On Monday, the price of tulips and roses tripled. All day, there have been lines in the grocery stores, many of which have only bare shelves where chocolate or lotions used to rest. This is March 7. Tomorrow is International Women’s Day: this post-Soviet Muslim society’s conflation of Valentine’s, Mother’s Day, and Wedding Anniversary into one big event.
Local friends are always shocked when I tell them we don’t really celebrate March 8 in the States. The older ones usually nod knowingly, remembering their pre-1991 lessons: “Oppression of women is one of the problems of capitalism, isn’t it?” They also look concerned when they learn that we don’t have the “Mother Hero” award: American women who give ten live births don’t get a medal and lifelong pension. Womanhood is celebrated here in ways it’s not in the States, but celebrations and culture don’t always align.
Flashback: 13 years ago. I’d been in Tashkent, Uzbekistan just over a year. I had learned enough language to be able to work at minimal professional levels at our NGO’s English center at the university, and I had met many of the university’s faculty. Still, I was foreign enough to be surprised when I received an invitation to the “upper faculty luncheon” on the ancient New Year celebration of Nooruz (March 21). The university boasted a 50/50 male-female ratio, and 90% of the English department teachers were women. The luncheon, though, consisted of almost five hundred men dressed in black suits and white shirts just like mine. We were waited on by the women of the junior faculty. After the meal, a troupe of 40 teen-aged belly dancers (“Our wonderful young students!”) mixed among the tables, performing to a medley of Shakira songs.
Flashback: 12 years ago. Elyona sat down across from me. We’d worked together daily for two years in a formal mentorship. “Okay, tomorrow’s our last all-staff meeting. I’ll announce your position as director. You’re not acting director; you’re the director. I’ll make sure they know that you have total authority to…” I can’t remember all I said, but I’m sure it was empowering. Then she said, “Thank you. That means so much! So who’s the business director?”
“Whoever you appoint.”
“Who’s the CEO?”
“You.”
Pause three beats. “But who’s the man in charge?”
“There isn’t one. You’re the person in charge. There’s no man. There’s you.”
Long pause. “I’ve never heard of something like this.”
Flashback: 6 years ago. Nazgul sat down across from me. We’d worked together daily for four years. Like Elyona… “As you know, we want to move from a business model to an NGO so that we can work more efficiently in the villages. You’ve been a great student. You’re a great teacher! You’ve mastered everything I’ve tried to teach you. And you know the language and culture better than I ever will. So at the meeting Thursday, I’ll announce that you’re now the director. I’ll officially step out of any administrative role and my visa will be as a consultant you call on as you wish. The company’s yours.” The talk that Thursday was effective. Our three male teachers resigned immediately after the meeting, citing schedule conflicts and family responsibilities.
I’ve spent my professional life in ESL, linguistics, English, and secondary education – fields dominated by women. My personal life focuses on my relationship with an efficient, smart, creative, personable medical doctor. You would think this would give me some insight into gender issues and leadership, but to be honest, I’m at a loss. I feel an “I want to break things!” (In keeping with our cohort’s Avengers theme: “Hulk smash!”) anger when I see undergrads paraded in bikinis before their old professors, or see men quit their jobs rather than have a female boss, or realize that I’m looking in the “teachers” room to find women and an “administrators” room to find men.
And yet, I know, way deep down, that life would be better with me as my wife’s supervisor than with her as my supervisor. I know, way deep down, that I’m probably happier that my daughter’s a “brain” and my oldest son’s a “jock” than if those roles were reversed. And I know, way deep down, that when I enter a room, I’m more likely to gravitate toward the men, more likely to use a direct and competitive communication style if men are present, and more likely, in general, to act in a way that would favor men over women. I can try not to do these things, but the fact that I’m aware of trying means that a bias exists.
Tomorrow’s Women’s Day. A couple weeks ago, on Men’s Day (literally, “Defender’s Day”), my male colleagues celebrated with simple jokes along the lines of, “Way to go with that Y-chromosome!” For some reason, though, I think that tomorrow my female colleagues might prefer chocolates or lotion. So why does that feel wrong?
