Everyone has their own pet peeves, and mine are most certainly among the usual: toe-walkers, mouth-breathers, people who don’t signal when they’re changing lanes….
Lately, I’ve been struggling with “the crud” – some sort of nasty winter virus we all seem to be getting – and I’ve been forced to mouth-breathe at night to stay alive. Boyfriend finds it amusing to tell me how lovely and radiant I am when I’m mouth-breathing/sleeping.
Anyway, I recently started a new job, which I love and hate at the same time. I love the work. I get to interact with clients on a daily basis, I get to do semi-legal work, and I get to win. On the whole, I’ve really enjoyed the work and I think I’m fostering a wonderful, attentive relationship with my clients. I’m also kicking ass at getting stuff done, managing a million things at once, and helping others.
Whichever way you pronounce it, my biggest pet peeve, the quickest thing to push me from jovial to downright murderous, is being patronized. The biggest complaint I have about my workplace, far from the stress, is the indignity I suffer. I’m not alone, either.
I’m lucky I’ve worked with lawyers before, people who assume that a JD is license to denigrate, because in doing so, I learned how to temper the feelings of rage and do little more than supplicate to their delusions of grandeur.
Last week, I received an email from one of the account managers. He said that there was an issue with a claim that someone two people before me (that should give you an idea about the turnover here) had handled in September. I quickly rooted out the source of the issue, as well as the issue itself, and responded as such.
My phone rang.
It was the account manager. We discussed the issue, by which I mean that he told me exactly what I had told him in the email, except he elaborated further. He had me pull up part of our system, and then he proceeded to read to me, word-for-word, the contents of the screen. I can read. I’m well aware of what certain screens say. I did not need to be schooled about content or procedures in any way. I did not need to be told how to handle claims that I had not handled; I certainly didn’t need to be educated on how to read; and I certainly didn’t need to be spoken to like I am a kindergartner.
It took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to slam the phone down. I took deep breaths; I went to my happy place – I made one up; I struggled to choke out “yes, of course I understand.”
I attempted to explain to him the issue, and direct him to another part of the system, at which point he informed me that it isn’t his area, and that I should leave it alone. He’s lucky I’ve dealt with the J-D-elusionals before, because by the end of the conversation, he’d told me not to worry, it wasn’t my fault, and was assured that I’d handle it in the future.
I hung up the phone, seething. When I told my manager about it, she replied, “That’s pretty much how he is.” Yep. Par for the course.
This week, talking to one of our hearing representatives about cases that we should or shouldn’t appeal, the hearing rep asked me if I knew what hearsay was. I lived and died by murder mysteries and all things spy when I was little, and then progressed on to take forensic science and law classes; of course I know what hearsay is. Of course, he doesn’t know that.
I told him I did, in fact, understand the definition of hearsay.
He continued to explain to me what hearsay is. Had I not known what hearsay is, I wouldn’t have left our conversation with a clear idea in my head. Again, I struggled with the whole calm thing. How hard is it to understand someone when they say they know what something is?
There are two hopefully glaring examples, but they’re not the only ones. My takeaway is this: firstly, I have accepted that there are things I cannot change, like the world, my job, and the fact that there are men in better jobs who are seriously lacking the tools necessary to perform their jobs and even though I am not an idiot, I will be seen as one, purely because I am not a man.
Secondly, if you think you don’t need feminism, I invite you to spend a week in my shoes. Even the most ardent anti-feminist would cringe at something. It’s sad how far we still have to go to earn respect and a decent wage. You’re so wrong about equality. I had forgotten that this was a thing. I was filling up my tea this morning and I heard two of my co-workers talking about it in the break room. I broke in, and we all agreed the gender divide is real. And surprisingly oppressive.
Anyway, this was just a rant about how much I hate being patronized. I am an intelligent, well-rounded human being, and being treated as anything but absolutely shudders me to a screeching halt. I can’t stand it. I would so much rather be surrounded by mouth-breathers, toe-walkers, and no-turn-signal users than people who don’t use some modicum of respect for others.
It’s 2015 people. Get with it. Intelligence is not gender-specific. I’m not struggling for anything weird here; I’m just trying to get taken seriously.