Women and The Art of War

Having spent now close to two decades in the corporate world, I am beginning to realise certain things about us women in the work force.

Despite our outcries at being put down and subjugated, one of our biggest failures I think is perhaps our inability to realise that we do it to ourselves.

Where I work now, and in other places I have worked as well, the majority of personalities that leave a lingering distaste in my mouth and keep me awake for unproductive reasons are sadly, more often than not, other women. Not men, who generally (and I generalise here) tend to fail themselves and their subordinates through actual fallibilities in leadership, egotism and short-sightedness. But women, like myself, educated, articulate, achieved at a young age, or not so educated yet successful worker ants who have sweated enough to be promoted through the ranks.

The problem often lies in what they do when they get to the top because who cares how they got there to begin with. Instead of using their positions of power, as men do, to elevate their own, mentor other women, lead with integrity and by example, they instead choose to engage in a vicious game of self-defense, even when the closest warring enemy is two continents away and will probably only reach their door-step once they retire.

They subjugate other women by putting them down.

They gossip and spread lies or coloured assumptions.

They use their wily womanly ways to coo their male colleagues into submission.

They cover up their weaknesses with a flip of the proverbial fan, a bat of the mascara-ed eyelashes.

They promote other women as a means of control rather than to open doors.

They seek, above all, to be the flower among the thorns, and take pride in their success at keeping other women at bay.

This is why we are still faced with a glass ceiling. Because without us male leaders will not have to face the complexity of team dynamics that take into account the baggage women carry with them from being female and constantly under threat.

It is a vicious cycle, but one that unfortunately, only us women can break. The men can't help us here, ladies. We have to do this by our selves. And do this by being the essence of what we are - mistresses of the collective, the builder of strength in numbers, the rearer of children by community and not the individual.

If it takes a village to raise a child, what does it take to raise a woman? The answer, is other women, in the plural and not the singular. Women of different shapes and colours and beliefs who are united by a common goal to better ourselves as a gender, as one half of the human race.

Because our nature is to nurture. Let's not forget that. Every time we go against it, we must realise we play into the hands of masochism and the sexism of men. The very thing we battle, or think we do.

Stupid

Some people are stupid.

And lately, I am surrounded by a multitude of them.

I play hookey from work, and when I finally get there already I am irritated by two women who just want to pick a fight.

I am pretty damned sure by now that the Bulldog wants my job, or at least my portfolio to report to her. Heaven knows why, since she can hardly hold her own team together.

So she picks on the silly Chinese chick who has no class. Because she understands this creature and how it will work. Maybe it is because they are alike.

Why are there so many damned stupid people on earth?

If everyone just tried to work together instead of protecting their own asses, backyards and bank accounts, there'd be more than enough to go around for everyone. In fact, I am pretty sure that's already the case, except some folks hoard the lot so the rest have to scrabble around for scraps.

I think communism has its advantages.

Oh and sign language.

I bet deaf people who sign never misunderstand each other. Or at least not as much as people who speak do. Because you won't get a Chinese educated woman trying to speak to a Malay educated woman in English and lines crossed. Deaf people no matter where they come from use ony one dictionary.

Maybe we should all sign. And be communists.

Three

They say death comes in threes. And so I have observed.

I go to sleep gripped in fear now of the next one.

I think we have all endured enough, dear God. We cannot take any more. At least not for a few more years.

I think of A as I lay down to sleep, wondering how she must feel, the weight of her sadness overbearing, extending even to my own shoulders, pressing down on my chest. I wish I could help lift it from her. I do still love her deeply, as my dearest friend and life companion, one of the closest to me.

I see how she has forged a bond so strong with M and I am thankful. Thankful that she has now a rock to lean on when she cannot stand on her own. I mourn the loss of my place, that place in her life. Yet, I am strangely happy.

And you. You have become in this time of chaos, a still floating pontoon on which I rest whenever I feel I cannot tread water anymore. You have surprised me with your unassuming ways. And shown me that you will be there, weathering the storm with me, your fear on your sleeve, and your face braving it. You are truly courageous, in reality. It took me a while to understand that, but now I do.

Uncle J, we will miss you. We will miss you and we bear the weight of your absence together. Me from the periphery, just taking my turn to shoulder the stone disc of grief when those who shoulder it most are too tired.

We smoked a cigarette on J's grave today. I still think it's the best piece of real estate she has ever lived in!

I find joy in small things now. My mother's voice on the other end of the line. Leaning on my Dad while he reads. Spending time with my sister. And I understand, watching A and her siblings come together, how blood is thicker than water. How brothers and sisters, in the end, are what count in keeping family alive and well. And how elastic that notion can be, when it has to. How it can include, over time and with love, people who are not of your blood, but with whom bonds are so strong you will soldier on with them, through the mud of life and the gravel of grief.

Angel

I am warmed by your fortitude.

I know this past week has been difficult for you, a person of solitude and insularity, to deal with the noisy presence of these others. These others who are ragged from grief, and still crumbling, crumbling every day from their letting go of their father.

I know death is something you cannot even see sideways. You shut your eyes to it. I can barely look it in the face. But you, you turn your back. I know that deep inside, you are as terrified of it as I am. And I understand.

I understand how difficult it is for you to deal with it, which is why those who don't know you may think you don't care. But I know that you do. And that you feel bad for those grieving. But you don't know how to say it, without delving into the depth of death itself. And the prospect is too frightening for your heart.

I know.

I hope you know how much and how deeply I know.

And that it has made me love you more, watching you courageously put up a brave face and try to cope with things. For unlike others, your methods of coping are limited, and I sense you already reached your last option on Day 2. But yet you have persevered.

I also wonder, and I think I dare say I almost sense that all this is starting to affect you somehow. Perhaps it is a blessing in disguise for you.

How The Story Ends

I've been doing a lot of thinking this past week, about life and death, your life, your looming death, mine, that of others I love.

I can't help it. My household is filled with your death impending, its energy sapped, tired and drawn, sighing like a tired horse dragging its worn carriage.

Uncle J, whose turkey and stuffing are the very symbols of Christmas for me. I want you to know that my definition of Christmas will always be one with you as the central figure. Your food, made with those kind hands, the whispered prayers of love from your heart and those lips that were always ever-willing to kiss a silly girl hello and goodbye.

I know you and I don't. You have been so generous with your stories. Yet I know that I didn't see the most of you, the other younger parts of you that your children know.

Your life has been one of kindness. I see it in the throng of people at your hospital door, generations in tow, come to pay respects to your sleeping self.

I hope it is painless till the end for you.

And us, us who are left behind, don't you worry about us. It's not your place to. It's our turn now. To carry this burden of remembering you, this memory that will bring back such happy memories they will make us cry for the absence of the real you in the flesh.

You have loved and you are loved.

And I think in the end, that is the measure of a man, woman or child.