I played water polo on the boy’s team in high school. (My step-mother meanwhile regularly lamenting, “I wish you would wear some nail-polish and maybe something pink.”) I was the only woman in my physics undergraduate class. I am a network administrator in a man’s information technology world. (Footnote 1)
The other day as I sat in a ship’s conference room surrounded by blinding officers’ white (Captain, Vice Captain, Chief Engineer, Chief Electrical Engineer, Senior IT Officer, etc), 12 men, probably 30 stripes between them (rank indication), myself the only woman in the room, and in my first ever pink top no less, I could not help but be reminded of my persistent existence in a man’s world.
I used to be very comfortable in this world. I still am in many ways, but as I sat in my pink top, out of uniform, I realized I have become part of Nouveau-Feminism. The "fuck the business suits, uniforms and masculinity, I can be a girl and play in this realm” attitude. (Insert mildly aggressive/feminine hair toss to emphasize this point.) (Footnote 2)
What is perhaps so odd about this role assumption, is that, honestly, I am more comfortable in the treat-me-like-one-of-the-guys role.
Strangely, the reason I have switched roles has to do with cancer. I spent six months of 2011 breast-less, hairless and estrogen-less. Everything which from an outsider’s perspective associated me with femininity was stripped from me in my fight for my life. Suddenly, femininity, which I had spent most of my life suppressing (and compressing), along with my somewhat voluptuous female form, was taken from me.
And suddenly my need to be recognized as female was acute.
Upon return to my life, living and working almost entirely with men, I have become, “I am female, fuck you.” (I am not really sure who that fuck you is directed to, cancer, my male colleagues or just the world in general.) With that has come make-up, frilly skirts and jewelry.
I am sitting here, overlooking Livorno Italy, in high-heeled white sandals, a flowing pink top and way too tight white Italian jeans.
This new flowing pink top, the whole outfit really, part of Sorrento’s (Italy) damage to my visa, is a strange experience in a way. (By the way, Italy’s damage to my visa was extensive. As a person who would much rather hike ten miles than go to Nordstrom’s... well shopping is not one of the feminine traits I got, though maybe like pink it is starting to grow on me.) I am just not that comfortable being girly.
But the compliments on the top today have abound.
I would still say that femininity and traditionally masculine work-roles do not necessarily gel. I don't think a young woman fresh out of college could really get ahead in masculine disciplines with a feminine attire. But at this point in my career, and my life post cancer, I take a great deal of pleasure in my pink rebellion.
Stupid: The man’s world still very much exists.
Cool: Italian shopping and my personal pink rebellion.
Footnote 1: In case you are wondering, yes I love getting phone calls where the network hardware, cold-calling salesman says, “I am sorry. I was looking for your company’s network administrator. Can you please transfer me to him?” Can you say, “CLICK!” Actually, what I should do is say, “Well you got her, but I am going to have to have a word with my secretary as HE should not be transferring calls to me from sale people.” Anyway...
Footnote 2: In the sentence, "The 'fuck the business suits, uniforms and masculinity, I can be a girl and play in this realm' attitude," the choice of the word "girl" instead of "woman" was an interesting one. Somehow I feel a woman would wear a business suit and adhere to the expectations, but a girl can fly in the face of that expectation. Somehow a woman is not allowed to have that attitude.
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