I've been called a token so often I lost count. It always bothered me to hear that word applied to me. I never analyzed why until recently.
The explanation that usually followed that label was "the department always has one female engineer never more. The department always has a least one token." They often said they didn't exactly view me as a token because I was doing real engineering work. The other women read romance novels, knitted, crocheted, etc. They also viewed me as very smart and the master's in engineering was proof. That only indicates a good work ethic and drive. I do believe they respect my abilities. I never discouraged their expressions but the secretary did. She got angrier than me about it. She would chastise me often for not taking a stronger stand. They had a right to say it, in my opinion. Free speech. Most of the time, it wouldn't make a dent in my thinking. Other times, it did. Those times feelings of inferiority to and less than the men would creep into my mind. I felt defective at times because I couldn't be accepted as an engineer like the others. I would wonder what the requirements were to simply be an engineer equal to the men. What would be enough? The times it didn't bother me I knew I wasn't defective or inferior. I knew I was doing a good job and that good things were going to come from my efforts. I was confident I was their equal as an engineer. The guys I worked with in that department are great guys. I love them and stay in touch occasionally because of our years together. I don't think they meant any harm. They made a valid observation about the department. Their comments put a period behind the general attitude towards women in engineering in that department, if not the corporation. That is my recent conclusion due to thinking things through.
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I would post pix but there isn't much to see now. Most of the bruising is gone and just a few knots remain on my head and hip. Thank God the damage wasn't worse.
The pain was never great enough for more than just OTC relievers and sleep. This week the open wounds seem to have closed and stopped oozing anything, which makes it easier to wear clothing. Oh happy day! With the concussion, headaches and nausea were constant companions the few three days or so. A new experience was mental fatigue, exhaustion may be more like it, which forced naps. My helmet cracked almost straight across and had a little crushed area on the inside. So, that's the fourth trashed helmet in about 32 years. Not too bad. The whole experience gives me new understanding of head injuries. The other stuff I've had before mental fatigue like that was a new experience. That is the result of a bike crash with a helmet. I worked all day Saturday on my business. When I quit, it was about 7P and it had been a nice day outside.
I walked out, stretched in the setting sun, and thought of riding. I had a premonition about riding and decided to run instead. I pulled a few errant sprigs of grass then decided to ride after all. I would be careful. I got out the door about 7:30P. I was about a quarter mile from the house on fresh, as yet unmarked pavement, with my head down hammering it home. It's a short downhill run into the North edge of the neighborhood. I was thinking about other aspects of life and not the road. When I looked up, I was very near the edge of the pavement and headed towards the freshly worked shoulder with asphalt covered rocks. I didn't have enough reaction time and the last thing I remember is my front tire in the dirt. The next thing I remember is standing listening to a man, who is a stranger to me. He found me in laying in the road completely out. He didn't say how long I was out in his presence. I looked around and saw a sea of houses. They looked familiar but I didn't know where I was. He wanted to drive me home but I wasn't quite sure where I lived. I told him it wasn't necessary. The more I looked at the houses the more familiar they became and I knew mine was in there - somewhere. He drove off and I rode home. I have no memory riding home, opening the garage door, putting the bike up, etc. I vaguely remember pealing off my cycling gear and getting in the tub to clean everything out. Oh, the pain of cleaning road rash. I almost didn't wear a helmet or gloves to save the few seconds of putting them on due to the lateness. It's a thought to not have again. Always wear a helmet because even with one you will get a concussion, which is no fun. Below are pictures of the bulk of the other carnage. The candidate replied to my email about the flyer. Other candidates have been smeared in the local races and she wanted to avoid it. Her decision was to put her history in front of the voters before anyone had an opportunity to smear her.
That is admirable but without something clearly letting voters know it was coming from her, it was a bit confusing. I live in a neighborhood where many would easily not vote for someone who was an alcoholic. I admire her desire to tell the truth and to help others by sharing her successes and failures in life and overcoming alcoholism. That is quite an accomplishment. I wish more in the body of Christ operated as Lynette Kilpatrick does. We would minister to one another and maintain humility for ourselves, too. We would remember not to get too puffed up about ourselves because we would continually understand how easy falling is. I wish her all of God's best in the future! Someone rang my doorbell and ran off yesterday evening. I received a flyer on my door re: Lynette Kilpatrick. On one side is an advertisement for her campaign for Weld County Commissioner District #3. The reverse side lacks any and all campaign graphics adverts and begins with "The real dirt on Lynette (Peppler) Kilpatrick."
I don't know quite what to make of it. In its essence, it appears that dirty politics has occurred in this race either in the printing of the reverse side by someone on the "other" side or making her feel the need to print the reverse side to "fess up" as it were. Interesting that Winston Churchill had his problems, too, but he was "the man" England needed in one of its darkest hours and most trying times. God raises people up for His purposes not ours, thankfully. Interesting times we live in today. I intend to learn more about this flyer and its origin. I'll update, when I know more. This is the kind of stuff that confuses and angers many people. It makes many of us shake our heads because it is a reminder that technology changes but human behavior does not. I watched the move "The Help" with girlfriends from church. I was the only Southern gal in the group. As I watched the story unfold, it returned memories of Margret.
My dad's parents employed a colored lady named Margret for decades. She helped around the house with light cooking, cleaning, laundry, etc. Margret is the only one I remember washing my hair gently. I loved for Margret to wash my hair because of that. Margret had a playful spirit but worked hard and was very good to us and with us. Mostly my grandparents were respectful to Margret. However, they accused her of "acting like an old nigra" or some variation of that often. I heard nigra often. I was a kid and didn't understand it. In one act of defiance towards Margret, I spun around and said, "Shut up, you old nigra!" GrandDaddy Quillin was in the driveway and heard me. The trouble that ensued was frightening to me. That was the first day I remember feeling tremendous uncertainty, distrust, confusion, and abject terror. Margret and I were OK but another was hurt terribly that day. I was about 4 or 5 years old then. I have no memories after that event. But I do know I never referred to Margret in that way again. When I was 6, my parents split up and I didn't see Margret again until I was in my late teens. I was very glad to see her. Neither of us ever brought up that horrible event. I never referred to Margret with disrespect even though Grandmother Quillin did and often. She didn't understand Margret but Margret understood her. Margret always liked me and doted on me, when she could. She understood my playful nature and tried to corral it without destroying me in the process. She loved brushing my hair out. I loved her doing it because she talked to me and was so very gentle. Grandmother Quillin was harsh and hard about it. Life has been confusing in many ways for me. I didn't know what my feelings towards Margret were beyond fondness. As I watched The Help, I began to understand that I love Margret and I look forward to seeing her in Heaven. In one plant, I befriended a janitor. He said he'd been ignored because he was a janitor. Janitors aren't that important for some people. I didn't think much of him until he asked where I wanted the garbage can in my office. It didn't matter to me but it did to him. He took pride in doing a good job and wanted to please people.
Until that day, I couldn't have pointed out who the janitor was because I'd not seen any janitor. We began talking, once he realized I was a Christian and treated him OK. He was surprised that I would talk with him and treat him like a human being. I treated him as though he mattered by talking to him because he existed. The Golden Rule applies and I don't believe in ignoring people because of their line of work. After all, they're jobs and not of eternal consequence. God's work is of eternal consequence. He was a nice man and was encouraging due to his faith in Christ. We discussed the Bible more than anything else. He knows the Bible quite good. Somehow he got the idea there was more between us than there was. I searched to determine whether or not I had misled him. I couldn't remember anything that would have. It's not my style. He was married, older, odd, odd looking, etc. The only real thing we had in common was the Bible. I never dreamed he thought anything else but friendship through work would exist. He made advances and I rejected them. He became belligerent and angry. He didn't understand. He was so unreasonable and belligerent he wasn't going to understand. His anger and hurt from rejection lasted and we never spoke again. I didn't worry about it because of his reaction and his inability to understand boundaries. I don't like men without boundaries. Nor do I like men that cannot, in good taste, accept a polite "no" from a woman and leave it at that. This experience put my guard up a little more cautious. I used to think that being an engineer was a good thing. It would get me places. It would get me things. It would get me respect. It would get me an interesting life. It would work for me, if I worked for it.
During a discussion on advancement with a mid-level manager, I was told that I needed "to learn to make being a woman work for you." I didn't ask him what he meant by that. I couldn't believe what I'd just heard. In white collar work, what does gender have to do with getting the job done? I inquired of some of my male colleagues what they thought was meant by that. It was sex. That was my guess, too. Why is it that my education and work history are not working for me? Why doesn't being an engineer work for women? Why does something extra have to be given? Would he have said that to a man? Would he have said to a man, "You need to learn how to make being a man work for you."? I suspect he would have been left knocked out on the floor, in that situation. Regardless, this was the capstone event that made me start preparing to leave the company and possibly leave engineering completely. What should work for me? Being an engineer. It should work for all women choosing that profession. Last year I attended an event for small cap companies to network and look for business.
I handed one CEO my business card and began explaining what I can do. He looked at my card then looked at me and laughingly said, "You can't possibly be the engineer." I assured him I am an engineer and the only engineer in my company. He looked at me again but began talking to someone else and walked off. I was left wondering what had just occurred. It was the brushoff. Dismissed again as being capable of higher level thinking. It was a dismissive attitude clothed in a $1000 suit and $300 shoes. It looks no different than Fire Retardant Clothing and steel-toed shoes on an $18/hr. maintenance man. In the last year, I've contacted a lot of companies to find business. It's been an interesting journey. I had hoped, naively, that much of the discrimination I experienced as a direct employee would be over.
I've heard countless times from men that I am "simply" a front for a male owned company who will "really" be doing the work. If I am not a front, I will be according to them. I know another female engineer running her own company. She's experienced some of that, too, and she ignores it just as I have. Her comment regarding her experiences and being a DBE, "You still have to be able to do the job. So in the end, it doesn't matter." Larger engineering firms sub work to smaller engineering firms for a lot of reasons. It happens for some surprising reasons, such as risk avoidance. I've worked with engineers who refused difficult projects. For some men, it's OK for a male owned company or a NYSE firm to sub work to another male owned company but women or other minorities should not be allowed to participate. It's intriguing that some don't understand how business works. Often work is subcontracted to whatever company can or will take it on. Often work continues getting pushed down to some very small companies doing the work. I think the deeper issue working in men who don't want women in the sandbox is fear. Fear that they can't compete. Fear they'll lose ground. Fear of a stacked deck that they didn't stack. I've battled those same fears in various situations. It's an ugly, base, raw emotion to deal with. Ultimately, I try to recall that God is not running a zero sum game, which is obvious in view of history. God will take care of me just as He will take care of others. He has a place for me, which I should not fear. |
AuthorI have spent years in the bowels of manufacturing plants helping to bring numerous products to market that touch virtually every aspect of life. Archives
March 2014
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Pamela Quillin, P.E. |
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