A Woman’s Worth is the Man Who Loves Her
Is it true? Is a woman's worth the man who loves her?
When I think of loneliness, I picture the steel walls of the [redacted] elevator. I can see the murky reflection of my round face in the sliding doors and I instantly feel the familiar tinge of hotness in my cheeks.
Very few of the people we worked with would describe me as lonely. I expect half empty remarks on how busy we were, the look of stress semi-permanently etched on my forehead, and how dedicated I was to our students. They might comment on my humor and perhaps even, the way I would sacrifice my dignity to don the costumes of eccentric characters to entertain. But never, I think, would our colleagues have labeled me as lonely.
When I reflect on these four years, I am overcome with a sort of grief. It's hard to describe the pain that sits on my chest, a type of pain that is embarrassing to acknowledge outside myself. To state matter-of-fact-ly that I was a lonely professional makes me feel like an exaggerating liar. How could I have been lonely surrounded by encouraging students and a then loving boyfriend-fiance? Could I publicly claim the isolation I felt despite the "YAS QUEEN"s and the ever-flowing affirmations? Now that it's been two months of our self-proclaimed #summersabbatical, I feel less nervous- less scared- to talk about it.
The [redacted] elevator symbolizes the indescribable pain in my chest and the grief I feel for twenty-three year old Kristian. The younger, less plump, version of myself I desperately wish I protected more fiercely. It's laughable, the way that I cannot keep track of the many times I stepped foot on the elevator and counted down how quickly I could swiftly exit. The elevator was old, and I am surprised I never was stuck there to be quite honest. Given its age and the booming maintenance budget, the elevator was slow- painstakingly so that it was often quicker to dry heave up the stairs.
I know what you're probably thinking- sis what are you talmbout? Where are you going with this elevator motif? You see, stepping foot into the rickety elevator was like suffocating. The tense silence of being ignored by handfuls of your colleagues envelops you like a fog. The way conversation ends when your face follows up the faint *ding* of the opening doors. The feel of eyes boring an imaginary hole into the back of your neck. For me, that small enclosed space was where I felt most vulnerable. Where confident and witty professional Kristian™️ became weak, insecure highschool Kristian.
It's an odd sensation, to be acutely aware of the dislike others have for you. To walk to the printer and overhear complaints and unimaginative gossip about you and your team. I knew, both then and now, that the business of inclusion work does not earn you favor. Respect? Usually. Popularity? Tuh. So I understood, how some of our colleagues would stiffen when I entered a room. I read the tightening of their jaws and rolling eyes as responses to critique- unhappiness as a question that took us down the inclusion path.
It was easy to dismiss those early twangs of exclusion. I would tell myself on late night drives home that I had to be the diversity police. I would share rational reasons with Jesse, my now husband, to excuse my crying bouts after another isolated day at work. I remember the waves of solace I found, sitting with you in random parking lots recounting the feelings of frustration and sadness in another #carridechronicle.
For three years, I watched our colleagues round up the floor for lunch dates. Scroll past posts about shared happy hours and (questionable) feminist friendships. I'd stare at my own reflection in my office window late at night wondering when I'd stop being surprised at the hurtful gossip I'd overhear in bathrooms. Wondering why I could preach self love and confidence to students but wilt in the face of high school era drama.
The real shame came disguised as good intentions. Students would plop down in my office to let me know that [redacted] was complaining about the diversity office to another staff member. They'd be at their work-study positions listening in to conversations on how difficult we were, the audacity we had to ask uncomfortable questions in meetings, why everything had to be about diversity. They would ask me if there were issues between us all, and like a liar, I lied. I also lied to myself, tried to check myself even- would I succumb to my own internalized misogyny if I said out loud that the other women I worked with were catty? Mean spirited and petty?
I endured what felt like months of being ignored, being treated like a leper for, what I now perceive as, critique of my continued success, my close proximity to you and your swift intelligence, being a bad ass bitch, and my ever growing stans amongst the indomitable student body. I can't even keep track of the number of committee meetings we were cut out of, lack of communication, performative attempts at inclusion from other areas, and excuses for no longer needing any diversity/lgbtq trainings laced with the stench of mediocrity. All because I wasn't liked. Because you were "too powerful". We were too difficult, too outspoken, too committed, too much, I guess, of everything.
It was as if I wasnt seen as a young human being, someone deserving of kindness and guidance from my older colleagues. My harshness as an advocate for inclusion never waved, I was direct with my critique and had no problem strolling down to your office or pick up the phone to address an issue. Coupled with my brown face and immaculate visage, I'm not surprised by the whispers of contempt and being difficult.
But then I became the sugar plum fairy. When Jesse proposed and I walked around with the weight of compressed coal on my ring finger, the women on the second floor looked at me with new eyes. It's as if the proposal signified that I was.... Normal. A woman worth loving, a woman worth treating with common decency. Walks to the printer turned into happy hours in the hallway with questions on my dress, if we picked a date, and to regal them with how he proposed. It was like a light switch had gone off.
Finding myself in the elevator with the other women became a new sort of suffocation; the incessant questions on the wedding and feeling like a bride reduced me to this one dimensional woman. All they ever talked to me about was my engagement/wedding. Looking back, it was some sort of heteronormative right of passage. Perhaps, a milestone they could relate to. They certainly couldn't relate to my sincere care for diversity education, accountability and integrity....
Even with my doctoral application process, it felt one note. I'm still taken aback by one person's *unsolicited* commentary on not being interested in pursuing a PhD and choosing to start a family instead, which I would love to dissect the archaic gender norms and #pickme mentality here but that's a whole other letter. Multidimensional Kristian™️ became engaged-to-Jesse-future-wife-and-mother Kristian. You know me better than almost anyone, and are well aware I cannot wait to have a family and love up on my multi-ethnic kids, but I cannot help feeling resentment for being valued and acknowledged for the binary-fed norm of feminity. By the start of May, I much prefered the loneliness of my earlier elevator rides in lieu of the empty and forced conversations on my wedding dress fittings. I loathed the unwanted marital advice I started to get and the performative intimacy us *women* had now that I was in the wifed up club (note: wifed up in the arbitrary legal sense so what is the truth).
Is my worth tied to the man who loves me? Am I a woman too harsh and uncompromising for friendship? Why does my cisnormative love make me palatable?
