Suits, Statistics, and Serendipity

I was born and raised in Cleveland, Ohio but now reside in Charlotte, NC, approximately 501 miles from my doorstep. I've traveled the windy and pothole-tattered roads between Ohio and North Carolina more times than I can count; every time dreading the drive before it starts and relishing it as I near my destination. Those 8 hours spent in solitude are pure brainstorming time - the kind of brainstorming that would light a PET scan up like the Fourth of July in the Hamptons - the kind of fireworks only rich people can buy. By the end of my drive, I have worked through something I've been grappling with, made a major breakthrough, or decided something crazy like changing my career path. A car ride was probably when I decided I wanted to be a construction worker instead of a product manager. You get the point.

I am going to write a letter to the Senate. That is what I decided on my most recent drive, and if you're wondering why, buckle your seatbelt and hop on the road with me - it's a long story.

When I graduated in 2020 - a time all my same-aged peers and I were worried about finding a well-paying job, let alone a job at all - my dream job landed in my lap. Well, it sort of landed on my lap; it got there by the means of what I would call spontaneous serendipity. The truth is that I was absolutely busting my arse in college - juggling a full class load, 2 - 3 jobs, and time-intensive extracurriculars - and the network I created for myself was working some magic behind the scenes for me. Regardless, when the job offer came my way, it was packaged in a way that was too good to be true and I didn't even have to interview for it. Sign. Me. Up.

I was the apprentice to a CEO of a boutique software development firm. The firm had 7 employees in the United States and two overseas offices that each had 30 employees, all of which were 99% male-dominated. My job, simply put despite its complexity, was to learn the ropes of company ownership from all angles - legal, financial, business, operations, engineering, etc. On top of it, I managed clients, some of which were overseas, necessitating me to work not only a 9 - 5 but also a 5 - 9 to cover my bases. I wasn't even drinking out of a firehose, I was drinking out of water cannon, maybe 2 water cannons for that matter.

This job was the definition of faking it till you make it. Most of the time I had no clue at all what I was doing; I was flying blindly by the seat of my pants hoping I didn't say something too stupid or accidentally spill a can of gasoline on the fires I was struggling to put out. At the end of the day though, everything was fine, because the CEO liked me.

The year after graduation, I became a statistic - I became a part of the 38% of women sexually harassed in the workplace - a statistic that no one is raising their hand to be a part of. The situation I found myself in was stickier than a chewed-up piece of bubble gum underneath a school desk and grosser than being stuck in a porta potty falling onto its side. Around the 8-month mark, things had taken a dark turn for the worse and I needed out of the position immediately.

It is situations like these that remind me how important it is to have a support system - I didn't know right from left or up from down, I was in a twister tornado of shame and confusion constantly stuck between retracing my steps to figure out how I found myself here in the first place and the present moment where I felt like a 3-year-old kid fighting a sumo wrestler.

It is also in situations like these that you find yourself talking to a lawyer feeling like you're on an episode of Suits or Law and Order, being schooled by some man in a pinstripe suit about what you can and cannot do in whatever unfortunate situation you are in. In my situation, the man in the pinstripe suit was a woman - let's call her Sue - and although I couldn't see what she was wearing (because we only talked over the phone), I imagined her with a slicked-back bun and tight lips signifying her rigid nature and seriousness for the job. She was no Harvey Specter, there was no bending of the law and perfectly timed quick-witted responses about winning big and playing the man, she was so by the book - the book of law - that I wasn't even shocked when she delivered her, "I'm sorry there is just nothing I can do for you." It was predictable from the start. This lady was cold, so cold that I felt ice tickle my ear through the phone when she told me, emotionless, that the only thing I could do, thanks to my employment contract protecting me from quitting without repercussions, was leave the company immediately, which is exactly what I did. One morning I was an employee, and a few hours later that day, I was unemployed with no plan, no direction, and significantly less hope for humanity.

Although Sue was as comforting as a bed of nails, she was right that there was nothing she could do for me. She informed me that Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 is what stood between me and taking legal action on my case. Title VII is a federal law that prohibits discrimination on the basis of race, color, religion, sex, or national origin in employment - except there is a catch - the law only prohibits discrimination in companies with 15 or more employees. This learning hit me like a semi-truck. This law hasn't been revised since 1964, are you kidding me?? How does the government neglect to protect the nearly 400 million US employees that work for a company with fewer than 15 employees? I felt helpless - like I lost my fight before I even stepped into the ring.

It's been a year since then and I have thought about it every day since - a cocktail of guilt and inadequacy - fearing that I left the door wide open for a girl like myself to find herself in the same exact spot, fearing that I didn't take the risk of sharing my story sooner, and worst of all, fearing that I was a part of the problem.

On my drive home from Ohio, I realized that this shame cocktail is never going to stop refilling itself - I need to do something even if I fall on my face trying. Although I can no longer fight my own case, my hope is that I can play a small role in fighting for the rights of the 400 million others that aren't protected from discrimination in the workplace, and like me, not even be aware of it. I don't know the first thing about writing a letter to my state senator, but what I do know is that her name is Natasha and she's about to get her door knocked down by a girl crazy enough to think she might be able to change the law.

Instead of a blog next week, my hope is to provide you with a finished copy of my letter to Natasha. Who knows, maybe I'll find some more spontaneous serendipity along the way.

Happy 2023 and thank you for reading!