But do you know what the difference is? Now we have ways to reach out and talk about Boyland, not just with one another but with younger women, too. Now we openly talk about advocacy groups, representation, and mentoring. Now we track the crappy hiring statistics in Silicon Valley. Now we teach girls to program. Now we call our local and national representatives. Now we march on Washington and across the world. Now we have voices. Now we have platforms. Now we have allies. Now we have one another. Now we fight.
* * *
NOW WE HAVE VOICES. NOW WE HAVE PLATFORMS. NOW WE HAVE ALLIES. NOW WE HAVE ONE ANOTHER. NOW WE FIGHT.
* * *
Now Rey has a lightsaber. Now Captain Marvel has a movie. Now the Black Widow appears in toy lines. Now the Force is with us. How long will I still have to wait for my Girl Dumbledore and Girl Yoda and Girl Gandalf?
We won’t wait much longer. At least, our daughters won’t. We’ve made sure of that much. The attack on Boyland has finally begun.
FINANCE EXECUTIVE
Photo credit: Benny Krown
ANNA PONDER
In the Sterling Memorial Library at Yale, there is a portrait of Edward A. Bouchet, the first black American to earn a PhD at a US institution. As a PhD student, I would smile as I passed it—proud to be part of such a meaningful tradition.
Most of the challenges in my life have been framed by racial identity. I grew up in Columbia, South Carolina. In 1976, my older sister was the first black high school student from South Carolina to serve as a page in the US Senate. I was the second in 1981. She was the first black student to graduate from Heathwood Hall, a respected private school. I was the fifth. And, as I stood with my classmates on the steps of Trinity Episcopal Cathedral for a photo, we faced the capitol, where the Confederate flag waved atop the dome.
When I enrolled in Yale’s PhD program in political science in September 1992, I found myself part of another meaningful tradition—brilliantly marked by The Women’s Table, a Maya Lin sculpture installed in front of Sterling in 1993. Although women had matriculated at the School of Fine Arts as well as certain graduate and professional programs since the 1860s, Yale College graduated its first truly coeducational class in 1971. Twenty years later, I discovered a university culture that thought surprisingly little about my race but quite a lot about my gender. Female students, faculty, staff, and administrators were few and remained “others.” There were no female faculty members in the political science department when I arrived.
In my first year, a professor decided to share “anonymous” examples of poorly written and/or poorly conceived work by reading excerpts from three papers aloud in class. Mine was one—along with those of the two other women in the room. I think I shocked him when I spoke up to claim the work (my classmates had not) and asked pointed questions about what he would have preferred. The following day he left a gift in my cubby—a copy of Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style. I took it with me to his office, where I sat down and said that I would like to go through my paper (which he had failed to mark up with any commentary) in tedious detail. My thought: If you’re going to go out of your way to embarrass me, let’s make the most of it. And, of course, a bully is typically uncomfortable with any confrontation but his own. Trying to bring our tutorial to an end, he suggested that I “may not have what it takes to be successful in the program.” I looked at him and said that there were only two ways out for me: “with a degree or in a pine box.” Then gathering my things, I added: “See you at the finish line.”
I graduated in 1998 and, funnily enough, seldom—if ever—use the title “Dr.” Frankly, I prefer to be called Anna, and Ms. is also just fine with me. That said, when I made a career move into hedge funds in 2006, I put “Anna Ponder, PhD” on my business cards—admittedly because in this testosterone-driven business, women are often undervalued. Nearly two years into my tenure, my group spun off to form an independent firm, wherein I was the only woman outside the assistants’ pool. As we went through branding for the new company, the new senior managing director, who had not been with us at the old firm, caught sight of my card. When he appeared at my office door to speak with me about it, he said I should remove the PhD “because it makes the guys uncomfortable.”
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… HE SUGGESTED THAT I "MAY NOT HAVE WHAT IT TAKES TO BE SUCCESSFUL IN THE PROGRAM." I LOOKED AT HIM AND SAID THAT THERE WERE ONLY TWO WAYS OUT FOR ME: "WITH A DEGREE OR IN A PINE BOX."
"IF YOU ARE NOT 'MISSUS,' WHAT TITLE WOULD YOU POSSIBLY USE?" BEWILDERMENT SPREAD TO MY FACE AS I RESPONDED: "DOCTOR?"
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I made no change to my business card.
Not long after, I was out with an old friend, who was in town with her mother. After a wonderful dinner talking, laughing, and generally catching up, “Mrs. X” asked for my email so we could keep in touch. I gave her my business card. She looked at it and said, somewhat in horror, “PhD on your card? My God … you’ll never get a man.” I thought, but out of politeness did not say: You may be right, but how happy could I be with a man who would reject me out of hand because of my education?
One last piece to this evolving life puzzle. My parents have been and remain my biggest advocates. Both are academics and hold doctoral degrees. As I walked across the stage to receive my Yale diploma, I looked out to find them in the audience. I saw my mother but not my dad. I turned my head back toward the stairway to descend from the stage, and there he was at the bottom, arms outstretched, and smiling with his whole heart. I ran down to meet him. He hugged me and said how proud he was. It was a magical moment, which I cherish.
I have always thought that it is wonderful that my father, who was reared “old school,” had daughters. He invested every bit of paternal hope and ambition in us. But there were a few bumps along the way. He once asked whether I might marry a man I was dating seriously while in graduate school. I said perhaps, and we continued talking about what that life might look like. In the course of the discussion, I told him I doubted that I would ever change my name. I said that I like my name because it is part of my family—my history. I treasure the legacy. He looked at me bewildered and asked, “If you are not ‘missus,’ what title would you possibly use?” Bewilderment spread to my face as I responded: “Doctor?” That discussion reverberates to this day with my father’s pride in my choices and in my thinking. I hear it and feel it every time he smiles and calls me “Doctor Ponder.”
BANKER
Photo credit: Ed Glendinning
JILL LORIE
As a little girl, I did all the things that were expected of little girls of the time: baking cookies, taking dance classes, playing with Barbies. I didn’t particularly enjoy any of these activities; it was just what girls did. Because I was a girl, it wasn’t “right” for me to build traps, jump off roofs, clown around, or play baseball, even though I wanted to do all those things and had the ability to do them. Instead, as I’d been taught, I intentionally missed a ground ball, pretended the boys were rude, and stopped myself from interjecting all the superfunny things I had to say.
In high school, I learned that gossip, makeup, and popularity were the keys to success and devoted myself to being successful. I did just well enough in my classes to keep my parents and teachers off my back and to retain an appearance of cool. I would erase my calculus homework and pretend I didn’t understand the math so I could be tutored by the cute senior boys. And I got away with a lot using some tried-and-true tactics. I’d don a sad face to be excused from missed homework assignments. Flirty smiles would get me out of tardies. Mediocrity and feigned helplessness never felt right, but in high school, that is what I thought being a girl was all about.
I showed up at college with no goals other than to get out of my parents’ house and to have fun. But the cool girls were far different from any I’d encountered—they didn’t shave their legs, and they discussed literature and politics. As in my youth, I was most interested in being popular, so I spent the next four years trying to fit in with them and
failing miserably. I couldn’t force myself to care about the things they cared about.
I coasted through college with no real sense of myself, no idea of my potential, and no idea of who I wanted to be. At the advice of my father, I majored in English and got my degree in education. But I had no real desire to be a teacher. Instead, I spent my early twenties as a “groupie,” a groupie who earned peanuts working for a rock ’n’ roll legend. I budgeted tours, licensed the catalog, negotiated publishing rights, threw record-release parties, and scheduled video shoots. I did all this while coordinating travel so the wives and girlfriends never ran into each other on the road. I loved the work, and for the first time in my life, I felt capable and in control—feelings I never realized I so eagerly craved. Still, for all my hard work and success, I was treated and paid like a girl who just wanted to hang out with the band.
When the musician refused to pay me more, I quit. I felt emboldened and decided to put my college degree to use. I was lucky to land a teaching position in Covina, California. It was summer, and the job started in the fall. To bridge the gap, I accepted a six-week temp job at JPMorgan Chase. That summer at the bank was my awakening. In six weeks, I went from being the temp receptionist to the manager’s assistant to someone who was managing her own book of business. For me, the metamorphosis was the window to my potential. I suddenly saw myself as a smart girl with possibilities.
By the following September, I had brought in over $100 million in business. I’d spent years living up to others’ (low) expectations of me. But no longer. I let go of my preconceived notions of what a girl was allowed to do and be. I shaved my legs and took care with my hair and makeup and played fantasy football with the guys. I joked with my male colleagues and wore cocktail dresses to work, all the while closing more deals—and harder deals—than any man in the office. I found success being a woman who is comfortable being a girl and who is confident in her abilities.
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FOR ME, THE METAMORPHOSIS WAS THE WINDOW TO MY POTENTIAL. I SUDDENLY SAW MYSELF AS A SMART GIRL WITH POSSIBILITIES.
I LET GO OF MY PRECONCEIVED NOTIONS OF WHAT A GIRL WAS ALLOWED TO DO AND BE. I SHAVED MY LEGS AND TOOK CARE WITH MY HAIR AND MAKEUP AND PLAYED FANTASY FOOTBALL WITH THE GUYS.
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PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES TENNIS ASSOCIATION
Photo credit: Fred Mullane/Camerawork USA
KATRINA ADAMS
I fell in love with tennis the first time I hit a ball. I loved the feel of the ball on the racquet. I loved being in control of my own shots. I loved that you didn’t have anyone but yourself to rely on. It’s up to you how you train and practice to get better. Your destiny on the court is entirely in your own hands.
I would go on to play professional tennis and win twenty Women’s Tennis Association doubles titles and compete in dozens of Grand Slam tournaments. I played from Melbourne to Russia and everywhere in between. I am now the president of the United States Tennis Association. Tennis opened up the world for me.
But it almost never happened.
I started playing tennis kind of by accident. When I was six years old, in 1975, I attended a summer program run by the Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Boys Club on Chicago’s West Side. (The clubs were later renamed the Boys & Girls Clubs of America because several girls also attended and participated in club activities.) My older brothers were part of the program, which was for kids between nine and eighteen years old.
My parents were public-school teachers and taught summer school, so I had to tag along with my brothers. This left me on the side, watching them and the other kids practice. I had a great deal of confidence that I could not only play as well as they could but that I could beat them. So every day, I begged the coaches to allow me to play. They finally gave in and decided to give me a chance. By the end of the program, I was named the Most Improved Player of the entire summer.
Don’t forget: All the other campers were older than I was and had six weeks to practice. I had only four.
Though I loved tennis, I never thought of playing the sport as a profession. My parents were teachers, so that’s what I initially aspired to be. Somewhere along the way, I thought I would become an accountant (even though I didn’t like math). I didn’t choose tennis as a pathway until my middle teens, when I became the Illinois High School Association singles champion. Eventually, I earned a scholarship to Northwestern University, where I won the National Collegiate Athletic Association’s doubles championship. And from there, I started competing professionally.
Not everyone is able to find success out on the tour coming from my background. I was one of fewer than a dozen African-American tennis players at the professional level during my tenure. I felt pressure to represent my family, the kids I grew up training with in Chicago, my community, my entire race.
I owe a lot to tennis; I found myself on the court. Tennis allows you to be your true self. Your personality emerges from your style of play and how you act on the court. I have an assertive personality and a gung ho attitude—those traits translated into an aggressive game. Unlike other girls who were told to be sweeter and calmer and more reserved, I was encouraged to wear my emotions on my sleeve and show my passion. I learned to be proud of who I am and work my hardest every single day on the court and, eventually, in the boardroom.
I also owe just as much to the people who helped me achieve my dreams. A village truly does raise a child—and I had a tennis village to raise me. When I first started, I was the youngest in my group. The other girls were teenagers—I looked up to them as big sisters. Though my brothers only played that one summer, they became my biggest fans and would end up driving me to many practices.
My parents also supported me every step of the way. I didn’t understand until I was older how much my parents had sacrificed to support my path as a tennis player, but they did what was necessary to make sure I had the opportunities provided for me to be the best that I could be. When my parents weren’t able to take me to tournaments, Helyn Edwards, a woman who competed on the pro circuit, practiced with me and made sure I could get to my matches. I am so grateful to her.
When I retired from playing tennis, I turned to a life of service. I went straight into being a national coach. I was one of two African-American coaches at that time and one of three female coaches, but I was highly respected because of my success as a player and the way I communicated and worked with the players. They looked up to me, both the boys and the girls. At the end of the day, when you’re a professional player, you’re your own boss. My responsibilities were so much greater when I became a coach because nothing was about me. It was all about someone else.
As the president of the United States Tennis Association and only the fourth woman in this role, I’m always trying to figure out how to support others, especially our younger players and those who come from backgrounds that may not be as familiar with tennis, especially within the Hispanic community. In addition, I focus on making sure women have leadership roles in the association. It’s vital to continue to diversify the image of our sport. On all levels and in all categories. People tend to think that the USTA wants to get everyone involved in tennis to be a professional player, but that’s not the case. We want people to get into the sport for the pure sake of the sport and for the health benefits of being active. It’s the sport of a lifetime. People from five to ninety-five years old are playing tennis. It’s a sport for a lifetime.
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UNLIKE OTHER GIRLS WHO WERE TOLD TO BE SWEETER AND CALMER AND MORE RESERVED, I WAS ENCOURAGED TO WEAR MY EMOTIONS ON MY SLEEVE AND SHOW MY PASSION.
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Whenever I speak to young players, I tell them to embrace the path that they lead. We’re all put on certain paths whether we choose them or not. There’s always going to be a journey. There’s no easy way to the top. There are always going to be challenges.
Enjoy the battle.
#1 NEW YORK TIMES–BESTSELLING AND PRINTZ AWARD–WINNING AUTHOR
Phot
o credit:Vania Stoyanova
LIBBA BRAY
They told me my anger was a thing with teeth, a dangerous beast that could maim and kill if I were reckless enough to let it out. They told me my anger was ugly. Frightening. That it would make other people uncomfortable. That it made me unlovable.
“It’s best to get along, to make everybody happy,” they said.
“Don’t be so sensitive. They were only joking,” they said.
“Boys won’t like you. Don’t you want boys to like you?” they said.
“Smile,” they said.
Show your teeth but not your bite.
Here is who told me this: The mothers and grandmothers, church ladies and crossing guards. Teachers. Politicians. Ministers. Boys. Girls. Comedians. Strangers on the street. Movies and TV, advertisements and cartoons. Soap operas. Magazines. Books. Song lyrics. Sometimes they said it outright. Other times, it was said through pinched mouths and narrowed eyes. Through sighs and long, judging silences. Through rolled eyes and teasing. Through the withdrawal of their love until I could smile and make them happy again. Sometimes they even told me in ways that made it seem like a kindness.