to tell you that wasn’t what was happening and it was just a silly situation whereas we had a misunderstanding, but this isn’t the first time this has happened to me at work. In fact, this particular play carried out into a second act. Pretty fucking brilliantly, I might add.
After Mr. Mansplain couldn’t assist me, I was directed to inquire with a female co-worker of mine. And you know what she did? She went to a male co-worker who didn’t have a fucking clue so that he could educate us both. That’s right kids. She fed right into the horseshit. She emails me to inform me that she roped in my unknowing co-worker (apparently three years of law school does indeed trump six years of grad school) so that he could guide us towards success. You know what he did? He called outside counsel. He roped in a third-party professional to assist us. Which, you must be thinking, wow, who knew that you need a male attorney to engage another attorney?! You don’t. At all. I could have saved myself multiple emails and a little bit of heartburn had I just had the balls to say “I don’t know but neither does anyone else here, so I’m going to contact outside counsel.”
I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was paralyzed by my own insecurities and negative thoughts and the messaging that my unknowing was more significant than anyone else’s unknowing, particularly if that unknowing was accompanied by a penis.
This might be a good time to tell you that I love men. I think I’ve said this before, but I mean it. Men of all different sexual orientations and shapes and sizes. I do. My dad is awesome. My best friend is a dude. I have several male friends who I absolutely adore and co-workers who I respect. I just don’t need them to tell me what the fuck I know. You know?
I’m just going to leave this here. Let’s sit with this for a hot minute. All of us. Everyone.
Oh, wait. Let me drop one more nug before I leave. The MALE attorney who my MALE co-worker contacted, brought his FEMALE co-worker into the discussion. Why? Because she is the motha fucking expert on that particular topic, even with a pesky vagina in the way. Mic drop.
See you tomorrow.
xox
L.
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