• CARLY FIORINA BECOMES THE FIRST FEMALE CEO OF A FORTUNE 50 COMPANY.
• GLORIA STEINEM AND MARIE WILSON OF THE MS. FOUNDATION FOR WOMEN FOUND “TAKE OUR DAUGHTERS TO WORK DAY” TO EXPAND THE CAREER HORIZONS OF GIRLS ACROSS THE UNITED STATES.
• THE WOMEN’S NATIONAL BASKETBALL ASSOCIATION (WNBA) DEBUTS WITH EIGHT TEAMS THAT PLAY IN THE SAME ARENA AS THEIR NBA COUNTERPARTS.
• THE US DEPARTMENT OF LABOR ESTABLISHES THE GLASS CEILING COMMISSION TO ELIMINATE BARRIERS THAT BLOCK QUALIFIED WOMEN FROM WORKPLACE ADVANCEMENT.
• THE NATIONAL INSTITUTES OF HEALTH ESTABLISHES THE OFFICE OF RESEARCH ON WOMEN’S HEALTH TO INCREASE WOMEN’S REPRESENTATION IN ALL MEDICAL RESEARCH.
#1 NEW YORK TIMES–BESTSELLING AUTHOR
Photo credit: Stephanie Girard
VICTORIA AVEYARD
Because I was a girl, a millennial girl, the kind with a working mom and a supportive dad, with an education, with a dream, with a path, with people willing to pick me up and push me back when I needed it—I am who I am today.
Because I was a lucky girl, with white skin, a stable home, with almost a century separating my life from women’s suffrage.
Because college was never a question.
Because homework was never an option.
Because my parents showed up to every game.
Because most of my problems were normal problems. A math test, acne, the school dance, college acceptance or denial.
Because the world I grew up in was almost entirely built for me, to shelter me, hold me, grow me.
Because there was a boy who got that scholarship over me, even though my grades were better.
Because people used to tell me, you better marry rich.
Because people used to say talking that much is unladylike.
Because teachers would ignore my hand when I was the only one who knew the answer.
And this shouldn’t sting as much as it does, but because I had to watch men save the day in almost every one of my favorite stories. Because Princess Leia and Hermione Granger were the only ones I had to cling to, but at the very least, they looked like me.
* * *
I’m blessed not to have any stories about being denied a job or a college education, or about anything stolen on the grandest scale. I work in one industry that is female-driven. I work in one that is absolutely not, though steps are being made. And I live, unfortunately, in a time when it feels like steps are being taken backward. It could be that I’m simply becoming an adult, opening my eyes fully. It could be that I’ve been blind for a very long time, hemmed in by my own privilege. I’m sure that’s the case with many things. But one thing is very clear, and made even clearer by the rise of social media: Women with voices, women with opinions, women who speak on any scale on any subject, are expendable. They are either branded as targets or marked as unimportant. They are either abused or dismissed or both, in far greater measure than any man of privilege. Both are meant to harm, and both are weapons used to silence.
I’ve learned this firsthand because I have social media of my own … and a tendency to shout. I’ve had my fair share of trolls, most of them hiding behind false names and false pictures and just plain falsehoods. They see women as easy pickings, particularly women of color, as well as groups far more marginalized than I. I’ve never faced abuse of that magnitude, nor can I imagine it. But this isn’t just a hallmark of strangers on the Internet, whether they originate in an American basement or a Russian office building.
* * *
Because I was a girl, I’ve had a man I know tell me to stop talking about politics. To get a hobby, to go to the gym, to pick up crocheting. At first glance, it seemed harmless. Another person unwilling to face facts or even properly debate a point was trying to brush me aside. But because I was a girl, because I’ve seen worse, because I’m a writer who understands intent and connotation, I reluctantly realized there was much more at play. And since I’m a loudmouth, not to mention a modern woman living now, I decided to point out his blatant sexism. I didn’t really expect an apology. But I didn’t expect to be laughed at, either. Or dismissed and ridiculed, name-called into oblivion. Essentially told that I, a working woman, didn’t even know what sexism was. That I was the sexist for interpreting his comment in such a way. And I really didn’t expect this person to call my father afterward, in some strange throwback to caveman patriarchy wherein men can only communicate from one chief to another. Because, apparently, that isn’t sexism, either.
* * *
WOMEN WITH VOICES, WOMEN WITH OPINIONS, WOMEN WHO SPEAK ON ANY SCALE ON ANY SUBJECT, ARE EXPENDABLE. THEY ARE EITHER BRANDED AS TARGETS OR MARKED AS UNIMPORTANT. THEY ARE EITHER ABUSED OR DISMISSED OR BOTH, IN FAR GREATER MEASURE THAN ANY MAN OF PRIVILEGE. BOTH ARE MEANT TO HARM, AND BOTH ARE WEAPONS USED TO SILENCE.
BECAUSE I AM A CERTAIN TYPE OF GIRL, MANY DOORS ARE OPEN TO ME. BUT BECAUSE I AM A GIRL, I KNOW THERE ARE MANY MORE STILL FIRMLY SHUT.
* * *
In the scheme of the world, this is a small instance and an insignificant one. This person holds no power in my life. But it revealed a hard-learned truth. Sexism is in the eye of the beholder. Because I am a girl, I know what it looks like. And I know that many people have no idea they are part of it, feeding it, and spreading it with every insidious, ignorant breath. They can’t acknowledge what they don’t see or refuse to understand.
I still mourn the loss so many of us felt on Election Day 2016, when we saw how much sexism weighs. When the smart, determined girl in class lost to the loudmouthed bully. When the little girls we used to be were cast aside by horrendous reality. I live with the pain of it every day, but worst of all is the pain I can’t fathom. The little girls who exist right now, in every classroom, in every home, studying, creating, playing, dreaming. I hope the world did not dim for them as it dimmed for me. I hope they never hit a wall they can’t climb.
* * *
Because I am a certain type of girl, many doors are open to me. But because I am a girl, I know there are many more still firmly shut. For one more day, or forever? Only the girls of the future will know.
IMPACT STRATEGIST AND STORYTELLER
Photo credit: Jennifer Kostich
JOAN HANAWI
A few years ago I was working under a grant to launch a digital literacy program in Pano, Ecuador. I was familiar with the community, having lived there two years prior, but as I was meeting a family new to the program, I wasn’t even halfway through my introduction when they interrupted me.
“But where’s Juan?” the Kichwa family asked, looking to my local partner, Edmundo, as the authority.
In South America, my name, Joan, is often misread as Juan. This mistake leads to confusion when the person who arrives does not fit the image of whom they were expecting, especially when that person is me, a girl.
This was nothing new to me.
At a very young age, I was told I should be a leader. On any given day, I was—and still am—buzzing with ideas, and it didn’t take long for me to realize that the most effective way to bring these schemes to life was to learn how to channel resources and direct others toward a shared goal. In other words, to lead.
My training officially started in fifth grade. My teacher had to step out of the room, but before she did, she asked me, “Can you please look after the class while I’m gone?” My heart swelled with pomposity at the realization that I was being given this responsibility, and I eagerly nodded in agreement. As she left, my teacher announced, “Class, I need to run a quick errand, so in the meantime, Joan is in charge.”
This may sound like a minor moment, but for me, it marks the root of my journey in leadership. Being put in charge of my peers filled me with pride and power—two traits I quickly learned should be at the bottom of any leader’s priorities.
I regularly misunderstood the duties associated with many of my early leadership positions. I wanted to be someone important, which I thought mea
nt you had to be domineering and controlling. It took me a while to figure out that real leaders are service-oriented and empathetic. While I had built a résumé that boasted student council presidencies and club leadership positions, nothing compared with the experiences I had abroad through my gap year.
I moved to the Amazon rain forest as a Global Citizen Year Fellow after I graduated from high school. The opportunity allowed me to work with the German International Development Cooperation and the Ecuadorian Ministry of the Environment. By taking the time to learn the culture of the people whom I was living with, I laid the relational foundations to return in the future and be trusted as a partner.
It was on one of these return trips that I found myself trying to explain yet again that I was actually the project lead, the so-called Juan. Ecuador is a nation where machismo, or masculine pride, runs strong. While it’s important to be aware of the cultural context in which you’re working, it’s also important to recognize societal norms that allow women to be overlooked as leaders and to subvert that reality.
Because Edmundo respects me (the feeling is mutual), he would always inform the perplexed community members that I was, in fact, the director. With a gentle smile, I would explain that I was the girl they were looking for.
The students and their families were deeply curious as to how I managed to be in charge. When asked about how I came to my role, I shared my mother’s story, explaining how she fought the odds to become a doctor and leader in not one but two countries. My ambition was modeled after hers. I had started with smaller positions to develop my skills and had worked my way up. I had earned the trust to take on larger, international responsibilities.
On the same trip, one of my local girlfriends, Rocío, commented, “You’re such a young girl, but you’re a leader. I wish I could be like you. It’s because you foreign girls are raised differently. I could never do what you do.”
To this day, that’s one of the phrases that sticks with me—I could never do what you do—not because of its truth but because of its falsehood.
Because I was a girl, it’s true that I was socialized to adhere to certain gender norms. Despite my global travels, I was told to be cautious for safety’s sake. Despite my boldness, I was taught to temper my words for agreeability. Despite my merits, I was encouraged to take my appearance into account. But I think it’s exactly these qualities that girls are often criticized for—sensitivity, emotionality, among others—that prime us to be good leaders.
To me, leadership is the ultimate form of service. It’s the duty to speak for those who have no voice. And sometimes as leaders, we’re privileged to see people grow into their voices. Despite her belief that she couldn’t do what I do, Rocío became a leader. She’s now the program coordinator of the project Edmundo and I built.
The critical piece of this story, however, is that I was empowered by my community to step into each of these positions. I didn’t get here on my own; I’m here because of the tireless efforts of others before me. I’ve thrived because of the girls who supported me instead of threatening me, because of the boys who backed me instead of belittling me.
These days, I take my leadership lessons from the jungle, and I’m learning what it means to be a leader in the workforce. I’m in my early twenties, and I’ve lived and worked on five continents. I’ve gone from pioneering new technology with indigenous communities to launching groundbreaking programs at global universities. Since finishing my degree, I’ve entered the corporate world to figure out how to leverage some of the most influential brands—and their resources—for good.
* * *
"YOU'RE SUCH A YOUNG GIRL, BUT YOU'RE A LEADER. I WISH I COULD BE LIKE YOU."
* * *
Whether viewed as a Juan or a Joan, I was told I should be a leader. So maybe I’ll go from leading community projects to taking over as the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, or perhaps I’ll become the world’s best mom, or maybe I’ll be America’s first female president. But maybe it’ll be you instead. Because you’re a girl, too.
TV JOURNALIST
Photo credit: Raza Khan
NOOR TAGOURI
Growing up, it had been my dream to work in television. Still, even as a child, I recognized that no one on TV looked like me or my mom or the other women in my family. I realized that people on television had to look a certain way, and if I was ever going to make it on TV, I could never embrace the hijab.
When I was fifteen, my family moved from a predominantly white neighborhood in Maryland to a city just outside DC. I experienced my own sense of culture shock, and I was exposed to a wide array of diversity. I was no longer the only dark-haired girl in town who spoke Arabic with Muslim parents who didn’t celebrate Christmas. The move—the change—triggered something in me. I felt less afraid to feel or be different. And so I decided to wear the hijab. I still knew that wearing the hijab could complicate the prospects of my dream to be on TV, that it might tempt people to draw certain conclusions about me. But it was a struggle that I was willing to endure.
I started college when I was sixteen. That first year was amazing. I was learning a lot, and my fellow students, thankfully, never really treated me differently. As I started my sophomore year, I landed an internship at CBS radio. I remember going to Tennessee for a class assignment to cover a hearing about a mosque cemetery. The sense of security I had developed was dashed when a former GOP congressional candidate at the hearing refused to speak with me because, as she said, “I don’t want to be on Al Jazeera.” Another person at the hearing denounced Islam to my face, asserting that my religion was “no religion at all.”
These kinds of Islamophobic comments became all too common as my career progressed. Often, people focused on the hijab, which meant I had to work harder to get the story. My team at work told me these kinds of issues never happened with the other reporters. They didn’t have to spell out why.
In 2015, a young black man named Freddie Gray was violently arrested by the police and died a week later from injuries he sustained during the scuffle. His death triggered protests throughout Baltimore, which left the city in a state of emergency. The media coverage seemed unfair to me. Many protesters were described as “rioters,” “looters,” and “thugs,” rather than what I saw them as: activists. As such, it was a story that definitely caught my interest, and I was determined to cover it.
On April 30, 2015, just outside City Hall, surrounded by various media outlets, the Reverend Al Sharpton spoke about the crisis in Baltimore. I decided to focus my coverage on a separate, passionate demonstration not far away, primarily made up of young black men and women who asserted that the reverend did not speak for them. They felt ignored by the media, which were more interested in covering the voices of celebrities and politicians. I could empathize to some degree.
I walked into the Baltimore protests with my videographer, determined to prove to myself and others that just because I was a woman in a hijab did not mean I couldn’t get the story. We’d managed to get a few interviews at the demonstration, but I was looking for something more. Just then, two young onlookers beckoned us over. Hesitantly, we approached them. One of them pointed at what appeared to be a quiet road. “Walk down that street,” he said with a smile, “and you’ll find the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen in your life.”
Curious, we took his advice and soon heard the sound of a crowd. At the end of the street was another group of demonstrators, dancing and singing. As soon as we arrived, the crowd rushed over, clearly eager to set the record straight, to explain that the demonstrators were not rioters and looters but concerned citizens who cared about their community and were proud of their city. They just wanted to be heard.
Emotions washed over me. Here, my hijab was not a deterrent; it kind of felt like the opposite. I felt seen in a way I hadn’t been before in my career. Maybe my hijab garnered trust from these demonstrators because we both understood what it meant to be misrepresented by the media. Maybe they trusted me because I was un
afraid to present myself as I really was. Or maybe they trusted me because I was just as eager to listen.
In that moment, I realized that embracing my identity was not the disadvantage to my career I always feared it would be—I had just been thinking about it the wrong way. I had been trying to fit into a certain model, one that had formed in my childhood. But my experience in Baltimore revealed a new path. My hijab could be a beacon for others like me to relate to. My own differences could make me a better journalist.
After we collected our stories and interviews, my videographer and I hopped into our car and cried with relief and bliss. We’d done it. It was there, in Baltimore, that we’d finally found the stories we were meant to tell. Since then, I’ve focused most of my stories on those of the marginalized and silenced. I graduated college. I did a TED Talk. I did a keynote speech for the South by Southwest Conference. I’ve traveled globally to share my story and inspire others, and I have worked on a clothing-line collaboration to combat sex trafficking. And now I’m a reporter on Newsy, a leading online video news site, and the host of a Newsy original series: A Woman’s Job.
And I’m thriving.
CARTOONIST
TILLIE WALDEN
THE 2000s
• PRESIDENT OBAMA ESTABLISHES THE WHITE HOUSE COUNCIL ON WOMEN AND GIRLS TO ADVISE THE EXECUTIVE DEPARTMENT AND AGENCIES ON ISSUES RELATING TO THE WELFARE OF WOMEN AND GIRLS.
• THE MATTHEW SHEPARD AND JAMES BYRD JR. HATE CRIMES PREVENTION ACT EXPANDS THE DEFINITION OF A FEDERAL HATE CRIME TO INCLUDE VIOLENT CRIMES BASED ON GENDER OR GENDER IDENTITY.
• DANICA PATRICK BECOMES THE FIRST WOMAN TO EVER LEAD THE INDIANAPOLIS 500 AND EVENTUALLY WINS THIRD PLACE, THE HIGHEST ANY FEMALE DRIVER HAS EVER FINISHED IN THE WORLD’S BIGGEST RACE.
Because I Was a Girl Page 11