Work

One of the first performance reviews I ever received as a professional was, “You bounce too much.” I was 20 and this was my first job in a film production house. I had three bosses, all men. I didn’t know then that feedback on my buoyancy qualified as harassment. At the time, there weren’t too many companies doing the type of work I valued. So I stuck around for 17 more years.

It’s taken me nearly two decades but I’ve grown from intern to the title of ‘Head of Content & Creative Development’. My work is appreciated. I get due credit for every deadline I meet and every product I turn in. I am given a chair at meetings, where as the sole woman in the company I am often referred to as ‘Madam’. Meetings usually begin with stories from my boss’s life. We are expected to either laugh in solidarity or gasp in wonderment. At some point, he swivels his chair towards me and says, “Toh Madam, kya karein iska?” What should we do about this issue?

I then jump in with all the enthusiasm of someone snorting the same stuff Sheryl Sandberg does. I am flush with ideas on how to build and solidify teams, how to make operations more efficient, how to resolve the financial holes we seem to find ourselves in regularly. My boss’s eyes glaze over. I know he is far away now and my voice is white noise. As my designation in this organisation becomes loftier, its men develop increasingly creative ways to tune me out. Typically, there is no real outcome to the endless meetings (why aren’t these men in a hurry to go home? Why do they search for excuses to hang around in office? Are they avoiding domestic duties? Do they equate being in office with being useful?). Within weeks, we hit another crisis. I get called by my boss, “Madam, we should have listened to you. Let’s have another meeting to discuss.”

In the interim, I continue being validated for the films I write. Regularly spaced pats on the head and good-work-gold-stars keep me satiated even as other contributions are summarily dismissed. I conclude that my ideas are bad. I’m an efficient workhorse but I just don’t have the chops to lead.

Then I walk in another door. This time as volunteer at a community project. It is led by a woman, supported by a council, predominantly, of women. In the beginning I decide to stick to my corner, be an efficient worker and go home with the satisfaction of a day’s job well done. When I am given a seat at the table within one short year I assume it’s because I show up and do what is asked. It doesn’t occur to me that the project head thinks I can, well, contribute. But she does. She demands my ideas, expects my leadership and extends support. She finds a 25^th hour in the day to consider my thoughts.

I begin haltingly, often filled with terror and flooded with a sense of inadequacy. Despite that, things work out like I strategized. I marvel at the meetings we have. They don’t begin with the mandatory stoking of egos I’m otherwise used to. People stick to agendas. There is big idealistic talk but it’s mixed with practical strategies. We hold each other accountable and we applaud each other’s achievements. No one swivels their chair and calls me ‘Madam’.

We are busy people juggling home, children, day jobs, passions and this work. We are often tired from other parts of our lives in ways that I’ve not seen men be (seriously, we need to stop being so tired all the time). Time, therefore, is a precious commodity not be wasted, not even on self-doubt. Ideas are converted into reality with great efficiency. I update my CV from workhorse to leader.

I often wonder if these starkly different professional experiences are a function of gender alone. After all, leadership styles differ and it may simply be that to me, one individual is more impactful than the other. Yet, I see similar experiences reflected, time and again, in the stories of other women and I realise they aren’t just mine. I hear about women’s voices being muted, even as their labour is consumed by male-majority groups. I observe women being invisiblized, when they stretch beyond what they’re hired to do. Here we are, us women, ‘leaning in’ to the point of falling on our faces and there’s barely a ripple in the fabric of the dude-workspace.

I used to alternate between despair and shrill outcry. I used to want to show the man. Not any more. Increasingly, there are all-male meetings without me, where I imagine chairs swivel as folks discuss how madam has lost her edge doing ‘NGO hobbies’. Meanwhile, I take my creative energy to new partners. We shake hands on the promise that our talents won’t be wasted. We widen our circle of influence and build new things.

When time comes to review my performance, I know I will hold up well. I may even get extra points for bouncing.

*****

A version of this piece first appeared in November 2017, on The Ladies Compartment - a website that's mysteriously disappeared, which is good because it (my piece) was hacked to pieces by the editor.

The Schuyler Sisters from 'Hamilton'