poeticdesires

Category: Work

  • 1.29.17 Reparations

    With every drink, every bite of food, and every alien slaughtered, one thing was on my mind: REPARATIONS, bitch.

    Some background.

    I make a point to go to at least one company holiday party every year. As I’ve mentioned before, all the companies I work for are owned by white men. (Side Note: This just changed in the past month. One is now owned by a woman; progress.)

    This year, one party was planned for the end of January after the big push of gigs for the inaugural season. At this party, there is always free food and free booze. However, the venue was a Dave & Busters. I was not going to miss out.

    To hedge my bet on having fun, I asked a black female friend to be my plus one. I am already surrounded by A LOT of white people for work. Being social with them was going to be a bit much. I chose correctly. When we arrived, we doubled the number of black people in the room.

    Food was buffet style and okay. We got drink tickets we could use for our own private bartender for the party. It was on. Two hours into the four hour party, we smoothly asked the office manager for more drink tickets. She still had a large stake and we were not going to miss out.

    Venturing onto the gaming floor, we found a cornucopia of shooter games. There was also skee ball and movie themed fun. There is just something so empowering about walking around with a drink in one hand and loud noises and bright lights inviting you in.

    Last call was fifteen minutes before the end of the party. There was a long line of folks trying to cash in the last of their drink tickets. With mine, I received four kamikaze shots and was on my way. Back in the dining area, we discovered there were to-go boxes. I loaded up on bread and meat. Then the wait staff kindly pushed us out. They had yet another party to setup for.

    Next there was more games and a trip to the ticket redemption room. I opted to keep my tickets for next time. They had run out of Minion dolls.

    All told, our collective company tab was high and we ate well.

    I will take whatever free things I can from the white man. These parties may be my only chance to claw back just a little bit for the ancestors.

  • Not Okay

    I recently had a conversation with a coworker that has been nagging me.

    Some background: I work for assholes. All of the companies I work for are owned by, and run by, cis het white men. Their styles vary, giving me different forms of sexism and misogyny to deal with. I take the bullshit in stride.

    The conversation I had with my coworker was about one of my bosses. This boss is, on occasion, verbally and physically abusive to his workers, but never to the extent that someone has pressed charges. He is an asshole that we all deal with because you have to pay rent. Unfortunately, some of his sleaziness is just beyond the pale. I’ve listened to stories from other female workers that make me want to hurt him. But I say nothing because my finances are tenuous.

    As I spoke with my coworker, a guy, he kept joking about how bad our boss is. Every time he tried to laugh off some shitty thing our boss did, I kept saying “That’s not okay.” I compared the examples he brought up to an abusive relationship.

    Another coworker chimed in with an observation: People don’t last in his organization. The second coworker asked me to think about all the people who don’t work for our boss anymore. I hadn’t noticed because I don’t work for this company as much as I do for others, but the second coworker was right.

    I don’t even know why I’m writing this other than to exorcise the frustration I feel towards the situation. Even when you see something is obviously wrong, solving the process seems impossible when you have no recourse to fix it.

    I am thankful that, hopefully, I’ll soon be in a different situation in life, but what about the other women in my industry dealing with his bullshit?

    I play this twisted game every time I work. When I hear a sexist comment or a gross joke about women, I check my watch. I want to see how long it takes into the call for this to happen, because it will happen. The shortest it’s ever taken is five minutes before we even started as we waited to begin. I don’t even try to count the number of times; that would be too laborious.

    It is always worse when I’m the only woman on the crew, which is often. It rarely happens when the lead is a certain woman. She is sweet and kind and loved by most everyone. It happens quick and often when it is another lead. She is strong and confident and doesn’t give a fuck about what people think. I like her a lot. I like them both a lot, actually, because when I work for them I am respected. I don’t feel that very often in my job.

    My favorite male leads respect women. My work crushes respect women. The combined list fits on one hand.

    I don’t know how this gets better except to keep trying to have uncomfortable conversations. If I ever get through to someone is anyone’s guess.

    [Okay, now a confession: Before I learned just how bad this boss was, I wanted to fuck him. I still get the twinge when I see him. He is an asshole, but in the kind of way that pushes my kinky buttons. I know he would be mean and nasty in the ways I like in bed. But, and this is a huge but, big enough that I have not gone there: I don’t trust him. After the things I’ve heard, I wonder if he’d accept my no or stop when I ask him to. Without trust, there is nothing. So, as much as he turns me on, he also turns me off in the same breath. Sad Poetic and her horny self regret his asshole-ishness; these legs are closed to his type of horrible.]

  • Three Guys At Work

    The 1st guy

    “To make these fit, there’s a trick. You have to marry them together.”
    “I wouldn’t call it marrying. I’d more say they were…”

    I was tired. You could probably even say cranky. My day started with a 6am setup. Continued with a 3pm focus call. And now ended with a 10pm breakdown that didn’t actually start til 11pm. I just wanted to go home. But we had to get shit done.

    And he was new. So I got it. He was trying to be playful. Trying to make me smile. But, tonight, that wasn’t going to happen until the truck was packed, I’d initialed my timesheet, and was walking back to my car.

    “Please, not tonight. No vulgar jokes tonight. Normally I’d roll with it, let it ride, but just not tonight.”
    “It’s just marrying seems too permanent for their situation.”
    “Yeah. Right.”

    I finished piling the lights in the bin and moved onto another project.

    The 2nd guy


    “No. Stop. Don’t put those in there. They don’t go in there.”
    “Why?”
    “Because the four with bases go in there. Those go with the others with clamps.”
    “Fine. You don’t have to get an attitude about it.”

    I don’t like him. Not anymore.

    At a certain point I did. I thought he was a decent tech, a decent crew lead. And then I worked with him once where I was his crew lead. He was passive aggressive. A couple of times he outright ignored me when I asked him questions. Thankfully I haven’t had to deal with him as my crew since.

    And, since, I haven’t liked him at all.

    So, when I was trying to tell him why he was making a mistake. When I tried to point out his error. When I tried to go against his laziness (because that’s what it was). When I tried to instruct him in the proper way to pack that particular case, since I’d been there all day (one of only three who had), he said I was giving him “attitude”.

    I was just happy I didn’t curse him out right there. Though, to be fair, I’m too nice. Even to people who don’t deserve it. I’ll turn my back and mutter expletives to myself before I stand face-to-face with you, telling you how I really feel. I view that as being polite. I’m sure some of them see it as being weak. And to that, I say, fuck them. My Mom raised me right.

    I spoke maybe three words to that guy for the rest of the gig.

    In my opinion, his problem is that he’s pretty. Very pretty, in fact, so people will often let him have his way. Even when he’s wrong. But, lately, not just I have noticed when he fucks up. And he’s getting on more than just my nerves.

    The 3rd guy


    “Ooo, are you taking that home?”

    He carried a small vase of purple tulips left behind by the florists. He held it up by his face and playfully stroked the buds.

    “Would you like one?”
    “Normally I don’t accept gig flowers, but sure.”

    He picked one out of the vase and gave it to me. Another female employee walked over and commented on the flowers. He offered her one as well, which she accepted.

    We pushed the last few cases towards the freight elevator.

    As we waited behind another company, the group was finally in good spirits. Though we had started late, we were close to finished, having worked really hard to get everything broken down.

    When we reached the truck, and pushed the last case on, a wave of relief washed over me. Long day done.

    Everyone congregated by the crew lead and waited to initial our timesheetsReacher novel (which I could barely put down all day), in my hands. The purple against the white and red of the cover looked almost artistic. I smiled to myself, happy I’d brought the book inside to help pass the time of the hour wait before we started, and now knowing I’d be able to get back to it soon.

    After everyone initialed, we slowly disbursed.

    “What are you going to do with them,” I asked him, referring to his small vase of tulips.
    “I don’t know. Hey, do you want them?”

    He held it out for me.

    “Um, sure.”

    I took the vase, put my flower back inside it.

    I smiled, and remembered, Not every guy I work with is an asshole.

  • Groan

    Waking up and my elbow aches because, in the middle of the night, I turned over and ended up sleeping on it funny. And now that I’m awake, I can’t just drift back into a snooze-ful slumber because the pain, though not debilitating, is annoying enough to distract me.

    Trying to snooze for an hour, only to finally give up, brush my teeth, and hop back into bed.

    Gray sky outside is foreboding. I wonder if it will rain. No running today.

    I sit up on my bed, pull out my netbook, and look up information for an open call for submissions. Jotting down the requirements, ideas for my story pop into my head. Revisiting an idea I had yet to flush out, I realize it’s perfect. I start typing.

    And then I stop. The ache in my arm is gone, replaced now with a desire to go back to sleep. But I know it will not be in my best interest; too many things to do before work.

    And then I remember how I felt the night before as I tried to go to sleep. And I realize, “Shit, I have to dealing with feelings. Stupid stupid feelings. There went my morning.”

    I open my netbook back up. I type more, no longer caring about cadence or developing a story. I type my thoughts, all the feelings, until I have pages on my screen of the things I tried to ignore. All the things I hoped would be lost in my dreams.

    I read the words back. I edit, add to, and save the document.

    I do it again for other feelings, less impactful thoughts that still warrant some time. I flush it all out before I have to be more productive. I run out of time for more fun writing.

    I get up. I throw on work clothes. I eat food. I watch a touch of NetFlix. I mend my work pants cause I don’t want to buy new ones yet. I leave for work.

    Outside today. I find a parking spot not effected by rush hour. I wait til closer to my call time. I keep a look out for meter maids. I try not to bake in my car. I pay the meter. I walk to the site. I work.

    And work.

    And work.

    Four hours, what I was slated for, turns into five. And six.

    I get really pissed. I cancel my dinner plans. I reschedule for Wednesday. I try to not yell at people who are being stupid. I remind myself I’m angry because my blood sugar has dropped. And I’m working outside. And my job sucks sometimes. I breathe.

    I end work at the 6.5hr mark. I try not to be mad anymore since I am on my way home.

    I drive a friend to their car. I buy fast food, cause at this point I really don’t give a shit.

    I sit on my couch with a roommate watching Nathan Fillion and Stana Katic be awesome. I feel better about my life.

    I finish my food. I finish the show. I clean up some in the kitchen. I drag my ass upstairs to my bedroom.

    And then I realize, after I start taking off my disgusting work clothes, that my clean clothes are downstairs in the dryer. GROAN. No bed just yet.

    I drag my ass downstairs. I retrieve my clothes. I come back upstairs.

    Brush my teeth. Get into bed. Open my netbook. Type. Wish I had more time to write, but a 6am call looms.

    The good news: I learned today I was accepted into community college. Maybe less groaning in my future?

  • Frustrated

    I hated my job tonight.

    The short version is that someone else fucked up but I get the blame for the screw up.

    I thought I did everything right tonight. Even with the pop up issues. Even with the running back to the warehouse for more equipment, rushing to finish everything on time. I thought I got it right.

    And then I learned I didn’t because of one small lapse.

    The worst was the condescension in the voice of the persons pointing out my error. I kept myself from crying. I didn’t want to give the air of loathing surrounding me the joy of seeing my pain. I gathered up my equipment and got out of there as quick as I could.

    I keep playing the decision over and over in mind. If I had just… If only I’d… Why didn’t he just…

    You can drive yourself mad with What Ifs.

    Now I’m just left with fatigue and frustration. At my job. At the gentleman who didn’t do his. At the women who treated me like an ill-informed fresh-off-the-boat oh-aren’t-you-so-cute-but-you’re-wrong-and-I’m-gonna-take-the-time-to-point-out-your-wrong-wrongness idiot.

    I hated tonight. When I signed out, even with the large amount of hours for which I’ll get paid, I was mad. Mad because I know I’ll have to keep doing this for the foreseeable future. It will be at the very least two years of community college and a few years of medical school where I’ll need this job to get by.

    I appreciate that I have this job, knowing there are so many others who don’t. But sometimes this job feels like an abusive relationship I just can’t get out of. I know it pays my bills. I know it keeps a roof over my head and food on my table. I am grateful for that, really. But when do you say, “Enough is enough?”

    Will it have to be like my serving days? Nightmares about customers. Getting yelled at and cursed out to my face. Finding a corner to cry in, only to come back to work to finish my shift. I don’t want that.

    I nearly cried tonight. Because of my job.

    So I will probably get a complaint lodged against me because of the incident. That will make two in my last two gigs.

    I got a phone call from my boss during Frolicon stating I had been doing a good job, but could I not talk about my personal life. Apparently someone had complained about me talking about my extracurricular activities. That is a whole other can of worms I do not want to open right now before I pass out to a hopefully blissful sleep. But I have to say, the mere fact that I tolerate shitty misogynistic comments by guys all the time yet I am reprimanded for talking about my life. Hypocrisy much?

    Its nights like tonight that remind me this is not the sum total of my life. I don’t live to work; I work to live.

    This is not what I will be doing ten years from now. This is not my future. This job does not define me.

  • Work

    There is this guy I occasionally work with.

    He’s not the most attractive man. Not particularly muscular or athletic in any way. He doesn’t have a face you’d think of as handsome per say.

    It’s his eyes; the knowing behind them. And his demeanor; it’s always obvious who’s in charge.

    Every time I work with, without fail, the thoughts come.

    Recently I was standing in a hallway waiting for a freight elevator to return to the floor. I leaned against the wall, my arms behind me, my hands resting at the small of my back, my hips just a bit forward.

    I knew he would be on that elevator when it returned. Instantly my mind painted the scene.

    The doors opening. He’d see me, be looking at me already, right in my eyes, as the doors parted. He step straight towards me, pin me against the wall, gripping my arms. He’d lean down (He’s much taller than me) and have this sinister look on his face. I wouldn’t know if he was sizing me up or just debating what he wanted to do first.

    He’d kiss me, taking the embrace rather than sharing a moment of pleasure. His nails would dig a little harder into skin. He’d bite my lip, pull on the skin as he stared at me dead in my eyes, daring me to react. I wouldn’t flinch, wouldn’t whimper. Not yet.

    He’d unbuckle my belt, slip his hand in. Then I’d whimper.

    My lip free, I’d instinctively close my eyes, lose myself in the dance of his fingers on my clit, his digits so close to my pussy. One long slow caress of my wet lips.

    And then he’d bring his hand up, right to my face. I’d open my eyes, and lick my essence off of his fingers. I would demonstrate for him what I hoped would be in my future, another of his appendages in my mouth. My tongue licking the way I knew men loved. Rolling my tongue ring all over, flicking it across the tip of his finger.

    He’d grip my hair, punishment for my brattiness. The resolve would return to my face. He’d take hold of my chin, tilt my head up. His eyes burning through me.

    “Get to work,” he’d say. And I would enjoy my labor.

    Every time I come home from a gig where he is on it, without fail, my panties are soaked.

  • Why?

    I’ve been asking myself that question a lot lately, mostly because of a friend’s influence, although Doc has been encouraging it as well.

    In regards to my theatrical career, there is one person who I believe owes most of the credit for my current circumstance: Mr. David Kriebs. He was the Production Manager for the Performing Arts Center at my college, and, on the first day of my first college Theatre Tech class, he uttered a sentence I will never forget: “We eat.”

    It was his pithy explanation of being a techie. We get jobs. We don’t wait for callbacks. We don’t hem and haw over whether or not the casting director liked us. We work.

    And, for the first time, I thought about theatre as a viable career. Nevermind that I loved to act, would later learn I had a knack for directing, and had been writing since age seven. With Kriebs’ one line, a seed had been planted. I could work as a techie for a living.

    It doesn’t really matter that I didn’t drop my Math major for another year. I was already heading down the path, already set in the life I would live.

      “The question to ask, before you chuck it all to go raise horses in the desert or climb trees for a living, is: why? Take a look at where you are, because on some level there was something about being there that you wanted. Some quality about it reflects some desire within yourself, and that’s why you made things the way they are…

    It’s important to know what parts of our lives are subsidized by the habits and environments we cultivate. Because change is gonna happen regardless; it’s probably a good idea to only help it along when you’re sure it’s worth the risk.” – Gray, from The Danger of Desire, Love.Life.Practice.

    The problem, though, is that I sat up a false narrative in my mind with David’s sage words. Techie equals job, pay, making a living. Acting equals maybe job, maybe pay, hard living.

    I never gave myself the chance to be an actor, never gave myself the chance to explore that desire I had to be on stage, in the limelight, baring my soul for the world. Funny enough, my fears about relationships mirror my fears about being an actor: letting people in, letting people see me, raw, unfiltered, and their judgement that was sure to come.

    Now, being a freelance tech, there are many reasons why I have kept this job. A big allure is the freedom. I’m never stuck at a desk, never bound by a steady nine to five life. FOMO, fear of missing out, haunts me at times. This job makes it less a likelihood. I won’t lose my job no matter how much time I take off.

    But now, thinking about a life I am pursuing where I know I will be sacrificing so much freedom, so many events I would normally attend, doesn’t scare me. What scares me now is the thought of what I could’ve been if I had tried a little harder, made different decisions.

    When it comes to medicine, there was something more insidious in my aversion of that path. It was my family, their influence, that pushed me astray. Two prominent female figures in my life, my mother and my cousin Ella, led me away from that dream.

    I was in my early teens when once Ella asked me, point blank, “How would you feel if someone died on your table?” I didn’t have an answer to her question. In my mind, that meant I was not capable of being a doctor, because surely others had thought of this and knew how they would react, knew that they could handle it. I didn’t know how I would react, if I could take it, if it would break me. I still don’t.

    But then there was the subtle nudge of my mother. Her example of being less than. Once, when I was young, mentioning wanting to be a doctor, thinking about following in my father’s footsteps, and her asking me to not say that. Somehow insinuating it wasn’t “right”, whatever that is. I don’t know if my mother was ashamed of her life, of her role that she played as the loving mistress, but I suspect whatever reservations she had she unknowingly tried to pass onto me.

    And now I’m here, in a job that pays my bills but I do not love, knowing I could be more.

    Now I am starting a journey of trying to be something else, something closer to what I imagined when I was younger, something closer to what I hope will be better for those around me and the world as a whole. Because soon I’ll be 30. And then 40. And then 50. And in the precious time I have on this earth, I want to be doing something I love rather than something I’m good at or something that is just safe.

  • Normal

    I went to a company holiday party last night.

    I went to Happy Hour first, had drinks with friends, and made plans for the holidays, but then I left earlier than normal and found my way to the bowling alley where the event was held. It was hosted by one of the half dozen companies I work for, and, funny enough, the one I’ve worked for the longest.

    Driving over, I was a bit nervous. Not as nervous as I could have been, considering I had two drinks before leaving Happy Hour, which relaxed me a bit. But still, I was little nervous.

    The company hosting the event is the same company that my Ex works for. On the drive there, I was worried about making it before the party ended, and making sure the guy I was selling a scarf to* would be there. But also needling in the back of my head was whether or not I would see my Ex.

    I was arriving late, fully 2.5hrs into a 4hr party. And last time I checked, my Ex didn’t have a car. Maybe he wouldn’t be there. Maybe I would show up, get my $25 from scarf guy, have a free drink or two, and leave. Maybe things would be okay.

    Well, they were okay, but not for the reasons I listed above.

    It was rainy. And not the fun-light-playful rainy. It was cold-windy-puddle-making rainy; decidedly not fun. I parked my car and sprinted into the bowling alley.

    First thing I noticed, when I got inside, was that this was a nice bowling alley. New-ish carpet, mood lighting, and monitors in front of all the lanes as well as at the ends of the alleys. Okay, I thought. Guess they weren’t skimping when they picked this place.

    I looked left and glimpsed a “Private Bowling Lanes” sign above a set of French doors. Walking inside, I saw familiar faces. The first that caught my eye was my favorite work friend who I immediately walked towards.

    “You’re not wearing pants.”
    “No.”
    “This is my first time seeing you not wear pants.”
    “Yes, I have a strict no pants policy when I’m not working.”

    I was wearing my comfy gray skirt, red tank top, white snap shirt, awesome black & gray stripped socks, my purple flats, and my Santa hat. I gave him a big hug; then we began chatting.

    But almost as soon as I struck up a conversation with him, I saw movement in my periphery. It was my Ex. He stepped towards me, leaned in, gave me a hug, and said, “Hi. You look really cute.” I hugged him back and then we parted. He walked away while I stayed with my work friend.

    To say that I was shocked would be to both over and under state my mental-ness at that moment. I was surprised that 1) he made a gesture of pleasantries towards me, 2) that it seemed warm and genuine, & 3) that it felt… normal.

    It was just so normal.

    We didn’t speak again for the rest of the night, which was fine; I can’t say we have anything to talk about. But there was never a cross word, never a leering look, never anything negative to speak of. I hung out with my group of work friends; he hung out with his. I genuinely had a good time.

    All my nerves leading up to that moment now seemed silly, and, having had that simple interaction makes me hopeful that things are okay with us. Not perfect, because no breakup is perfect, but okay. And that’s pretty cool, considering how far we’ve come.

    So…yay. We made it to normal. It only took three years, but we made it to normal.

    *So I’ve sold two scarves this season, and have an order for a third. Super awesome!

  • Shadow Career

    Sometimes I hate my job.

    I know this is true of most people. I suppose it’s been true of just about every job I’ve had. There comes a point when all I want to do is scream at someone or to someone. I need to release my pain. I need to tell people how much I hate my life when I am functioning in this work capacity. But that release never happens.

    What does happen is I question my staying. I question coming to work the next day. I question if this is what I want to keep doing. And my hatred for my job increasing almost every day after.

    Recently I’ve had some shitty gigs. I was under staffed. Had little time. The gear wasn’t correct. The client was demanding. You name it, I’ve probably dealt with it.

    With me being in a leadership position, all the stress of my job gets heaped onto me. It’s my responsibility to get everything set and ready by the time guests walk through the doors. It’s my responsilibity to guide my crew, delegate projects, and do the hard parts of the job, the parts no one else is willing to. It all falls on me.

    Lately I’ve been wondering if it’s worth it. Is the extra pay really worth all the extra stress?

    One element that hasn’t helped is my current relationship status, as in none.

    When I was with my Ex, it was very hard to go to load outs at night. I’d leave him, watching some random thing on tv, knowing he’d be asleep by the time I got home. I’d eat dinner with him, knowing there was a count down until I had to go. I hated it.

    Since we broke up, I’ve realized how much harder it is to go through a busy seasn without that emotional support. For as many faults as he had (and there were many), there was still that person I would come home to and bitch about my day. And he always had this uncanny way of building me back up. He encouraged me, told me how great I was at my job, how kickass I was as a tech.

    I have no desire to go back to my Ex. None. But I do miss the pep talks. The cuddles at night. The arms to hold onto me when I was ready to cry from all the stress.

    NaNoRiMo is coming up. I’m going to be participating for the first time. I have my novel idea flushed out fairly well in my head, as well as some notes jotted down on paper.

    I am a writer. And, lately, every time I’ve been at work I’ve asked myself, Why am I doing this? Why am I here? I should be writing.

    Gray has been needling me lately. After I mentioned how I contemplated being a doctor when I was younger, he’s tried to push me to research more about going back to school. He’s said, and this is very true, people don’t leave their positions in life until it gets too hard for them to stay.

    I don’t think I’ll become a doctor, but I am coming to a point where staying in my current job is close to unbearable.

    I am a writer. I know this in my bones. It’s time I do more than this blog, more than talking about being a paid author. It’s time I actually do it.

    It’s time for me to commit to my real career and let my shadow career fall away. It’s time for me to be a writer.

  • The Question

    “You work for X?”
    “Yes.”
    “How are they with women?”

    I was taken aback by the older woman’s question. We had had no previous conversation, no words spoken at all between us. I was not in charge of the crew that day. Quite the opposite actually, having spent the past two hours working on my hands and knees on the floor setting up and wiring twenty-five uplights.

    As soon as this unknown woman (who I believe was the client) asked this question, I did the only thing I could in the moment: I smiled, said, “Yes,” and got back to work.

    There was no way I could honestly or fully answer her question. She stood next to two of my bosses, chatting about the event happening that evening. I was low man on the totem pole, oddest possible person out. In fact I had only been standing there because I was waiting for the best moment to interrupt their conversation to ask one of my bosses about another project.

    You can’t ask that question while someone is at work. You can’t ask that question with their boss right there. You can’t ask that question and expect a real honest answer. I don’t know why she asked, but that question has lingered with me since.

    I couldn’t say the thoughts that ran through my head in the following moments, as I pushed this case, packed that one, and was eventually cut til the load out.

    I couldn’t say how my industry is a sausage fest, how most of the companies are owned and operated by heterosexual white men, how often on gigs I am the oddest man out, a black woman surviving in this world.

    I couldn’t speak about the jokes I don’t want to hear. The nicknames I insisted they stop using (which, to their credit they did). The dearth of female leads (let alone black female leads). I couldn’t talk about my occasional nerves, my occasional annoyance, and my constant anger.

    The feelings that bubbled up after she asked her question feel like a monkey on my back that was once quiet but is now cackling. It isn’t one specific company; it is the industry. It isn’t one slimy guy; it is the culture of ignoring their behavior and promoting the men anyway.

    So no, I didn’t answer her question honestly. And for her to believe I ever could or would was just a different form of privileged folly.