Damsel Rescue Service
The modern woman does not encourage the proliferation of female stereotypes. Particularly the ones about damsels in distress. As a child, Eva Rossi deplored Rapunzel, Andromeda, Snow White and all of the other sad, helpless ladies who couldn't get out of the tower, off the rock or resist the obvious sales ploy of a toothless witch. Really, how hard was it to not prick a finger or to turn down free fruit? And did they have to burst into song?
Damsel, from the French word Demoiselle meaning 'little lady,' gave Eva the image of a creature so demure, foolish and entirely uncomplicated as to allow worldly evils to invade her simple existence. And worse, the little lady could not extricate herself from whatever peril her missing brains had permitted. But there was a lack of fight and an abundance of overwrought woe. No, a big strapping man was needed; a fellow with bulging muscles and a fair amount of medieval equipment. Of course, intelligence was optional, which is why the damsel always fell for her rescuer. They shared a brain cell between them.
Michele Le Doeuff said a feminist is a woman who does not allow anyone to think in her place. Young Eva heard that statement and had rearranged her thought processes to fit that definition. Pretty dress-wearing Barbies were given the boot camp treatment, complete with shaven heads and Ken's boots. Her teachers had noted the change in attitude on her report card; those of the male persuasion did not list it as a good quality.
Growing up, she liked to play Super Mario Bros but staunchly refused to rescue the princess from the fire-breathing dragon, even though it meant never successfully concluding the game. Still, it was more satisfying to her tween-feminist mind to let the Italian dwarf roast in intentional defeat.
Less satisfying was the frequency with which her teenaged self had played the cursed damsel in distress role. Perhaps it was an unavoidable facet of life on earth, though her childhood mind connected her 'adopted' status with the possibility of being from Pluto. Nothing irked her more than relying on another human of any gender to conduct a rescue from any situation, especially those of her own making. The burgeoning feminist would clash with the realist and Eva would often choose a path meant to prove her independence, which would sometimes lend argument to the opposite.
The book, Feminine Mystique, told her that 'it is easier to live through someone else than to become complete yourself.' Eva believed that was why young girls clung to the virginal Disney women, dressing up like princesses and waving around battery-operated wands. Living a make-believe life and rehearsing someone else's female standard. But even Cinderella had to scrub a few floors before getting to the palace. That was the trouble with her school friends; they saw the glass slippers but wouldn't wear the apron. The only choice was to rebel against the manmade cardboard cutout of what a girl should want (marriage, babies and rocking chairs) and seek her own ideal (degrees, career and money).
The older, wiser version of Eva Rossi learned to take several breaths to calm the immediate instinct to forego any relations with convention. She no longer rocked out to 'riot grrrl' music, though the underground feminist punk provided a nice soundtrack while driving. Except that it had encouraged more than one bout of road rage. Eva's plan was to work hard for what she deserved, anticipating the day when her smarts and ambition moved her past lesser qualified men. And while she was at it, Eva determined to free others from the stigma of gender inequality, her fabulous career giving her opportunities to bring women the perfect breath of her feminist oxygen.
This plan was not immediately realized, certainly not in the timeframe she'd mentally established. A community college business degree performed no wonders and lack of work experience crafted no miracles. The private companies were supposed to hire her based on the cumulative effects of her resume, regardless of how initially sparse that one-paged paper might be, and the subsequent interview. Dressing the part of the 'respect me for my brain' career woman, jobs seemed to be gifted to the even lesser qualified women who showed a touch of tantalizing skin. It would have helped if just one of the interviewers had been female. Surely one of her own would have recognized a fellow professional in need of a chance. It was with staggering shame that the pant suits found a home near the back of the closet. When the unemployment ran out, the skirts made an appearance, time shortening their length even as her heel height increased. Defeat, though painful, paid the bills.
It was an old professor who recommended that Eva apply for the Media department at the National Institutes of Health. Mrs. Decker, who had turned up in the frozen food aisle, held the coveted last waffle box as she supplied her husband's office number. Sitting in her apartment the following morning, phone in hand, Eva debated the merits of depending on a personal reference for the 'foot in the door' that her resume was supposed to provide. But since pride doesn't come with a paycheck, the blessing was too hard to dismiss. She'd simply have to prove her worth once she began doing whatever it was a non-doctor did at NIH.
As it happened, the upwardly mobile dream would not find an easy start at a government agency. After all, it was hard to shine when making coffee runs. The position Mr. Decker had helped her achieve was that of the media department's unofficial intern. Oh, the job offered more than just familiarity with the quickest routes to Starbucks. Indeed, there were file cabinets to organize, copies to collate and office gossip to be force-fed. The rare task of handing out press releases was the only event on her social calendar. This was nearly circled in red in commemoration. In her teenaged imaginings, she'd find likeminded employees and set the man dominated world to a feminist blaze. They would abolish workplace stereotypes and sail past their male counterparts. Perhaps even a club would be formed, where membership required a pledge to 'allow no one to think in my place.'
In reality, that first week taught Eva a startling lesson; she hated women.
It was rather difficult to maintain a feminist stance when the ones she sought to raise up were happily held down. She was surrounded by damsels. While they could outperform and out maneuver many of the men, there was no gloating of their accomplishments, except to one another. To the masculine population, they gladly appeared frail of mind, downplaying abilities and showing off the 'woe is me' persona that seemingly secured many an after-work drink. Seeking no equality with the men, the skills of backstabbing and one-upmanship were reserved for other women. They merrily faked the hated characteristic, playing damsels in distress only when in the company of men. Eva had not a single friend among the media group, no matter how much coffee she delivered. As time passed, Eva's duties increased slightly, consisting of the occasional overtime research done only on Friday nights while everyone else went out. Initial hope of this being the start to something more were quickly dashed.
When the boss, a young executive type with leering eyes inquired when Eva might start dressing for success, she'd considered giving her notice. Until a posting on the inner-office corkboard showed up the next day. Media liaison for an established field team. Her resume was polished that night and the crispest skirt suit was dry cleaned in time for the internal interview. And those fated words floated to her ears; 'You're not ready yet.' Said ears turned a violent shade and never had a quicker departing excuse been made. Useless paper in hand, Eva slam dunked the resume into her tiny wastebasket and left for an extended lunch. There were tears that afternoon as she considered who the other applicants might have been. By week's end, she'd know who got the job and made little bets with herself on the victor. A pint of store brand ice cream if Janice the Ivy-League-daughter-of-a-congressman got it. A half-gallon of decent variety if it was someone as green as herself. A gallon of the 'good stuff' if it was some no-name blond with 5 foot long legs. A bucket of designer style if it was a guy.
They thought she wasn't ready yet. Ready enough to craft a biting resignation. Ready enough to hand it to her chauvinistic boss the following day. Though she had no job to go to, the smile remained; a hollow but necessary symbol of victory against the torrid machine of the business world.
During her final two weeks of employment, the sweats emerged from the bottom drawer in defiance of every portion of the dress code. Especially the ones unwritten. This woman would wear no dresses or heels during the escape from this badly plotted story. And no man would accomplish the feat of saving her. While there should have been enough anxiety to require medication, a turning point seemed tangibly close, like a compliment just on the edge of a tongue. Of what nature or location, Eva couldn't say. Her sneakered feet walked the NIH halls to deliver drafts to the Dragon Lady and pondered where the next stage in Eva-lution would take her.
It was time to stop living through someone else and become complete herself. It was time to put the Damsel Rescue Service out of business.
If interested, part two will follow when Zaedah returns from vacation late next week. I apologize in advance for the delay in responding to any and all reviews. But please don't let that stop you from clicking the happy little review box!