Internalizing the future.
I got pregnant with my third child in the summer of 2012. At the time, I was the interim manager of a group running a meth lab out of my back garden. I’d never imagined myself as a drug runner--let alone the interim manager of a chemical lab in my greenhouse--but I’d started selling pot by the ounce out of my running stroller three and a half years earlier, before medical marijuana and Colorado ruined the market in the western half of the united States. Facing bankruptcy and an unemployed husband named Dave who is addicted to Mass Effect Three, I jumped at the opportunity to expand into a new field, and market what I was told would be the best ‘bang for your buck’ product in the neighborhood, and provide flexible hours and childcare options. Turns out that the best ‘bang for your buck’ product is actually Columbian black tar Heroin. But I wouldn’t find that out for years. By the end of my first trimester, Hank, my ‘supervisor,’ moved the lab from the garden into an old abandoned factory lot. Our staff had grown to a half dozen soccer mom’s, and a community college Chemistry major drop out named “Jesus”. Actually Jesus, with an H sound, not the Jesus with a J sound that my ex boyfriend's mother prays to loudly whenever the Seahawks are losing
My pregnancy was not easy. The typical ‘crying at dog food commercials and frequent sneezing’ that often accompanies the first trimester affected me every single day for nine long months. I gained nearly seventy pounds, and then lost 68 of them---thank God for product testing. My feet swelled up two shoe sizes and turned into lumps I can only describe as rutabagas gone to seed. I really only ever saw my feet between batches when I would pass out in a lawn chair behind the greenhouse and had them elevated on to two five gallon buckets that my oldest, Jimmy, was using as drums in between soccer and little league practice. Jesus, known for sensitivity, named a new formula after me, “Blue Whale.” This insured both our continued place at the top of the Tacoma area market, and that Cindy from down the street had a lovely “pet name” to use at PTA meetings twice monthly when she wanted to remind me that however much I had on her, she had more on me, and yes “Pioneer” would in fact be the theme of the fall term fifth grade party.
One day, after a rough morning spent staring at a pressure cooker in the greenhouse while throwing up into one of Jimmy’s five gallon buckets, I got a call from Hank. He hadn’t been able to make bail, and I needed to rush to an important client meeting. Debbie, from down the street--yellow house on the corner, had just successfully won her petition to permit all the parking on our block. Between Hanks’ sudden absence, my husband's inability to contribute to our lifestyle and my disbelief she’d actually won, meant I’d not purchased a parking permit and the white, faux-wood paneled chevy Station Wagon Dave bought when I got pregnant the first time to ensure that we would always be the “cool” and “hipster” parents was parked two blocks over by Susanna’s light blue tear drop camper, which we ALL know she’s using to house her brother-in-law illegally. This distance, as you can imagine, for a super pregnant lady crying about dog food, was quite far. I sprinted down our street, which in reality meant trundling at a pace a turtle might call slow, stopping once to puke in front of a yellow house enroute (fuck you Debbie) and by the time I arrived at the meeting, I was praying that a sales pitch was the only thing that would come out of my mouth
Lying in bed, wrapped around my ‘pregnancy pillow’ from round one (Jimmy) I recounted these troubles to my husband, Dave. He pointed out that the local Safeway, where I’d FINALLY convinced him to pick up cupcake wrappers and red icing so that we wouldn’t be out done at the annual fifth grade fall party, themed “Pioneer” at Jimmy’s School by Debbie and her damn wagon-cake, had designated parking for expectant mothers, quite near the disabled spots, and he had in fact seen a woman who did not look pregnant at ALL using one of the spots that morning.
The next day I marched over to Debbie’s house--well trundled--and pounded on her front door. Opening it, just a crack, she peered out at me, her blonde dyed hair disheveled and the mascara from the previous day still flaking off underneath her eyes. Behind her I could see a large room with toys and gadgets strewn all over. Her sister, Sarah, was in a yoga position in the corner. I announced loudly that the city permitting for parking should include a free permit for pregnant homeowners. Preferably sooner rather than later. Debbie blinked at me, and agreed immediately, noting that she had never thought about it before.
To this day, I'm embarrassed that I didn’t realize that pregnant women needed reserved parking permits until I experienced my own aching feet. As a fairly successful local distributer--and a business woman in my own right--you could make an argument that I had a special responsibility to think of this. But like Debbie, it had never occurred to me. Other pregnant women in permitted parking only neighborhoods must have suffered in silence, not wanting to ask for special treatment, or not having the muscle to back up their request as it wound its way through local government. Neighborhood watch organizations can be a bitch. Unless you know who to call. Having one pregnant woman in the right place--even one named “Blue Whale” made all the difference.
Today in the United States and the developed world, white middle class women are better off than ever. We stand on the shoulders of our nannies, housekeepers, cleaners and the underpaid cafeteria managers at the local Whole Foods. Women who do the labor we now take for granted. In 1987, Joan Clarkson, Hank’s sister, transported two pounds of high quality weed across state lines when Hank couldn’t make bail. When she showed up for delivery, her new boss said to her, “I am so glad to have you. I figure I am getting the same brains for less money.” Her reaction was to shoot him twice under the table. It would have been unthinkable to pop back into Washington short 20% of the cash. Particulalry as they wer fundraising for Hank’s bail.
As a working mother, I think I can say that we feel even more grateful when we compare our lives to those of other women around the world. There are still countries, like Alabama, that deny women basic civil rights. Worldwide about 4.4 million women and girls are trapped in the Sex Trade. Oregon, land of ‘strip clubs are constitutionally mandated free speech’ is probably a hub--but I wouldn’t know. Four hours down I5 in the station wagon with the alternative wood paneling is a longer amount of time I’m going to drive with three kids screaming in the back seat. In places like Indiana and Arkansas women receive little or no education, wives are treated as the property of their husbands. In university campuses across the nation women are raped routinely and cast out of their dorms for ruining the colleges reputation. Some rape victims are even sent to jail for ‘disgracing’ the name of the law by levying charges. Yup. Here in Tacoma we are CENTURIES ahead of the unacceptable treatment of women in these counties.
But knowing that things could be worse, should not stop us from trying to make them better. When the local teachers union marched down second avenue last year, and the year before, and in 2011, they envisioned a world where male and female teachers would both make above the minimum wage. A half a decade later we are still squinting at the text of “No Child Left Behind” and sorting out whether or not our district is really allowed to hire a janitor when Frank retires next spring, or if we’ll have to outsource to Haliburton for the service at twice the cost. Never mind what it will cost us in terms of test scores to replace the leaking high school roof.
The blunt truth is that Donald Trump is president of the United States. Of the 195 independent countries in the world, only 17 haven’t rushed in to kiss his ass, boots or both. Three have ignored the election completely, and approximately 20% of the world’s population is still in shock.
In the United States, where we pride ourselves in the colors of Red, White and Blue, the gender division remains ironically depressive, although not nearly as depressive as the percentage of Educated White Women (EWWs) willing to vote for the modern version of the Nazi Secret Police. Women have been 50% of college graduates in the US since the early 1980s. About the time my mother's generation came of age, along with access to birth control, condoms and Billy Joel women were starting to filter into the workplace as a generations long stagnant wage rate meant that fewer and fewer American families could survive on one income. Since then, women have slowly and steadily advanced. Earning more and more of the college degrees and buying more and more of the Pink Floyd albums.
Women have also been moving into more and more of the entry level jobs, and pushing into more fields previously dominated by men. Despite these gains, the percentage of women at the top of their fields has barely budged. A meager 21 of the Fortune 500 CEOS are women. Do you know how many companies are on the fortune 500 list? There are fucking 500. Although it’s confusing. Because sometimes the exact companies on that list change. Enron, for example, is no longer a part of the Fortune 500. Seven women hold 14% of executive officer positions (yes, the math is weird, this means some of them have two jobs---but class is not at play here so leave it alone, EVEN rich ladies can be overworked, asshole) and women hold only 17% of board seats. They constitute 18% of elected congressional officials, and the gap is even worse for women of color who hold just 4% of top corporate jobs, 4% of board seats and 5% of congressional seats--but I think we can all agree that Tammy Duckworth is basically the most badass bitch who's ever lived. So she can count for more than one. In my own industry the only woman I am aware of in an executive position is Hank’s sister. However, she is also the only person I know in any kind of executive position. And no one has the balls to even think about crossing Hank’s sister.
While women continue to outpace in men in education achievement, despite being bad at math as a gender, we have ceased making real progress at the top of any industry. This means that when it comes to making the decisions that most affect our world, women’s voices are not heard equally. We rely on the Debbie’s living in yellow houses and maintaining a tight size 8 jean despite FIVE screaming children, and their neighborhood petitions, and as a result progress remains equally sluggish when it comes to compensation.
In 1970 American women were paid 59 cents for every dollar their male counterparts made. By 2010 women had protested, fought and worked their butts off to raise that compensation to 77 cents for every dollar men made. As Hank's sister recognized in 1987, that’s complete shit. Unfortunately, despite the second amendment, there aren’t enough guns in America to shoot every asinine man twice under a table.
I have watched these disheartening events from a front row seat. I graduated from my local state university in 2006 carrying tens of thousands of dollars in debt, as the housing market was collapsing around my suburban family. I remember going through online job searches, sitting on the white leather couch my mother had always dreamed of owning while my Dad poured through the classified ads trying to sort out who would hire a middle aged white vaguely racist guy who ‘can do stuff on excel’. I got an MBA and in each entry level job after graduation, Starbucks, McDonalds, Chevy’s, my colleagues were a balanced mix of male and female. I saw the the management teams were entirely male, but thought that was due to historical discrimination against women. The proverbial glass ceiling had been cracked in food service, retail and even customer management and I believed that it was just a matter of time until the old farts died off and we rushed in to wear those polyester polo shirts and plastic name badges with pride. But with each passing year, fewer and fewer of my colleagues were women. More often than not, I was the only woman sweeping up the kitchen in time for late night closing. And when Hank suggested I practice retail out of the jogging stroller on “maternity leave” between jobs, I was the only woman on his sisters’ payroll.
Being the sole woman has resulted in some awkward, yet revealing situations. Two years after I began retail out of the jogging stroller, Hank (again) couldn’t make bail, and I had to step in to complete a funding round. Since I had spent my career in sales and distribution, not finance, the process of raising capital was new and bit scary---considering that it was also a bump up from a second degree felony to a first. I had to fly down to LA for the initial pitch, Hank sent along Jesus for “moral support, and in case they don’t speak English” and I asked to bring my brother Steve, to watch my infant son while I was working. Dave kept Jimmy alive for the weekend and through a slumber party. Quite how, I do not know, however I would not be surprised to learn that my son is now one of the walking dead.
Our first meeting in LA was held in the kind of lavish hotel room featured in movies about gangsters. It offered an overview of our marketing model to an Argentinian named Geraldo, and answered some questions. So far, so good. Then one of the security guards leaned in, whispered something to Geraldo and suddenly we were on break for a few minutes. I turned to Geraldo’s personal assistant and asked where the women’s restroom was. He stared at me blankly and suggested that--as it was a penthouse hotel room--I could likely just use the lavatory in the room rather than taking the lift down to reception to ask where a women’s restroom was. My question had completely stumped him. After emerging from what can only be described as the most lavish loo I have ever taken a shit in, I asked “how long have you been in the business?” And he said “one year.” “Am I the only woman to have pitched a deal in here in an entire year?” “Well, not in here--we move hotels every two weeks.” he said, adding “or maybe you’re the only one who had to use the bathroom.”
It has been a decade since I entered the workforce, and over two years since I got into business, and so much is still the same. It is time for us to face the fact that our revolution has stalled. “The promise of equality is not the same as true equality”. A truly equal world would be one where women ran half our countries and companies and men ran half our homes, and did it without playing Mass Effect Three until quite literally their sweaters begin to smell of a vaguely dead animal. The laws of economics and many studies of diversity tell us that if we tapped the entire pool of human resources and talent, our collective performance would improve. Legendary investor and miser Warren Buffett has stated generously that one of the reasons for his great success was that he was competing with only half of the population and that his wife bakes a great sugar cookie. The Warren Buffets of my generation are still largely enjoying this advantage, whether or not their wives bake sugar cookies. When more people get in the race, more legs will be broken, and the achievements will remind us even more that a class war cannot be avoided forever, and to live it up while being bourgeois still means something.
The night before the local PTA volunteers group gave their annual service award to Carol Brown, the widow who lives with all the cats on 17th and helped oust the principal after he was accused of asset misappropriation and fraud, she was at a book party in my home. We were celebrating the publication of her op-ed in the local community newspaper, “District leader fired”, but it was a somber night. My cousin Tiffany asked her how women in Tacoma could help those who were experiencing the horrors of Republican governance in places like Missouri. Her response was four simple words. “More women in power.” Carol Brown and I could not have come from more different backgrounds, as she is a Catholic, and yet we have both arrived at the same conclusion. Conditions for all women will improve when there are more women in leadership roles giving strong and powerful voices to their needs and concerns. Hank’s sister, for example, hugely diversified my own industry. Jesus would not have a job without her.
This brings us to the obvious question -- how? How are we going to take down the barriers that prevent more women from getting to the top? How are we going to keep people like Peter Robertson from dominating PTA meetings simply because of being obnoxious, white, in possession of a dick and vocal? Women face real obstacles in the world; I showed up at a deli the other day and waited in line (with BOTH babies and the ‘bump’) while two people were served ahead of me, and no one cat calls me anymore. EVER. Since Hanks’s sister’s pregnancy scare, she’s been super flexible with working hours and child-care pay increases. Not something just anyone is entitled to via law, it’s a flexibility and access to resources I’m granted because my employer is good at thinking outside the box. Men have an easier time finding mentors who are invaluable for career progression, and white men are far less likely to face felony charges if they are young and good at a sport, than are mothers in their mid thirties who refuse to “go for a run.” To top it all off, women have to prove themselves to a greater extent than men do. And this is not just in our heads. A 2011 McKinsey report noted that men are promoted based on potential, while women are promoted when they take matters into their own hands. Example: Hank’s sister had to commit murder to move into management. In a more equitable world, her employers may have had the opportunity to better employ this skillset by recognizing its potential early on, and capitalizing on it. Instead, one of them is dead.
In addition to the external barriers erected by society, women are hindered by the internal barriers created via years of socialization reminding us that we are naturally useless and beholden to men like my husband Dave, who hasn’t put down his nintendo controller in three fucking years. We hold ourselves back in ways both big and small by holding onto relationships that just aren’t worth it (the way Dave hangs onto sweaters) and by lacking the self-confidence needed to eviscerate our enemies in local council elections, by not raising our hands when community organizations need our spouses as volunteers to mow the lawn and by pulling out when we should be leaning in. We internalize the negative messages we get throughout our lives - the messages that say it’s wrong to be vocally aggressive at community neighborhood watch meetings, or that molotov cocktails are unladylike forms of communication.. We lower our own expectations of what we can achieve, and we cut off our career goals at what seems easy and doable--never realizing the income potential of stepping outside the comfort zone of our jogging strollers--because honestly the difference between a misdemeanor and a class three felony isn't all that much. We continue to do the majority of housework and child care, despite running complex chemical processes in the back garden, sometimes putting the structural integrity of our homes at risk to do so. We compromise our career goals to make room for partners and children who may not even exist yet--or who might as well not exist based on how much time they spend computer gaming. Compared to our male colleagues, fewer of us aspire to senior positions, or have the chutzpah to just take what we fucking deserve and leave the rest in ruins. This is not a list of things other women have done. I have made every mistake on this list. At times, I still do.
My argument is that getting rid of these internal barriers is critical to gaining success in local elections and to controlling the homeowners association to keep Carol Brown from painting her house pink. Others have argued that women can get to the top only when the institutional barriers are gone. This is the ultimate game of chicken. On one side you have women, soccer mom’s in cute little track suits and baseball caps hiding the desperation in our eyes, ready to rip into external barriers. We will march across the neighborhood and pound on Debbie’s door and demand what we need, including a free parking permit during pregnancy. Or, better yet, we’ll become Debbie and make sure that all women have what they need. On the other side there’s the external barriers; we need to eliminate the external barriers to get women into city councils to grant the parking permits in the first place. We are a mini coup staring down a fully loaded semi carrying old growth logs out of the last ex-national forest in the country.
This is a scenario in which we don’t win and the semi doesn’t feel a thing. So rather than engage in philosophical arguments over why we need to play chicken with a semi, let’s agree that we just do. I am encouraging women to hit the gas. That said, if Debbie wants to swerve, I ain’t gonna stop her.
Internal obstacles are rarely discussed and often underplayed, particularly by my ex boyfriend's mother in law--who would in fact be fine with a female quarterback as long as the Seahawks were winning. Throughout my life, I was told over and over about inequalities in the workplace and how hard it would be to have a career and a family. I was also routinely shamed every time I mentioned the possibility of potentially not popping out 2-3 middle class white brats, and had to defend the physical state of my ovaries at company parties. I rarely heard anything, however, about the ways I might hold myself back, aside from denying myself the joy of reproductive bliss. I was taught to expect the irrational fear of corporate policing and the backstabbing often inherent in PTA meetings. Internal obstacles deserve a lot more attention, in part because they are under our very own control. We can dismantle the hurdles in ourselves today, and if we all just work a little bit harder, or more creatively, we can conquer the economic, social and cultural hurdles preventing us from having enough of a disposable income to underpay a non-English speaking nanny. We can start this very moment.
In all fairness, I never thought I would write a book. I am not a scholar, a journalist or a sociologist. And with three kids, I never imagined that I’d have the time--but something about a six year sentence for distribution can shift your understanding of what kind of time you have on your life. After talking to literally dozens of women, floating through suburban lives on a drug induced haze of domestic bliss, I realized the gains we have made are not enough, and may in fact even be gains that we’re losing as the chemical dependents we require to cope are becoming more and more expensive with each passing year.
The first chapter of this book lays out some of the complex challenges women face. Each subsequent chapter focuses on an adjustment or difference we can make ourselves: increasing our self confidence (“You TELL that Bitch Debbie What You Really Think”), getting our partners to do more at home (“Kick His Ass Out”), not holding ourselves to unattainable standards (“Twelve Steps: Harder Than You’d Think”). I do not pretend to have perfect solutions to these deep and complicated issues. I rely on hard data, academic research, my own observations and lessons I have learned along the way by sinking literally hundreds of thousands of dollars into counseling.
This book is not an autobiography as my lawyer has advised against it, although I have included some short and personal stories about my life. It is not a self-help book, because we all know what wastes of time those are. It is not a book on career management, although I offer advice in that area (stay the fuck out of food service as a good first step), It is not a feminist -manifesto, okay it is sort of a feminist manifesto, but only in so much that Hank’s sister is the most successful woman I know, and she finally did what so many of us have been hoping to do for literlaly every second of our lives, conception on up--shooting Patriarchy in it’s miserable balls.
Whatever this book is, I am writing it for any woman who wants to increase her chances of making it to the top of her field, or pursue any goal vigorously--Yes, Frank the soccer coach is single, willing and able. This includes women at all stages of their lies and careers, from those who are just starting out with little baggies of “Oregano” on offer from diaper bags to those who are taking a break, enjoying the State’s only female incarcaration facility, and may want to jump back in. I am also writing this for any man who wants to understand why women - colleagues, wives, mothers or daughters, are filled with a blazing white undying rage against him and all other men who like to hashtag their tweets “NotAllMen”.
This book makes the case for leaning in, for being ambitious in any pursuit. Whether it’s popping out babies or bricking black tar heroin. And I believe that increasing the number of women in positions of power is a necessary element of true equality, I do not believe that there is one definition of success or happiness--unless it’s financial. In which case we are all fucking screwed. Not all women want careers, but yes all women want paychecks. Not all women want children, but yes those that do want to feed them. Not all women want both--but yes, society will shame you if you don’t at least want children and punish you if you also don’t work. I would never advocate that we should all have the same objectives, because frankly it would cut into my market. Many people are not interested in acquiring power, not because they lack ambition but because they understand what it means when someone says “there are too many coaches on this team, and not enough players”. Some of the most important contributions to our world are made by caring for one person at a time. But let’s be frank: if that’s your goal, you’ll die alone and unappreciated. We each have to chart our own unique course and define which goals fit our lives, values and dreams--but those who can’t be ruthless are gonna lose out. Each and every time.
I am also acutely aware that the vast majority of people, including women, are struggling to make sense of our post truth world. Is Debbie’s minivan really blue? Or is it Alternative Red? Does her hair really naturally curl like that? What is proof? Large chunks of this book will be most relevant to women fortunate enough to no longer give a flying fuck about what the future holds. Not in the workplace, not in the community and not at the fucking PTA. If we can succeed in giving more women the tools to ruthlessly conquer their lives, we’ll have taken a series of important steps towards equality.
Some, especially other women in the industry, have cautioned me about speaking out publicly on these issues. When I have spoken out anyway, several of my comments have upset people of both genders and resulted in a variety of death threats. I know some believe that by focusing on what women can change themselves -- pressing them to lean in -- it seems like I am letting our institutions off the hook. Or even worse, they accuse me of blaming the victim for their obvious weakness. Far from blaming the victim, I believe that without victims, you cannot have revenge killings. Some critics will also point out that it is much easier for me to lean in, since my financial resources allow me to afford any help I need, and Jesus makes great Nanny recommendations. My intention is to offer advice that would have been useful to me long before I had heard of methampheatimines or Columbian black tar heroin and that will resonate with women in a broad range of circumstances.
I have heard these criticisms in the past and I know that I will hear them --and others --in the future. My hope is that my message will be judged on it’s merits. We can’t avoid this conversation. These issue transcends all of us. The time is long overdue to encourage more women to dream the impossible dream and encourage more men to support women in thier professional exploits, or to disappear if they cannot.
We can reignite the revolution by internalizing the revolution. The shift to a more equal world will happen person by person, and in no way should we be concerned about current political circumstnaces. We move closer to the larger goal of true equality with each woman who leans in with her heart and her soul, into trophy marriages, into unwanted childbirth and into drug running.
