Mean Girls Club

There are things I forget about nowadays having lived in Washington, DC for the better part of a decade.

I forget that this really was, and in many ways still is, a town of men.

Old. White. Men.

Although, most assurdely, this is a changing dynamic.

Nevertheless, DC, for all of its supposed egalitarianism being the capital of the United States, has remained quite old school in many ways that can really do some damage to a girl's self esteem.

And, sadly, much of this is perpetuated by... women.

I was reminded of that today when a former intern who I absolutely adore called me in tears over a job interview she was certain she had botched but couldn't understand why.

Christine, although that's not her real name, is stellar. She interned for me for a year and was cherished by both myself and all of our staff for having an amazing combination of school smarts, worldly smarts, and the practical intelligence that comes from the combination of being a leading student who scrapped her way to the top and one who took every opportunity to travel the world.

On her own dime.

Christine volunteered for every exchange program, work program...whatever program would take her to far flung places way outside of her West Coast, middle class, American comfort zone. This made her flexible, tolerant, and an extremely good judge of character and able to maneuver through DC's complex social and political scene with an adeptness far beyond her years.

I loved her. I wanted her to get a very good job because, even if I couldn't give it to her at the moment, I knew this wonderful woman would benefit some organization that was like mine even if it couldn't BE mine.

I wept at her good-bye party. And I have had dozens of interns over the years. This was the first time I actually wept. I wanted her to stay with us so badly it hurt.

We are, with the exception of a brief and very traumatizing experience with an Old White Man, an organization that has always had diverse female leadership.

And GOOD female leadership.

Women who have an interest in reaching back and making sure other women get the mentorship and the self-confidence they deserve to come up with their own ideas, test their own theories, and, importantly, get paid the same amount as men in similiar positions.

But that is not the norm in DC. Even now, as I rejoice to join meetings that are led by women--black women, white women, Hispanic women, Muslim women, lesbians, and saavy twenty-something women--it is still not the norm.

Then there are the women like the two Christine confronted in her job interview recently.

I know them all too well although, upon approaching my late thirties, I am pretty much off of their radar screens these days. I am an "old story" and one who has managed to survive a few rounds, carved off my own territory, and no longer constitutes a threat, at least most days.

But Christine? Fresh blood.

I have struggled long and hard to try to figure out this phenomenon.

Why in the world would women who have struggled so hard to get into the very, very exclusive world of male-dominated DC politics and decision-making turn around and attack other women trying to do the same? I guess I have a hard time understanding it because, first, I was raised mostly by a male, and, second, I honestly believe that "paying it forward" is a serious life lesson that must be mastered. And, hell, it feels good to master that one.

And I have benefited from fantastic female role models, my former boss in particular. Yes, she made sure I was smart and tough and tested my intelligence and resolve thoroughly. But once I passed those tests, (which she put males through just as vigorously) she opened her world to me, often pushing me onto stages I felt neither confident nor knowledgeable enough to master. But I did. I steeled my spine because she believed in me and I knew I was getting a rare and invaluable gift. One that I would spend my professional lifetime trying to repay...forward.

Which is what totally pissed me the hell off about Christine and her experience.

At lunch she told me The Story. It has several variations but it is still The Story. Most women in DC will know a version of this one.

"It was two women and one man," she told me. "I thought it was a good sign that two of the senior leadership were women and in there for the interview,figured it was a good sign..."

"And?" I asked, knowing sort of what came next.

"AND they went after me like the damn Salem Witch Trials!"

"So I had worked in Zimbabwe for three months? Why didn't I speak Xhosa fluently?' 'Why did I write my Master's thesis on the effects of PTSD on returning soldiers from Afghanistan instead of women's rights there?' 'Why I had chosen this graduate school rather than one that was more recognized?'"

She trailed off.

"And?" I persisted.

"This!" she motioned to a piercing in her right ear, "They wanted to know if it was something 'tribal' I had gotten in Nepal or the East and whether I ever took it out," she spat.

"And you said?" I pressed.

"I tried to avoid the question at first, honestly. I made light of it. But then, and I'm sorry, Patti, I kind of blew it. I told them it had nothing to do with tribal anything but if they wanted to see the tattoo on my rib cage that I got while in volunteering in Southeast Asia after the tsunami, that might be more appropriate although that was not exactly tribal either. I told them I got the piercing in Seattle, I liked it, and 'no,' I didn't take it out very much at all," she finished.

(Mind you, this "horrific" piercing that we are referring to is a small, elegant, silver bar that spans the top quadrant of Christine's right ear but, at that point, I didn't care if it was a fucking trombone attached to the side of her head, I was seeing red).

"And?" I said, sadly...knowing there was more.

"It was like they never read my CV, never read what I had done, what I had written, where I had volunteered, what I hoped to get from the job, what I hope to give TO the job... nothing. They only read the things that they could pick apart on suspicion and never once asked me what I had actually accomplished, what I had learned, how I thought I could be of value. NOTHING. They wanted to know why I didn't speak Xhosa fluently after three months in Zimbabwe or why I had an earring in the 'wrong place'. Anyway, I just felt sick about the whole thing...and from women!" she finished.

I sighed. I remember this too.

It happened between the job I had throughout graduate school and an interview I had before finding the job I just returned to last year.

At the time, I had worked extensively with the U.S. military and was exhilirated by a new world and new lessons. I was proud of what I had done and proudly displayed in on my resume.

Until, in a job interview where a woman who won't be named but now holds a senior position in the U.S. government implied that I might have slept myself into that position.

I was 27 at the time, had spent two years traveling and working in some of the worst places in the world because I thought that I could make a difference, and had returned to school at a somewhat advanced age, and was quite frankly stunned by the implication and tried to overlook it.

But she persisted.

"You girls come to DC and expect it to be so easy for you. You just bat your eyes and think that it's all going to work that way for you. But, I am here to tell you, it's not!" she said, closing my file.

I remember walking out of the interview paralyzed by disbelief. A WOMAN had just implied that I had slept my way to the top? The top of what? The very embarrassing fact that I was essentially an intern at almost 30 years of age? That I was broke and basically unemployed but had busted my ass for two years in graduate school scrapping my way to by to..to ...fuck a policeman from rural Texas deploying to Kosovo? Really?

I had never been treated like that in my life and might have stayed fucked up forever if my next job interview hadn't been with the former female leader of my current company who grilled me on the politics of famine in Africa, the details of my time spent doing police training for peacekeepers, and why I had chosen to go back to school after years of volunteering and living abroad. It was a grueling interview, the toughest I have still had to date, but I walked out of there with my head held high. That, I thought, was enough. Even if I never got the job.

I did, of course, get the job. And I was protected for many years afterwards, although not always and certainly not after I left the job temporarily in 2008.

In trying to explain to Christine, and myself vicariously, what causes this behavior, I came up with the following:

The women in senior leadership positions in DC are, or were, before Obama came to town and changed the dynamic, part of the "old guard" that literally had to endure decades of misogynist behavior and downright hostility. Particularly in jobs that dealt with policy-making or military establishment, these women endured some of the worst well beyond the time when, in other parts of the country and indeed the world, women had moved on. Once they got to a level of respect and authority (which the majority undoubtedly deserved and then some) they hung on like death, so used to having to go to battle for each and every accomplishment that they could see nothing BUT battle. And, as times eased up a bit, and DC became gradually more accepting of females in functions of power and decision-making, these women, whether they consciously were aware of it or not, felt like they were being challenged by members of their own gender who had not earned such a spot, even an entry-level one. Men's shifting attitudes both helped and hurt the equation because, as opportunities opened up for more women in DC, many men saw this as an opportunity to get even more misogynistic---even if much more covertly so.

Hey, if you can't beat em and they're going to keep coming, why not surround yourself with legions of them that you can personally hand-pick to temporarily worship you or follow you into power?

I hate to sound so trite or cynical, and there ARE very good men and women who do not fit this mold at all, but I would hazard to guess based on my own experiences and those of colleagues in my relative age range (35-45 years old), that is EXACTLY what we went through too.

And while it was likely never as pronounced as it would have been "back in the day," it was always implicit that you could better your chances of getting further, faster if you were a little more tolerant or accepting of sexual advances (think back to poor Monica). The women of the "old guard" undoubtedly had to deal with this too, and probably in much more overt ways, but the playing field was a lot more narrow and so sticking together (and thus ostracizing the women who did say "yes") was easier.

Either that or they all DID collectively say "yes," I don't know. It's not spoken of, even now.

In any case, it has left a lot of very angry women out there who are very angry at other women. Kind of self-defeating, I believe, but that's my idea of why this "Mean Girls Club" persists in DC today.

And thus why women like Christine are treated like crap.

Personally, most of the women I know who went through the "Monica Lewinsky wave" of being a woman in DC in the late 1990's through mid to pre-Obama 2000s are pretty much uniformly supportive of younger women. There are exceptions, of course, but it is rare to find a woman in her 30s or even 40s these days who has an "old guard" attitude. This is a good thing.

A very good thing.

I wish I could write a letter to the old guard some days, especially on days when I have to explain to stellar interns why they are being questioned about their earrings and lack of Xhosa skills, that they have SO MUCH to contribute, especially now. How this opening, this breathing space afforded by a new cultural change in DC, would so greatly benefit from their wisdom and knowledge. How important it was for those of us who came in the next wave to have had their support, as spotty and hard to find at times as it was.

How giving a woman a sense of purpose and dignity can only come back to you in spades.

As in good things. Very good things.

But, for now, this blog will have to suffice.

(An update: we hired Christine today, a position opened up. Could not be more thrilled!) 

Smut and the Kindle

The best and the worst thing that has happened to me recently has been owning a Kindle.

I was heavily resistant to the idea at first.

I love to read and I love books.

I love the feel of books, the smell of them, the way the paper feels between my fingers, and the fact that I can drag some of my favorite books off of my bookshelf and have a little piece of my own history lying in my hands.

Like the self-help book I read all the way through Southeast Asia that has pages still stained with the sauce of ground chili peppers that nearly blew my head off in Thailand or the mud of Angkor Wat where the book fell out of my pack while hiking in the ruins.

Or the series of romance novels I read throughout travels to Italy whose pages are stained with olive oil from drippings from the bread I ate, greasy pizza bianca fingerprints, and a splash of Chianti over the entire binding for good measure.

Then there are the cheap beach novels that smell like the sand in Florida or New Jersey; the Shakespeare collection that is wind-whipped from explorations in northern England, and the travel memoirs of Africa that have been loaned so many times while living in Uganda that they come back smelling like the perfumes of multiple kitchens and people.

Then there was also my favorite thing in the world to consider in giving up "real" books...the bathtub experience.

I love nothing more than a super-hot bath after a long day perfumed with bath crystals smelling like my favorite flowers or herbs. Add to that a book I am currently enamored with, a big glass of red wine, and some soft background music and I am in my own heaven for at least two hours.

However, like many humans, I am a monster in consumption if left unchecked.

I buy books like I buy food and shoes...whatever tickles my fancy at the given moment with no respect to practicality or long-term suitability whatsoever. I also subscribe to magazines (mostly of the cooking variety) in the same way.

My boyfriend, Chas, accommodated this about me for the first year or so we were living together.

He built super-sturdy bookshelves in our second bedroom which doubles as an office.

He made me binders and folders to store the recipes that should have been cut from magazines.

Finally, he allocated a space in his shed (read: Outdoor Man Cave) for my books.

Overall, he was very tolerant of my habit.

Until the wall-mounted bookshelf guaranteed to hold about 300lbs of weight came crashing down last February, smashing onto the dresser and sending my jewelry flying everywhere and putting a sizable dent in the wicker before bouncing into a table full of his artwork and accounting supplies and sending them flying.

That's when we knew things had to change.

"I'm buying you a Kindle," Chas told me, trying to secure the bookshelf onto the wall again.

"Nooooo!" I wailed. " I cannot use a Kindle! I like the feel of books too much, the whole sensory experience that goes along with them, being able to take them into the bathtub..."

"Well, I enjoy the whole sensory experience of being certain that things don't fall off the walls and crash into furniture, artwork, and my accounting materials unexpectedly. As for the bathtub...why don't you read one of your hundreds of cooking magazines in there? It's not like they will get too damaged from being dunked once or twice..." he motioned to my stack of cooking magazines that were about to go up onto the shelf that had crashed to the floor.

I resisted fiercely for a couple of weeks until he dragged me to the store to pick out a Kindle.

I pouted the entire way.

"I don't care which one you want to buy me. Just get me the cheap one, I'll never use the damn thing anyway!! You, you...you have broken my soul!" I hissed at him as the pimply teenager rang us out and Chas ignored me and my dramatic outburst.

And, true to my word, I didn't touch the damn thing. For about a week.

Then, curiosity getting the better of me, I decided to try it out.

The first thing I noted was that books were a hell of a lot less expensive in this format. Game, I downloaded a few and, after a couple of days, realized that I wasn't suffering as badly as expected holding a little electronic device to read from.

Then one day, downloading a book from Amazon, I noticed that I had the option of partaking in some free ones. I selected one at random, thinking, "Bound to be a crappy read but, hey, it's free!" and all but ignoring the title.

And that's where my current fascination with smut started.

I had no idea of the world of adult erotica, and all of its various incarnations, until I got a Kindle.

Mind you, I am in no way, shape or form adverse to adult or pornographic literature. I am no prude and as long as what I am reading does not violate my Cardinal Four No-Go Rules (No kids, no animals, no forced or violence-motivated sex, and no excrement), I am pretty much a "live and let live" type of person when it comes to that. Hell, those who know me well might recall that I did indeed supplement my income in college by writing pornography under a pseudonym for a certain well-known women's erotic magazine.

But I never purchased adult erotica in traditional "book form." I never read the Harlequin romance books when I was a kid and basically never gave the genre a second thought unless a friend (I have two who are very successful pornography writers, one for men/men and one for men/women, one a rocket scientist and the other a psychologist) asked me to review their drafts. So I don't really know why I didn't ever seek it out on my own, but I didn't.

Until the Kindle.

A Kindle makes it so easy to read anonymously because there are no book covers. And the genre of adult erotica, particularly written by women for women, has improved so much since I was "in the field," so I was completely drawn in.

I became addicted to certain authors and their various series. I looked forward to each new book. And no, women who write erotica for women do not generally do it the same way men do. It is more subtle, more romantic, more completely attuned to a woman's mind.

I was smitten.

Thinking that this was one thing I could indulge in without an audience, I told no one of my new devotion.

Until Chas caught me on a plane ride down to Florida in December.

Looking over at me, he happened to glance down upon the page I was currently reading.

He gasped.

"What are you reading?!" he asked, his face the picture of surprise.

Chas has never gotten involved in what I am reading and has been basically passive in the face of my wild and varied subject matters. The fact that my bookshelf contains books stretching a broad span of historical, mystery, self-help, physics, animal husbandry, cooking, and political theory has never fazed him. The only time he ever asked about my choice in literature was when I was reading the "Conversations with God" series and he got nervous I was going to become a Jehovah's Witness and insist he do the same based on a past trauma with an ex.

(Note: Conversations with God has absolutely nothing with Jehovah's Witnesses at all. It's actually a very enlightening read.)

Flummoxed, I slammed the Kindle book cover shut and tried to ignore him.

"It's nothing," I said.

"Nothing? I just saw the words 'cock' and 'mate'  in one paragraph, Patti."

Then he said, "Unless you've developed a particular fascination with rooster breeding in the United Kingdom or the British territories where that word means something a hell of lot different than it means here, then I can only guess you're reading porn," he surmised.

"OK, well I am just researching it, just looking into different things I am unfamiliar with..." I stuttered.

"Patti, you are 36 years old and fairly worldly, how many different things on those topics are you THAT unfamiliar with?" he pressed on.

Naturally and because, FOR ONCE, he wouldn't let it go, our friend Kelly, sitting next to me, looked over.

"You reading porn?" she asked.

"No!" I stumbled. "I am reading...adult erotica."

Kelly smiled. "So, porn, basically. Is it good?"

I glared at Chas.

He smiled and held his hands up.

"Read whatever you want, Babe, it can only help my case in the short term..." he said.

I didn't speak to him for the rest of the flight and focused instead on the airline magazine full of dull stories.

When we got to my mother's house, she noticed the tension immediately.

"Oh no, what's wrong? You two aren't fighting are you?" she queried.

"Nah, she's just upset because I caught her reading porn on her Kindle while we were on the plane," Chas reported.

My mother looked confused.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, exactly. But, really, Patti, reading porn on the airplane? Can't you at least get ahold of yourself until you're on firm ground?" she asked.

I sighed, getting ready to explain when my mother's long-term partner walked into the room.

"What's this I hear?" he said. "Patti, did I just hear Chas say that you're reading porn on your Twittle while on the plane?"

"KINDLE!!!" both Chas and I said at the same time.

Later that night, on my side in the guest bedroom and refusing to even take his hand across the mountain of sheets and blankets I had piled high between us, I heard Chas chuckle.

"You know I don't care what you read and I certainly didn't mean to embarrass you. You just were such a pain in the ass about the whole thing on giving up physical books so I had to tease you a little bit. In any case, I never meant to upset you," he whispered.

I ignored him.

"Patti? Please, Love, I am happy you enjoy your new Twittle. Really, I am." he said, suppressing a laugh.

I giggled myself and knocked down part of the mountain, looking for his hand.

"Now," he said, "tell me all about the sexual habits of roosters in the former Empire..."

I love my Kindle. And my Twittle. And smut.

So be it.