You Should Smile More, or Five Decades of the Patriarchy
Let's start in the remote past. From the dark reaches of the 1970s.
Having completed my University studies – in Humanities (art, literature, and other high-minded topics), I quickly realized this would lead to no employment opportunities beyond that of being a lowly tour guide (which I briefly did, but that is another story).
What follows are a few “highlights” of my brushes with the patriarchy over the last five decades. Like almost every woman, I have had many, many more run-ins with patronizing behaviour, but these are a few standouts.
I can’t recall how I stumbled into it but, back in the Jurassic period of computing, IBM was offering a free course in RPG2 programming to any person who excelled at their aptitude test. I aced the test and took the course, becoming a certified IBM programmer. I should also add that certified and qualified IBM programmers were rare and a hot commodity at the time. The future looked bright indeed.
Off into the job marketplace, I wasn’t getting too many interviews and never a call back. I wondered… Is it me? Did I have lettuce on my teeth? Did I have some fatal character flaw?
After an interview where I was thanked for stopping by and was told they would call me back, I decided to ask what was happening and why. I explained the recurring situation, and the man was decent enough to answer me.
He sat back in his executive chair, reached up and locked his fingers behind his slightly balding head, took in a deep breath and patiently explained as though he were addressing a slightly dim-witted student in a remedial class:
“Well, you’re a woman. Programming requires logic and women are not logical.”
I asked why I would even be called in for an interview if that was indeed the general consensus, and he replied:
“Probably, like me, they were curious to see what girl (Note: not “woman”) would actually consider herself a programmer. You are prettier than I expected by the way.”
I thanked him for his time, got up, left, went home and— like a girl — burst into tears of anger and despair.
I needed a job and so applied for apparently more befitting secretarial or administrative assistant positions.
Thus began my job as an “executive assistant”, meaning I was the gatekeeper outside the president’s office. In addition to simple clerical work, once daily I would bring him documents to sign. These were carried into the inner sanctum by means of a calf-leather folio, tied with a silk ribbon. I would place the folder on his desk then he would tug at the ribbon (all very sexy-like — imagine someone plucking the ties of a corset) to release the folder. Then I would lift each document once he signed it; in this manner his royal fingers would never need to heft a piece of paper. But eventually he would grow fatigued and say, “just sign them for me; you know what I approve of anyway”.
I also fetched coffee while being as fetching as I could be, teetering around in vertiginous high heels. I also fetched coffee for the meetings of the board of directors, discreetly leaning over the shoulder of each executive (allowing only a tiny peek at my sparse cleavage) and inquired as to how they preferred their coffee, writing the answer down in my little leather-bound notepad.
At the time I was also advised that I should “smile more”. I would hear that recommendation frequently over the years. Initially, I thought it was specific to me and my likely scowl, but over time I learned that is common for women to hear this admonition quite often. Hmm.
But hey, a job was a job, and the pay was decent. I survived and outlasted about three presidents, then finally got a transfer to an odd combination of inside sales and production management. There I was partnered with a gruff, rough, bossy, brash, efficient and delightful woman who cursed like a sailor in a tattoo parlour and was beloved by all. I remember about twice a day she would pull open a desk drawer, yank out a stick of deodorant, pull up or down her sleeves (depending on her clothing style) and give each armpit a big swipe. She would bark out this huge guffaw and make some comment about labouring so hard she was working up a sweat. At first, coming from the rarefied atmosphere of the Presidential Suite, this was shocking. But I quickly learned to love my new coworkers (all women by the way, except for the boss). Busy, chaotic, yelling, phones ringing, cursing, chain-smoking, slamming of phones and doors. This was sheer bliss.
Fast-forward to the late 1980s. I was purchasing a vehicle and the salesperson (a man) started asking questions about my husband’s income for the financing paperwork. My husband was standing near me and was shaking his head to signal to the guy “No, don't go there”. Anyway, I asked why he needed my husband’s information since I was the one buying the car. Furthermore, I made good money and could qualify for a loan on my own merit. When the sales guy replied that it was customary to ask the spouse to co-sign on the loan, I asked if my husband had applied for the loan whether I would be asked to co-sign. “Of course not”, he responded. My husband sighed and bowed his head down in the knowledge that the hunt for a car would continue elsewhere. Yet, being the wonderful man I married, he suggested that at the next dealership, he would pose as a friend to circumvent the whole issue.
To interject a lighter note:
Question: What is the difference between “you have a blown engine gasket” and “you have a blown engine gasket, honey”.
Answer: About $400!
Another time, when again seeking a car (actually a minivan, god help me), I found a vehicle I liked and the salesman said “Wait ‘til I show you this feature… you’re going to love it”. Silly me, I’m thinking he will pop the hood, show me the engine layout, talk about torque or some such thing. No, he opens the trunk and, with a flourish, points and says “Look! All these hooks for your grocery bags.” Once again, the husband knew that the deal was not happening.
For those of you who believe this is all a thing of the past, that we’re all equal, and equally respected (ah, shucks, sweetie, you’re so cute), let me share this little chestnut.
In the fall of 2024 (less than a year ago), while doing some technical consulting work, I found errors in some documentation that could potentially result in serious complications for the company. The issue was resolved after I brought it to the attention of several managers and technical experts (all men). However, at the end of the conversation, the most senior manager said:
“Wow, Denise, look at all the high-powered men who supported you in this.”
Wow, indeed. How delightfully patronizing. If you’ve read any of my past essays, you may already know that I have a “thing” about words and word origins. “Patronize” comes from the Latin “pater” meaning “father”. So if you patronize an individual, you are talking down to them like a father to a child.
Once again, I was shown the grocery bag hooks in the trunk. Perhaps I should have smiled more.
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