What's on Your Name Tag?

My mother tells the story of a night when she and my father attended a dinner hosted by my father's employer. I imagine her excitement at the chance to dress up, leave the children with a babysitter and enjoy thought provoking, adult conversation. I picture them sitting at round tables covered with starched, white table cloths, crystal goblets and silver flatware, carefully solving the world's problems. Wine is poured and steak is cut. Wait staff in black uniforms look on from the sides of the room, keeping an eye out for an empty plate or half full water glass. As my father engages in conversation with a coworker, the stranger to the left of my mother asks, "And what do you do?" My mother explains that she is raising three daughters. Before she can offer up their ages or any further details, the man has turned away, making it clear that, to him, her chosen occupation is unworthy of conversation.

When mom first told me this very true story, I was angry, but also shocked that anyone could be so blantantly rude. I have always thought that she handled the situation with much more grace than I ever would have. Rather than tap him on the shoulder and ask why raising three little people to become productive members of society did not warrant a discussion, or whether he would prefer to talk about her Bachelor's degree in English, or her Master's in Counseling, my mother ate the rest of her meal and talked with other guests at the table. "Besides," she says, "He didn't want to talk to me anyway. What was the point of trying to make him?"

Several nights ago, I attended an open house for a non profit legal organization. My job requires a lot of interaction with this group, and I was excited to see their new office. I walked through the double glass doors of a beautiful building and paused as a valet called the elevator for me. I got in and began riding up to the top floor. I took a minute to examine my reflection in the mirrored doors. I was becoming more self concious of the ripped hem on my linen pants, where my heel had caught earlier that day. I tried to scrunch some volume into my hair and pinch my cheeks for a little color before the doors opened, but it was obvious I had had a long day. I wiped some mascara flakes from under my eyes, smeared on some lipstick and stepped into the hall with a smile.

Everyone in the office was well coiffed, pressed and perfect, making me feel all the more self conscious when a tomato flew off my plate onto the brand new carpet. I tried to laugh this off, muttered an apology and grabbed a glass of wine. I glanced at my watch to see how many more minutes I needed to stay before I could respectfully excuse myself to drive home and climb into my pajamas. A girl about my age started talking to me, and I jumped in the conversation, hoping that we would chat, time would fly, and I could eventually escape to my car. The young woman explained that she does fundraising as a volunteer for the organization. She then launched into a monologue of how she never expected to be eliciting funds for a non profit because she was a lawyer. She talked to me about law school, and how I wouldn't know, but lawyers are very competitive, and she was lucky to have made life long friends in law school. She told me about her husband, an executive at some prestigious company, and how she refused to let him apply for a promotion out of state because she was a lawyer in Texas.

Neither of us had name tags on, but eventually this LAWYER stopped to ask me if I was originally from Dallas. I shook my head and explained that it was a long story, but my husband and I had moved to Texas so that he could complete a PhD program. She smiled, cocked her head and said, "Oh, I see. You are one of those women that just follows her husband around, huh?" Ouch. Everything that was racing through my head seemed to be stuck in my throat and I could not get any words out. I smiled and mumbled something, trying to defend my existence as more than a follower, but she was already moving towards someone whose presence she respected. I was livid. I said my goodbyes and grabbed my co-worker, telling her it was time to go. As I relayed the story, my coworker said, "Did you tell her that you have your law degree?" I said, "I tried to, but I couldn't get it in." And then my mother's words came back to me. "Besides" I said, "She didn't want to talk to me anyway. What was the point of trying to make her?"

I brooded over this woman's comment for the rest of the night. All the nasty things I wish I had said came tumbling out when I told Mike what had happened.  My favorite, "B**** - get out of my face!" made me feel a little better, but I really wished I had had the nerve to say something to her. I emailed a friend who simply said, "Rest up. Let it roll" which was really all that could be done. I went to bed and woke up feeling less angry and more hurt. Who was this girl to make assumptions about me? Why did I care what she thought? Regardless of my personal issues, I think this interaction is a nice reminder not to judge a book by its cover. You never know who, or what might be hiding in those ripped linen pants. Whether you have a fancy degree is not the issue - it is life experiences that make people interesting. So give people a chance to tell their story - you might just be surprised.