It’s been quite a wild ride since I last wrote to you, dear reader. In brief, I got fired from my dream job at the Pentagon, with extreme prejudice, after which I flailed about before landing what appeared to be a promising gig – that turned into a bit of a nightmare before I got fired from that position too. While I was on this personal rollercoaster, the world struggled to cope with a pandemic while our home-grown demagogue worked mightily to undermine our democracy. Our Liar-in-Chief’s white supremacist rants have inspired tens of millions of Americans to make bigotry great again. It’s the zombie apocalypse and the horde is after anyone with a brain. Given my professional track record of the past two years, it’s possible someone is trying to tell me I’m in no danger from the walking dead; my brain is just not that compelling.
On the plus side, I have more time to read these days. I’m in the middle of a new series, the Scarred Earth Saga, by G.A. Aiken, of Dragon Kin fame. There are only two books so far, The Blacksmith Queen and the Princess Knight. These books are so good that the thought of waiting a whole/entire year for the next one seems unbearable. The very best thing about all of this author’s stories is the strength of her female characters. In this series, Queen Keeley and her sister, Princess Gemma, are two of the most badass women around, and they have inspired me to rethink my recent history; maybe it is me, but not in the way I thought it was.
I’ve spent considerable time over the course of this ridongculous year convinced that something has shifted and my previous professional acumen had deteriorated to the point of collapse. I believed the common denominator in my repeated falls from grace was something lacking in my performance or the reality that someone (or a series of someones) had finally figured out that there was little going on behind the curtain and I had finally been discovered as the fraud I’ve always been afraid I was. I spent way too much time wallowing in that particular pity party, feeling worthless and vindicated in every negative thought I had ever entertained about myself.
Eventually, however, another idea caught the edges of my consideration, demanding attention before finally asking to stay and sit awhile. That pesky notion suggested, quietly at first and then ever more intently, that perhaps it wasn’t my inadequacies that undermined my success, it was my magnificence.
The perception, fleeting and fragile, that it was my strength and not my weakness that had at least contributed to my demise, was so hard to believe that it almost didn’t survive the churn of my consciousness. I was reminded of the line in Pretty Woman where Julia Roberts explains to Richard Gere that the bad stuff is so much easier to believe. Why is that?. In any case, it took the combined voices of friends and family to give this nascent idea the nurturing it needed to survive and then to thrive.
What if, this tiny voice whispered, what if it wasn’t because you weren’t good enough, but because you were too good? Is it possible that I had finally reached the point in my life where I was no longer hiding my light and the glare offended folks? Is it possible that after working for a long series of men who were strong and secure in their leadership skills, that I encountered a few with tiny penis syndrome? Or that I’d found a few bad apples who realized that my wattage left them in a shadow? So much so that it became imperative for them to try to shove me aside? Unplug me?
It is true (and not an alternative fact) that those who have been empowered by the blatant misogyny of the past four years reject confidence and competence in the women who work for them. Adjectives like “bossy,” “bitchy,” “too big for her britches,” roll off forked tongues and land on the ears of the victimized, those whose undeserved positions of power are threatened by a level playing field.
I deserved the consequences of my actions. I was bold and outspoken and I definitely didn’t stay in my lane. I stepped on toes and told the emperor he had no clothes. All of this was my standard operating work procedure that had garnered me accolades and success in the past. But sometimes it’s tough to play with the big dogs when they have the spines of puppies. The behaviors that have served me well for decades began to fail me when I got to the big leagues and learned—or remembered— that all leaders are not created equal.
I don’t know if this is the way it has to be, or if I was just unlucky twice in a row. It could happen; I had been incredibly lucky in my bosses and my work for over 30 years, and into each life a few bad superiors must fall. The other option is that people who are promoted beyond their capabilities make shitty supervisors.
All of this is to say that it’s beginning to dawn on me that it might only be in paranormal fantasy novels like those of G.A. Aiken that strong, badass bitches thrive when they bust their britches. Where heroines kick serious ass and are cheered instead of being booted out. Or maybe I’m just as delusional as the Donald, and maybe my facts are alternative.
On the other hand, perhaps I should wear my enemies as a badge of honor. I recently heard a poem that gave me a lot of hope that maybe I am not the fraud I always feared I was.
No Enemies by Charles Mackay
You have no enemies, you say?
Alas! my friend, the boast is poor;
He who has mingled in the fray
Of duty, that the brave endure,
Must have made foes! If you have none,
Small is the work that you have done.
You've hit no traitor on the hip,
You've dashed no cup from perjured lip,
You've never turned the wrong to right,
You've been a coward in the fight.
Time will tell..