A Frightening Unveiling and the Humanity of a Beautiful Friend

Note to readers: Unmasked is based actual events; a compilation of several decades worth of lived and observed experiences. Its purpose is not to point the finger at any specific person or employer. Rather, it is intended as a means to draw attention to the ‘death by 1000 papercuts’ that is common in work environments where bias is thrives, or where diversity is lacking, as experienced by those who identify within underrepresented groups.

Unmasked

A woman broken, angry, tired.

Men.                                                                                         Men staring at her breasts instead of her eyes when she talks. 
Speaking over her, quieting her voice again and again. Trampling on her ideas as if the creative angles she takes while problem solving makes them inherently wrong. Erasing her contribution as if the excess of blood, sweat, and tears she contributes is expected and nominal; unnoticed. Twisting every professional thing she does into the thing their mother did or their wife does that annoys them; and treating the fact that she is neither their mother nor their wife as irrelevant.

Going to extreme lengths to minimize the positive outcomes of her work, their pride preventing them from allowing her to “win” at anything. Telling her that if she cared about the company she’d keep doing senior leadership work at middle management pay while she watches her male peers be promoted. Complimenting her for being able to do her job and also ‘being lovely’, as if she is required to do both as the small price to pay for being allowed to do her job and still be a woman at the same time.

In leadership positions posting about porn in public work channels and later explaining that they ‘struggle with feminism in the workplace’. Ignoring her warnings about risks (in jobs centered around risk management) and labeling her as naysayer while warning her to “be sure you don’t say ‘I told you so’” when the risks play out as predicted.

Judging her work performance based her ability to modulate her tone to be perfectly aligned, at all times in all circumstances, to a standard of perfection that no human can achieve; which they quantify by how capable they feel in her presence.  Forgetting to evaluate on her ability to do her actual job. Telling her things that she proposes to do are impossible and forbidding her to work on those things (since they will be a waste of time) because they couldn’t figure out how to do those things themselves (she did those things anyways, they weren’t impossible).

Photo series by Kathryn F.

A woman, broken.

Women.                                                                                           Women tearing her down behind her back when she makes progress, because of the perception that there are only a few seats at the table for women and they don’t want her taking one; less they miss out. Insisting that the answer to being overlooked for promotion or talked over in meetings it to “square up your shoulders more, speak directly and lower your voice tone to be more masculine” because being more like men is the only formula they know that can reliably lead to success. 

Talking down to other women who are tired and broken as though the reason is because they aren’t strong enough, because in the stillness of a quiet moment, it can be so easy to forget the tears that we all have shed. Putting other women on pedestals, because there are so few of us - but because there are so few of us only perfection is acceptable, and the only way to go from a pedestal is down.
                                                                     

A woman, angry.

Self.                                                                                                     Beating herself up for speaking the truth. For hiding what they did, and what they do, and not speaking the truth. For not doing enough to protect other women. Because she isn’t strong enough to withstand this year after year. Because even if she is strong enough to withstand it, she doesn’t want to.

A woman, tired.

Of being a woman.                                                                 Of choosing a path that doesn’t want a woman. Of having a passion for a place that craves a him and not a her. Of paying the expensive consequences for who she is over and over again.

  Broken hope 
                                                                      for a broken world 
              governed by broken systems.

A woman broken, angry, tired.

Friendship

In the earth, I search for clues. Like my mother with her metal detector, shovel, and unending optimism that she will find what she seeks; I must believe that there is, or can be, another way.

Photo by Rose.

I watch my friend, Elle, a trans woman navigating a gender transition. She shares her journey openly with the world as she both mourns, and celebrates. New life. I study her work, and sense there is something here for me to learn.

New life is greater than broken hope. I do know that much, so I pay close attention. Digging, searching, quieting the noise of the world.

i never used to like birthday parties. at least not for myself.

why would i celebrate someone severed from the sunshine of my soul? someone who broke a million mirrors, creating what seemed to be neverending bad luck? someone who couldn’t even say i love you?

now i sing with love.

i piece back together every mirror that there ever was.

shard by shard with every fiber of my being, the strongest glue that binds a million souls.

~

elle kennedy fell

It occurs to me that Elle is uncovering something for herself. Joy, in becoming. But not only that. Joy in becoming a woman.

Elle is my first trans friend. I had questions. She has provided more grace than required or expected, and has accepted my curiosity with love. We’ve marveled at the overlaps of our experiences.

We’ve discussed how history, religion, spirituality, and intellectual inquiry provide clues about the core essence of gender as well as the origins of modern society’s perspectives on it.

We’ve begun to explore, together, the consequences, and gifts, of living in this world as a woman.

A treasure from my mother’s searches.

Humanity

In the earth, I catch sight of it. The small treasure that I hoped was there begins to reveal itself.                        You see,
                                     My friend Elle runs towards femininity. She is healed by it.
              This thing, being a woman, that has formed itself in my mind as the part of me that brings only pain,
                                                       brokenness, 
                                                                                  anger, 
                                                                          and exhaustion;

                                                        is to Elle, something entirely different. 

shard by shard with every fiber of my being, the strongest glue that binds a million souls.

                                Elle pieces together broken shards, restores what was shattered, and celebrates the refreshing breeze of new life. This healing, this repair, this growth only made possible by her joyful celebration of the gift of womanhood.     She is not shattered from it, no, she is made whole from it.

now i sing with love.

Her birth, her new life, her love, her trans-joy, reminds me that being a woman is not a curse, not a thing meant to harm, not an unfortunate fate, and most of all,

the rib in which i found eve from adam, and went from ordinary to regal.

                                                                                         not the end of my story.

Photo by Kathryn F.

Best,

~ Rose