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Introduction to Brandlady.com |
Take Me Seriously
F or me, the shift from school to career was similar to the rocky transition of childhood to adulthood, minus the six years of puberty where I was allowed to make mistakes. I simultaneously dreaded and anticipated pursuing my first “real” job, a job that paid more than minimum wage and didn’t make my hair smell like greasy meat. I got the job, but still felt out of my league, probably because I was treated that way. I was the youngest employee by at least twelve years, and my position as a manager oversaw workers twice my age. Those co-workers tried to embarrass me in staff meetings by quizzing me about my knowledge of our field. They couldn’t see past my twenty-something face to my experience and education. Even in my “take me seriously” clothes, I felt inferior. If my co-workers didn’t take me seriously, why would my clients? A few months into my new job, I took my first business trip. It was to a state-wide conference in Columbus, Ohio (United States). The drive down was before dawn, and uneventful. I listened to Eoin Colfer’s delightful “Artemis Fowl” books on tape and munched on red gummy worms. I was making good time until I hit the one-way streets of the city. After parking in a deck three blocks from the hotel, I went looking for someplace where I could change out of my pajamas and into a skirt. Nothing was open. The bathroom I finally found was in a dark corner of a strip mall connected to the hotel. I changed, put my hair in a bun and went to brush my teeth. Unfortunately, I forgot my toothpaste. I dunked the toothbrush in water and scrubbed and scrubbed at my tongue, but it was still bright gummy worm red. I stuffed my socks in my purse and hoped they didn’t stink. I was half-awake and feeling about an inch tall when I arrived, late, for the first workshop. I sat next to an older man who had Hawkeye hair. It was jet black and parted just like Alan Alda’s in “M*A*S*H.” The presenter looked like Keenan Thompson and spoke to us like we were in church instead of a stale conference room. She kept asking questions to herself, “Melanie, is it right or wrong?” and then answering herself, “It’s wrong, baby, wrong!” She called everyone “baby” or “pumpkin” or “sugar.” When we spoke she shouted “all right!” and “come on!” at the end of every sentence. When someone had a question, she’d answer it by saying “Here’s a freebie,” and then telling some inspiring story. “Quality customer service is about treating the client like they’re the only person who matters! Like they’re the only person in the room, in the world!” Melanie shouted, fisted hands raised to the ceiling. Hawkeye Hair nodded his head and muttered “Amen, Amen!” After a day of workshops there was a meet-and-greet dinner. A buffet table divided a wide ballroom, and there was a bar set up in every corner. I was the youngest in the room, and one of only a few women. Most of the participants were middle-aged, male politicians and executive directors in tailored suits. I kept folding my sleeve to hide the safety pin that held my Goodwill shirt together. I smiled without showing my teeth (they were still pink) and kept my purse tucked against my stomach (to hide the socks). I was treated like I felt: young and naïve. I survived by nodding a lot, by smiling compliantly, and by laughing at bad jokes. The executive directors and politicians asked me questions about my program, but didn’t really listen to the answers. “The list of people who don’t take me seriously is getting longer,” I thought to myself. “Because of my youth? Because of my gender? Because of my Goodwill shirt?” After a couple hours of meeting and greeting, I decided to retreat to my hotel room but couldn’t find an exit. The ballroom doors were wide open, but the group I was sitting with was blocking me. One politician wrapped an arm around my shoulder and commented on how pretty my hair looked, and I had to remind myself that I was representing my agency and that elbowing the guy in the throat would probably not make a good impression. I offered to get him a refill on his wine and when I was out of sight I ducked into the elevator. Not a graceful exit, but necessary. After I got to my hotel room and watched an episode of “Scrubs,” I felt much better. I reminded myself for the hundredth time that I was wearing the clothes of a professional who wants to be taken seriously, therefore I should act like a professional who wants to be taken seriously. I concluded that in order for others to take me seriously (co-workers, clients, handsy politicians), I had to do the same for myself, all three versions: girl, teenager, woman. © Meredith H. Morckel meredithhmorckel@yahoo.com 
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