Slow man working: “What’s the different between cows and women?”
Girl: “I’m not sure. A lot of things I guess.”
Slow man working: “Two legs and two tits.”
*Slow men laughing*
Girl: “That’s ridiculous.”
Slow man working: “No, really. They have the same gestation period, they both like to lie out in the sun, and creepy old men want to play with their nipples.”
*Slow men laughing*
Girl: “I’m guessing your charm and good looks don’t work on the cows either.”
*Everyone laughing*
When dealing with strictly male coworkers the lone female must learn how to fit into their world. She must follow the old adage: adapt, mutate, survive. She must be part vixen, part dude. She must be able to flirt her way into their favor, and threaten to kick their asses in order to maintain their respect. The female must participate in activities and conversations which my impossibly proper Episcopalian great aunt would call, “disgustingly Y chromosome”. However, she used this term when scolding her husband for eating a cookie with his dinner instead of after. These are not the kind of small transgression that I have frequented working for the county.
The men I work with are not the men that are being bred today. They would never wear tight jeans or spend more than one minute on their hair. Most of them chew tobacco or smoke. Country music is their mating call. Tractors are their limousines. Most of them know more about corn than I know about my recently chosen major. There is no joke too dirty, too childish, or too politically incorrect for their ears. This is only one side of them, and it is a front for many of them. To let down this front would mean being mocked every morning. If you cannot prove your testicular fortitude with vulgarity than you are not a man…and they will buy you tampons to remind you of this fact monthly.
Perhaps it’s unfair to paint myself as a lone she-wolf among a horde of papa-bears. For my first three weeks I was the only girl of my age, however, there is one other woman that prowls among the men. Mother. Mother is a phenomenon of her own making. She is the boss. She is technically in charge of all of the slow men working. When she first came to power, it is fair to say that the slow men working did not take kindly to a woman being on top. However, they managed to adapt, mutate, and survive. Strangely enough, Mother is almost worse with her language and manner than the men. When she is around the men restrain themselves, only making enough jokes and crude remarks to let her think that she has no affect on their behavior. While I can’t prove the fact, I would venture to guess that Mother doesn’t treat the other men in her life as she does the slow men working.
Still, I don’t count Mother as a member of the women in the work zone. Why? By being the boss, she loses her ability to play the minority card. She releases her gender card and instead draws the ace authority. Despite her physical appearance and genetics, she is “the boss man” to me and all of the men. She is the elite and I am a part of the lowly workers. We must band together against such oppression. Mother is the enemy, the announcer of bad news, the one who cackles when you request time off. There is no gender for an enemy. Louis the sixteenth and Marie-Antoinette were both sent to the guillotine. Sex had no bearing in the issue. We, the work crew, find Mother guilty on all counts. What the counts are, I am not sure, but the whisperings of constant rebellion assure me that there have been some transgressions on her part. Even if I were to consider her a woman, she would not be one of us. And despite my pesky extra X chromosome, I have become a member of the preliterate; I am a part of the “us”. They have forgiven the fact that I cannot pee by the side of the truck, or spit, and they have let me in.
As more girls joined the force I ferried them into safe harbor, although they each left their own mark of femininity. The first was the lawyer.
