To The Robert Scobles Of The World: Please Take A Seat

This is about Robert Scoble. This has nothing to do with Robert Scoble.

I’m an outsider. I work in tech, I guess, but I work in the “soft” side of tech, which maybe isn’t tech at all, because that’s what the guys in the tech world have said to me and to people like me — in blog posts, various publications, and virtually every conference I’ve ever attended where I had the audacity to approach and speak with tech’s brightest stardudes.

I jumped into our “women in tech” space when I asked BlogHer for a job in 2006. Many “nice guys exhibiting terrible behavior”-related stories emerged from those events that aren’t mine to tell, but they’re out there and they’re gross. Some involve Robert. Many don’t. Meanwhile, we sure did get our sweet little pats on the head back in those days from the Silicon Valley boys’ club.

Later, when Cat and Stefania and I started CLEVER we didn’t know what, exactly, we were building but we knew we were doing something that the market actually needed. So many years of my life’s blood, sweat, and tears later I will fight anyone who tries to tell me that the “soft” stuff we’ve built isn’t every bit as important as the “hard” stuff tech boys built that, by the way, mostly failed.

Anyway. Back when we were fighting to exist as a business, as a concept, as an industry, when we were desperate to establish ourselves, when we were doing somersaults and cartwheels to be noticed and taken seriously by the tech world that created us (the same world that found boy-built apps endlessly entertaining and newsworthy regardless of market viability), I got invited to speak on a panel with Robert. It was a small, invite-only event that focused on networking and wine, with some sessions on tech and media thrown in for good measure. I’d managed to finagle my way in, and I was thrilled.

It was a great event overall.

My panel was a joke.

I’d never met Robert before. When he arrived at our designated speaking area, I introduced myself to him (after the relative throngs got through, mind you). He’d been drinking, but so had I, so the fact that he seemed tipsy wasn’t a big deal. Wine was being poured everywhere. I was flushed with excitement and I completely bought in to his celebrity. His opinion mattered to a lot of people — he was essentially a person making a living for having his opinions — and his consideration certainly mattered to me.

I was disappointed, however, that I couldn’t get him to engage with me. He didn’t care AT ALL about who I was, or what I did. The fact that I was going to be sharing the “stage” with him got his notice, but not for long. My thing? The thing with bloggers? Not his bag, man.

And look. I get it. He was the man of the hour, and I offered him nothing. I’ve been found uninteresting by plenty of people for plenty of reasons in my life, especially in a setting where everyone is vying for everyone’s attention.

Now, by the time our panel rolled around, Robert was visibly drunk. He was also boisterous and charismatic. He was also-also happy to veer off-topic, plug his sponsors, speak over me, speak to my boobs, and not and take much of what we were doing seriously. I understand in every way how unimportant that panel was to him.

That stupid fucking hour meant the world to me.

In a roomful of maybe 60 people, at least a dozen were there at my invitation because it was a Big Fucking Deal that I — that one of us — had been given the same stage as one of The Big Guys. It doesn’t really matter that it was Robert.

What mattered was that I was right there, and one of The Big Guys could have noticed. Could have listened. Could have expanded his bubble just ever-so slightly so as to include someone who didn’t quite fit the typical mold of interest. Could have given me that shot. Could have done literally anything to help a smart woman with a clever business. And he didn’t.

Yes, Robert, you and — let’s be fair — a handful of gilded others do, in fact, have the ability to affect our careers.

None of you did, though.

That’s the burning shit-stick about all of this. It’s awful when men in power know how untouchable they are and abuse their status like would-be Emperor Trump. But it’s far more ubiquitous, insidious, and nearly impossible to fight when the men in power don’t even get how much power they have, and refuse to see how little of that power is shared among those unlike them.

This is how misogyny works. Sexual assault and sexual harassment are a direct result of an entire industry that doesn’t behave, in any way, as though women are equal. And while terrible acts are getting the spotlight right now (and they fucking well should), the bigger issue is the sea of antipathy towards women. We’re not usually fighting a single act — shit, it’s not usually action at all. We’re trying to fight lack of action, inadvertent refusals of inclusion, slights that are hard to name and harder to correct.

And they, the bad ones and the good ones, will tell you it’s not their fault.

Actually, no, that’s not true; they will mostly stare blankly at you or shrug you off or not even hear you because their echo-chamber is loud, full of their own noise. They will enjoy the power they have, but not take any accountability for it. After all, they came to be Idolized Tech Men by sheer dumb luck! It’s not THEIR fault the world cares about their opinions! Sure, they’ll gladly take all the perks and executive positions and board seats and speaking engagements and party invites that come with having such a following… but it ends there. They can’t be expected to pay attention to everyone else! They aren’t career-makers!

They’re just everyday guys! With everyday guy problems! They just do what they do!

But the thing is, you listen. (Not you, the other you.) You read their articles, you watch their videos, you listen to their podcasts, and you pay attention. You keep paying attention to them. You keep thinking they know what they’re doing because a lot of men just like them give them money to do more of the things they’ve already done.

And THAT is how we get here. Here, in the tech space, where women are still under-represented, under-listened-to, under-trusted, under-funded, and under-considered to such an extent that not only are we discriminated against, but we’re flat-out assaulted. To the surprise of the echo-chamber, apparently, but to nobody else.

Because the men who told me Pinterest was of no consequence (Robert chief among them), who lauded Google+ as revolutionary, who told me QR codes are the future, who still can’t fucking figure out why Twitter’s cesspool of abusers makes it an unattractive commodity, who believed it really was about ethics in journalism? These guys still run the show. The rest of us are out here wondering why.

Why can’t I get a seat at the table?

A year after the panel I mentioned, at the same event, I actually sat next to Robert at a group table. We had dinner together, among a small group of VIPs, because I had formed a friendship with Robert’s wife and she invited me to join them (it should be noted that Robert’s wife offers an amazing counterbalance to his MO).

During dinner, getting a word in edgewise was a challenge; the guys at my table couldn’t care less who I was or what I did. At one point, trying to establish myself, I ventured to mention #BatKid (which had happened only days before) to the man next to me. He had not heard about it. This surprised the man across the table from us — a “tech legend” as he was introduced to me — who then interrupted me to explain what it was. To both of us.

I WAS LITERALLY AT THE TABLE, YOU GUYS. And yet I wasn’t.

So here is what I know, now. There is no seat for us at those guys’ tables, and there never will be, and that’s okay because we don’t want to be felt up under them anyway.

This all has to stop. Will stop. We’re stopping it.

If you’ll indulge my metaphor, those tables are showing their age. They’re dry and cracked from sitting in the sun too long. They’re not going to be refurbished, either, because we’re out here building new tables every day and guess what we’re learning. Our tables are better. They’re brighter. They’re stronger. They’re far more comfortable. They fit a lot more people.

Of course, we built them because we didn’t have a choice. Fuck yeah, it would have been easier to just fix the old tables with new paint or whatever it is women would have done given the chance.

Instead, we’re just going to keep building different things, different tables, and they’re spectacular.

And the guys? Those Guys? At the splintered tables left behind? Those guys can just take a seat.