One More Perspective

I am nursing a pretty hefty disappointment at the moment, a useful funk to wade through.  I know it’s necessary. 

I landed an interview for a position that would be the pinnacle of my career.  I sought the expertise and precious time of trusted, generous mentors.  I took days to prepare.  …then I blew the interview.  Let’s rewind.

For quite some time, I’ve had a problem being who I’m expected to be; I can pinpoint it back to the age of four.  I came out not as the adoring, quiet little girl my Mother had hoped for, but an outspoken, inquisitive annoyance who noticed all the things I wasn’t supposed to.  By age thirteen, I was a social outcast in Communist Hungary, where I stuck out for having a Father who intensely taught me all the ways he and our Family had suffered under that regime, and how to see through the haze of nonstop propaganda.  For years, my Father described and pointed out to me the careful power exchanges of men in charge, right down to the most subtle physical communication of dominant behavior.  My Father, through much travel we did, classical music and movies we enjoyed together, also showed me the world he wished we had lived in; and most desperately, through his transferred angst.  He methodically eradicated group-think mentality in our household and rewarded independence in all its forms.  By age thirteen, I had the geographic solo-travel range and wherewithal of a twenty-five year old.  Couple that with European culture around acceptable levels of teen socialization, and it’s hard to put that Genie back in the bottle. 

By the time I arrived in the United States at the age of fourteen, I was considered significantly worldly and behaved quite empowered, especially when compared with my small-town ninth-grade peers where I landed, in Destin, Florida.  I thought I was going to lose my mind there of cultural deprivation, and even just moving to Orlando in the spring of 1989 was a relief.  

Blame me for making friends with the wrong crowd, but somehow I fell in with these really nice young people.  My classmates taught me so much English each day, especially a dear Friend who could relate to my struggles as her Father was German and her Mother Puerto Rican, leaving the kids as the only accent-free English speakers and reliable dictionaries.  The rub?  Some of their Parents, and the Cornerstone Community Church.  Lovely, lovely people, but zero idea how to deal with youth aside from teaching them to alienate themselves from every normal human instinct they may feel.  How?  By making everything the Church Adults did not neatly endorse a one-stop-shop morality and guaranteed-hell issue for the teens.  I was just being myself, visiting occasionally with my kind, multilingual Friend at her church.  At that time, so soon following my move from Hungary to the United States, I was still quite out of context for how these Church People would view me when I was, inevitably, assessed.  I also had no reasonable basis for comparison.  My own church-related experiences were with my loving Grandfather in Hungary and with zero judgments. 

Answering their questions in 1990 at the Cornerstone Community Church (CCC), I was sharing about my life, my independence, my Hungarian Friends and our social norms.  Bam!  Like lightning had struck, the Church People of CCC unceremoniously decided I was a bad influence.  I had to be uninvited.  I was cast out for many, many compelling reasons; I was seen as too worldly, “too sophisticated” (that is a quote), but most egregiously, for my unverified but almost-certain unlawful carnal knowledge.  What a low blow.  Ultimately, the Chuch People saw me as not containable.  My Mother would have agreed.  There have been many such church visits in my life since, all ending in predictable ways.  As it turns out, I’m just not their type.

I was a high-school Senior when I earned a $1000 scholarship from the local Rotary Club to help with my declared major, Engineering.  I went to the award ceremony, dressed in accordance with what my Father taught me was intelligent dressing for smart and beautiful women, and some of the Rotary Club members took to me.  I looked the part of someone sponsorable.  I appeared to make for a good story of how the Club supported education, women, and other agendas, beneficial to them.  I understood the need to be expressive about, and was genuinely grateful for the funds.  Then another invitation for further Rotary Club engagements came, and promises of more scholarships, provided I could make time in my busy Senior year calendar to attend a banquet or two, their own fundraising, what have you.  Nothing sinister, no ill will, but still, something in me kicked in.  Whether it was the anti-propaganda training of my childhood or something else, I deeply felt these people not only didn’t know me, but they really didn’t need to nor cared to know me.  I couldn’t have put words to it then, but I sensed there would be expectations about who I’m supposed to be in order to keep earning their sponsorship, and I instinctively recoiled.

I was twenty-one when in Offcer Training School, I felt my pronounced oddity.  Not for being a woman, but quite possibly, for being an Engineer and what, to some, that implied.  Whether my personality and my 71-inch height (73 with shoes) helped or hurt, I could see how differently some of the men related to me, vs to the other women.  Specifically, I became aware I was repelling the “Hello, Little Lady!” variety of men, as I could plainly see who did catch their attention.  It seems I wasn’t giving off the vibes that attract the men who love a woman who actively appreciates how very smart, brave and/or good-looking they are.  This meant I failed to provide the necessary admiration, even if sought within the bounds of a professional interaction, required to keep me in with the most charming of the men.  There were consequences for that, but so long as there were a large number of people, I could always find my Friendly Faces; I could find my professional and personal niche.  I gravitated to the Colleagues who operated on the basis of mutual learning and mutual success.  I got along beautifully with less emotionally dependent creatures; people who didn’t need someone to lose before they could feel like the winner.  Thankfully, my class had a 120 Cadets, so I was fine.  …but I never forgot I don’t have the currency with the men who must be popular to feel important. 

When I exited active duty with the birth of my first Child, it held one significance to me, and a whole other to those around me.  I received a lot of expressed approval for doing the right thing.  In that environment in Oklahoma, it was clear why.  I was finally falling in line.  I was a nail head becoming flush in the piece of wood in which previously, I was representing a constant potential for a snag.

For the next twenty years and more, I could navigate my path by staying in large environments; large organizations, large cities; otherwise my difference as a nonconforming woman would become too sharp, too pronounced.  I battled on the personal front, too.  I was constantly fighting for my friendship with my best Friend from high-school whose Husband was a certifiable asshole, treated her as a second-class citizen, and knew he had to watch his Ps and Qs around me.  He knew I would never put up with his self-serving, thinly-veiled marital agenda, and he worked hard to keep me at arm’s length.  

My first and second Husbands woefully underestimated my willingness to leverage my education and career and go it alone, even with three Children in tow.  They, as it turned out, had expectations I would be OK with their presence primarily for show, while I held down our household and worked the same engineering jobs they did.  How long is a woman expected to do two full-time jobs before she realizes at least she will have less laundry if she boots her where-the-hell-is-he-when-I-need-him Husband?  Sure, some men want us to be independent, but not THAT independent!  Please be independent enough so you will do all of this without me, but not so independent that you realize you can do it even better without me.  Again, I was not great at doing what I was expected to do.  (Nor was I great at picking Husbands, but that’s why I am up to nine chapters in my writings here.) 

So what does any of this have to do with my bombed interview?  Simply this.  I was so very excited about the role.  It would be my honor and pleasure to work alongside their very smart, very dedicated people.  I would make significant strides by connecting people and always honoring their expertise and working on win-win strategies.  …but I forgot one thing.  I am even worse than I was a few years ago at playing the role some men, especially at the executive level (and age), expect of a woman.  I am not only out of practice, but I found in the fleeting seconds of approaching each of the six-person interview panel, I could not bring myself to contort into the winning persona modeled for me by the sole woman across the interview table.  My psyche was frazzled, and with that, it all went downhill, flying with afterburner on, into a deep canyon. 

My visual of the five rather homogeneous-looking men could not override my collision-warning signals.  I remembered why I had been successful for six and a half years in this organization before.  It was because I was incredibly fortunate to have not one, but two direct bosses who were very secure men and who in turn worked for a very capable executive who was a woman.  (…and they were all willing to prep with me for this interview despite each now working elsewhere!)  These three executives didn’t need me to play a role.  They needed me to do what I did best and continue to improve upon that.  I did my best.  I learned, I thrived, I went above and beyond.  I even oft-defended the one boss others considered a jerk because I knew why they had that perception of him.  I was getting the best of my bosses during their respective tenures, and they, not relating to me through some archaic gender-normative way, got the best of me.  …but I felt none of that equity, that mutual respect, that freedom to be me, in that interview room.  …and I delivered accordingly. 

Every Form of Refuge has its Price.  Gosh; where have I heard that before? (If you are new to my writings here, I have an entire section dedicated to it.)  Would some say I sabotaged myself?  Would some say I wasn’t qualified anyway?  Sure, and sure.  I am also happy to explore, even own those.  It makes no difference in the outcome.  There were ninety-nine facets of me, as I like to say of humans’ richness of being, who showed up to this interview and only a fraction would be considered of value, so I was in the wrong place one way or the other.  …and I would not be seeking to meet their particular expectations.  The end. 

I’ll move on.  I’ll keep looking.