Bhumi

I'm sitting in a Newari restaurant right now, which is a terrifying 10 minute walk from my hotel. It is not terrifying because of Kathmandu, which by all tales is a lovely, relatively crime free and safe place. Instead my paranoid NY woman alarms were clanging like crazy with every stumble on the uneven sidewalk, with every motorcycle and general chaos zooming by and a faint but distinct smell of sewage in the air. Oh, and it's dark out.

Anyway, I ordered a giant Tuborg (because Denmark!) and there is techno music blasting in an otherwise charming restaurant filled mostly with locals. The singer is shouting "I just want to feel this moment," and I'm thinking, if I feel this moment anymore I might explode.

What a fantastic life it is to deliver me to this amazing place on the other side of the world...a long way from exit 9.

I'm eating a vegetarian platter that has a delicious mix of identifiable and unidentifiable veg, including a distinct spice I can't quite place. Sumac? Tamarind?

With each bite I think, yum and please don't get food poisoning! I also think the chef from Fredriksgade would freaking love all of these veggies. It's not all fantastic. There's a weird and large pile of seemingly uncooked oatmeal in the middle of the plate that I could definitely, and likely will, skip. (The waiter later told me it was "beaten rice").

My Tuborg cuts the spice perfectly as I think, well haven't I just jumped right in to authentic NEPAL?! I also think, please don't curse my bowels 😬

Aarhus

Today I learned that my favorite restaurant and my favorite dress shop are in a town I will likely never visit again. Perhaps, given the excess, this is for the best. It is the very definition of bitter sweet.

Here I go again: Europe is just so perfect. Everyone is pedaling around in their understated bikes, by the sea, on cobbled streets interspersed with kooky art and trendy clothing shops. Cherubic children are pushed in old fashioned, yet modern buggies with ginormous hipster parents in super stylish colored glasses. 

Aarhus ("R-hoose") is Denmark's second city and has a large university. I'm here for a conference of election nerds. I took a hop flight on a propeller plane that took me back to my South Sudan flying days (minus the goats and children on the runway). I arrived in a daze of jet lag and sleep deprivation. Luckily the presentation I'm making tomorrow is one I have made quite often recently so my prep for this is minimal. I crashed for a couple of hours and then headed out to see the town.

Turns out I'm staying right in the middle of the large shopping district. I tried and nearly succeeded in resisting these shops...until my way back to the hotel. I spied a perfect little dress shop and literally could have bought half the store. Ok, I did buy half the store. Don't tell Hayden.

Not good. My plan was to shop like crazy in Nepal and figure out how to squeeze it all into my suitcase. All bets are off now. The owner was so nice that when I told her this was my new favorite dress shop she said she could have her friend who lives in Alexandria bring me dresses. Wth?!

In a mix of guilt and resolution, I hit the treadmill when I got back and then picked a restaurant that would here forthwith become my frame of reference for what a perfectly happy meal is.

Fredriksgade 42, shame on you! You broke my heart, because now I never have to go to Noma in Copenhagen. You, Fredriksgade, are what I imagined that meal would be like and Noma would now either be sooo much better or sooo much worse. It's off the list!

I walked in, nervous and on my own. There was no host in sight. The chef came out, told me to pick a table and then told me exactly what to order: the four course menu, which was a) non-negotiable and b) 80% vegetables, not because of principle, but because "there is just so much more one could do with local vegetables than with the same old steak every night."

Before my four courses even started I was presented with a creamy fennel soup poured over sunflower seeds and pickled onions with a side of chickpea and smoked cheese dip and poppadoms. Holy shit.

I asked him to bring me a nice glass of red and he brought me a Sicilian red that killed it!

The courses were complex and ridiculous. Even more ridiculous was the pride bursting from the server each time he brought out a dish. "Is that ok?" He asked knowing that of course it was god damn ok!!

The "ugly carrot" on the menu was a carrot dehydrated and stripped of its "marrow," which was replaced by a goat cheese mousse. It came paired with a mushroom, barley and boar (yes boar) risotto. This was followed by Hake in a lobster cognac sauce and grilled Chinese cabbage. Dessert, which I had to force upon myself, was a carrot and ginger sorbet (perhaps that's where the "marrow" went?) with dulce de leche and white chocolate crumble.

Fantastic and now I'm as happy as a Dane.

Aarhus, you sly devil you!

It's 2017 and gender inequality is still a thing

If the Matrix can be a bad thing, then let me describe seeing gender equality as seeing the Matrix. I can’t un-see it and it’s driving me insane. My job is literally to see, understand and address gender inequality and I hate it. At least, I hate the part where I have to be the gender police. “It’s 2016,” I said, “how is gender inequality still a thing?”

In 2017, that doesn’t quite ring true or with the same level of exasperation and condemnation. It’s more like, “it’s 2017, how can gender inequality still be a thing? Oh. That’s how.”

On Wednesday, International Women’s Day, I went to a protest at the White House on the global gag order. This is yet another policy-driven effort to dismantle gender equality. The global gag order places a cease and desist on US funding for organizations working internationally who offer abortions as part of their reproductive health programming.

I met a group of women from my office and we set out, bedecked in various shades and accents of red. We were buoyant as we set out toward Freedom Plaza. When we arrived, we were pleased to see a whole lot of women (and men) gathering. We were immediately handed signs and got quite good at “getting in formation” for photos. It was a great morning and I was filled with a sense of pride and purpose. As a friend said, “it’s good to get off the internet!” Indeed.

Back to the gender inequality Matrix.

I struggle with this mostly at work, partially because it’s my job and partially because I feel that, ironically, I am a victim of many of the ways in which women are treated like crap in the workplace. My expertise is constantly being dismissed as common sense or less technical than other areas of the work we do. This is done subtly of course, like, “oh, Jessica, we wanted you to know that our team put together a gender manual.” Or “oh, they didn’t contact you about that?” Or, “oh, well so and so is coming for another reason so he could address that issue as well.”

Manual based on what methodology?

No, I wasn’t contacted.

If I visit, should I now offer my entirely uninformed opinion about electronic results transmission? No? Oh, right.

I am pigeon-holed in my one area of (questionable) expertise as if my brain couldn’t possibly be of use in other areas of our work. “Sorry I didn’t copy you on that.” Sorry for the 100^th time? I pride myself in prioritizing collaboration in my approach, which many of my colleagues can attest to. However, I have a colleague who has been trampling my space with his own ideas or sabotaging and undercutting my work when something I have created is really working or successful. He is a bully and I don’t use that term cavalierly. In just one of many examples, he wrote to senior staff the day after a recent paper of mine was published to question the organizational vetting process for publishing papers. Coincidence? I don’t think so.

I’m expected to make contributions at a senior level, but am not given a title that reflects that supposed seniority. Among other achievements, I hosted a series of events on Capitol Hill last year that literally a 1,000 people attended. A 1,000! Every time I ask about my title (which has been multiple times over multiple years), I’m given evasive, dismissive and downright lame excuses for my place within the organization and once again underestimating (not caring about) the technical capabilities needed to perform my job. This leaves me with the constant feeling that rather than an asset, I’m a pain in the ass. The very idea that I even have to write this…for what? Validation? The other day I was sitting in a meeting and wrote these words in my notebook: humiliation…disrespect…daily.

I read a statistic recently that said that when women speak 25% of the time in a group discussion it is perceived as equal in terms of participation. Anything above 25% is perceived as women dominating the conversation. I see this in how myself and other women in the organization are treated.

I’m called “passionate” a lot. And I am. But I’m also realizing this is code for many things actually: loud, opinionated, overstepping, destructive, etc. etc. Recently we nominated a bigoted jerk as head of our Board. This is not my opinion. This has been documented thoroughly by human rights organizations in the US and confirmed by his own asinine and hateful public ramblings. I led the crusade to speak truth to this guy and succeeded. Not in preventing him from his role, but at least in letting him know that we know that he’s a bigoted jerk. However, I also began to literally see my senior leadership cringe when I opened my mouth. I could see the thought bubbles above their heads, “Oh shit. Here comes Jessica again.” “What’s she going to say now?” “How am I going to deal with her?”

The words that I have spoken on this matter were delivered with extremely measured poise, accuracy and clarity. I did not call the guy a bigoted jerk at the office (this is my blog and I can do that). I spoke rather dispassionately and pointed to “evidence,” which I know is a critical tool when arguing human rights and inequality to those who are too privileged to see it otherwise. And yet, even though I didn’t do these things, I still got “the rep” if you will. I was becoming our own Norma Rae.

Uh, no thank you. Nothing wrong with Norma Rae, of course, but I wasn’t going to fall into yet another stereotypical gender trap. So, I muted myself. I took myself out of the debate, which was petering out anyway. I did this not because of the jerk himself, but because of how my so-called colleagues in agreement were treating me.

In previous years, I have referred to March 8^th as the “Gender Superbowl.” There’s a ton of action around Washington, DC. I’m also expected to lead our own work on the day, as well as the weeks before and after. This year I was disappointed the Day Without Women was on March 8^th. I wished it had been any other day in any other month, because I’m busy on March 8^th. I’m busy in March. It’s the one time of the year when we’re expected to be talking about gender. This strike took away from that in my opinion.

But I got over it quickly. I may not agree with the date, but I agree with the agenda. I believe in it, because I live and breathe gender inequality. And I’m sick of it. Getting out there and physically protesting felt damn good.

There is so much I face professionally that feels unfair as a woman. There is so much more that women face around the world that is far worse than my experience. This is the reason I must fight on. I write these words to remind myself of that. Nevertheless, I must persist!