My whole life has been peppered with these things, gigantic and small, that have been sending me a very specific set of instructions about my place in the world. I’m exhausted by it. I’m lit up with rage about it. I’m resigned to it. I refuse to be resigned to it. I tell myself “not anymore.” I know this list will grow.
Or it might have happened gradually, with every horror story, from every woman I’ve met in tech, about the men with their hands and their eyes and their exclusion and their superiority complex and their vapid ideas about masculine superiority that they sweatily cling to, in sheer avoidance of their own responsibility as builders of the future to ensure that it doesn’t reflect the sexist vagaries of the past.