In light of Donald Trump’s recent comments about groping women—and his subsequent dismissal of his grotesque language as “locker room talk”—I’ve thought a lot about being a woman, particularly in the workplace. It is an unfortunate reality that many women at work have experienced some form of maltreatment by men in some manner, no matter how slight. I have been fortunate enough to have been on the happier side of this spectrum, but I have noticed that I am treated differently because of my gender.
This past summer, I held a job as a cashier at a local branch of a hardware store. I was attracted to the position because it paid fairly well—around $9 an hour—and because I enjoyed the atmosphere of friendliness created by the employees, who were a small and close-knit bunch (and yes, the majority of them were and are male). Did I know anything about hardware? Not really. But I quickly picked up the general knowledge (indeed, my manager noted several times how quick I was learning). I worked hard to prove myself competent, and I am proud to say that I succeeded.
Having long been the only girl in a group of guys, I was comfortable around the male employees. I bantered with them, held my own in arguments, called them out on their bullshit. Dealing with the male customers, however, could be challenging.
A hardware store attracts testosterone-fueled men like my dorm attracts cockroaches. Within the first few days, my coworkers not only insisted on walking me through the parking lot at night but also informed me of the interesting specimens that very well might walk through our doors:
The local pervert, nicknamed “The Painter” because he sometimes strolled around in a white uniform. “If he sees that there’s a female employee at the register, he’ll stand outside the window for ages,” my manager told me bluntly. Indeed, that fellow appeared once to check out, and spent an inordinately long time packing up his purchases, not-so-surreptitiously eyeing me. My manager appeared at my side and passed me a note saying I’m going to wait here with you until he leaves. “Remember his face,” he warned me when the man had left.
(After that incident, one of my coworkers pulled out an aerosol can labeled PERV REPELLANT. “Pepper spray?” I asked. My manager laughed humorlessly. “It’s hornet spray. Point that at anyone and they’ll end up in the hospital for weeks.”)
Several times I also encountered a man whose last name was “Seedy”—aptly—and whose account ID, when his card was scanned, displayed a flashing notice that read “DO NOT TAKE CHECKS.” According to my coworkers, he once got so riled up at a female cashier that he tried to come inside the box with her to show her what she was doing wrong. They kept a close eye on him after that.
I also had my own share of customers who would subtly demean me, implying that I didn’t know what certain terms meant (which, to be fair, was often true) or that I didn’t know an item’s location within the store. “It’s because you’re young,” said one male coworker only a few years older than me. “I got the same treatment when I first started.” I looked away. Somehow, I didn’t think that was the full explanation.
Pet nicknames also made their appearances. Some were harmless enough, with male equivalents: “miss,” “young lady.” Some, though, set my teeth on edge: “honey,” “darling,” “sweetheart,” even “princess.” Those are names you call your wife, girlfriend, or daughter—not a female worker.
Again, I have been fortunate enough never to have been verbally or physically harassed or assaulted. However, these small annoyances are not insignificant. It always chills me to think that many women have heard or seen far worse in their own communities and that this treatment is so widespread. As women in the workplace, we cannot look away or tell ourselves that “the customer is always right.” You have the sole right to your body and your mind. Don’t let anyone treat you as less than you deserve.
