Awkward Boss Moment

 

Whitehorse, Yukon circa 2003.

I was twenty-six and had just been promoted as the senior executive of the Women’s Directorate- one of 13 gender equality departments across Canada. My new boss was the recently elected head of government, Premier Dennis Fentie*. He hailed from small town Watson Lake and was as straight talking as they come.

I’d met him only once, for a quick 30 minute briefing on the history of our department before I got this phone call.

It was his Executive Assistant, Sheila.

“The Premier has received an invitation from Les EssentiELLES to attend the local production of the Vagina Monologues. Do you think it’s important that he goes?” she asked.

“Yes I think it’s a great idea”, I responded. Not fully anticipating her next question.

“OK, well then you’ll need to attend with him in a formal support role”, she said quickly.

I paused and hesitated. My heart started to pound and my mouth dried up.

“Yes of course”, I stammered, trying to imagine us watching detailed scenes about menstruation and sex. It was overwhelmingly embarrassing- like anticipating the horror of watching something like the Revenge of the Nerds with your friend’s father.

I hung up the black over-sized receiver and took a minute.

Oh. My God.

I immediately went to my communications and policy team and yelled “I need to attend the V-J Monologues with the Premier”.

At that moment, they all burst out giggling. I was mildly panicking, because I remembered it was interactive.

“What if the actors ask me if I have a vagina!? What if they ask us to yell the C Word?” I cried.

It was the early 2000s, and there was reclaiming happening everywhere in feminism. But I wasn’t sure I could do any of that sitting next to the Premier.

 

 

In the Lobby

 

I was asked to meet the Premier in the lobby of the Yukon Arts Center about 20 minutes before the show. My reluctant partner, who I had begged to attend with me, gave me a wide berth as I figured out how to “support” him in this more-than awkward moment.

I scanned the crowded space of women with dreads and nose piercings, looking for the Premier. Among the wine-drinking theater goers, he was shaking hands, winking, and patting elbows with folks he knew.

Feeling flustered to professionally support, I got close enough to make eye contact and read the situation. He caught my eye, gave me a slight nod (‘I’m good’) , turned and kept moving through the crowd.

I didn’t know what to do. No chit chat. No introductions to community leaders and activists. Just me and my imagination of what was coming next.

I looked around and saw the merch table. I bought a VM t-shirt and was grateful for somewhere to place my attention.

 

Staying Quiet

 

Soon enough, the show lights flickered and we were asked to take our seats. By that point we were finally standing side by side. We avoided eye contact. My ticket was drenched in palm sweat and we began the familiar “excuse me, pardon me” stumble over Row 7’s seated guests.

We managed quick intros- my partner on my left, the Premier on the right. And the curtain opened.

At that moment, I prayed that the actors wouldn’t ask me to yell the C word.

If you’re lucky enough to have seen the play, you’ll know it’s an irreverent and honest series of monologues about women’s sexuality, bodies, and relationships. It’s intimate, poignant, heart-wrenching and hilarious. A celebration of femininity, the secret life of vaginas and our evolving relationship with ourselves.

At one moment, I managed a quick ‘temperature read’ on the Premier. He’d mastered the poker-face of emotional containment. There was no sign of enjoyment or suffering.

At the tender parts, my heart ached. At the truth-telling raw parts, I laughed. But mostly I suppressed my reactions.

I lowered my head when the actors made eye contact and engaged the audience. I stayed silent when they asked us to yell the C word. I was sure I’d yell “NO!” if they’d asked me about my vagina.

**
Fast forward a month.

The phone rang. It was Sheila, the Premier’s EA.

“You’re up today. It’s budget debate for the Women’s Directorate so you need to be down in the Legislature ASAP”, she said.

I had about 20 minutes to get to the Leg, where formal protocol and suits were expected. And it happened to be the day I’d worn my Vagina Monologues t-shirt to work.

Quickly my team burst into action. “You can’t wear that into the Leg, Jennifer!” Do you have a jacket or sweater you can wear over that?

“No!”, I replied, dismayed (it was my first time ‘up’).

With that admission, my team threw together a 90s shoulder padded jacket and a flowery scarf to cover the words of my t-shirt.

Jennifer, I whispered to myself, be professional.

 

Where does the personal fit?

 

Most training in leadership and management doesn’t make room for the personal. We’re taught to keep our professional and personal lives separate to be efficient and taken seriously.

The theory goes that when we keep our personal lives out, we’ll be more objective and get more done.

What feminism, and other social movements have taught us is that being objective doesn’t always help.

This philosophy centers the lived experience of each person, and reminds us that whatever happens on the personal level, influences the political and visa versa. In fact, this is how social change is forged over time.  People share their stories of heartache and oppression, others with power listen, empathize and make way for reckoning and changes in how we do things. 

So being “professional”, especially in fields of social change, shouldn’t maintain the illusion that the personal and political are separate.

My awkward night in 2003 reminds us of that.

 

The borders need to fall

 

So many of us perform “the polite consummate professional”, as I did back in the day. We keep our personal lives neatly under wraps and try to not answer texts after 6pm.

But right now, we’re in a world desperate for the borders that separate us- to fall down down. Between the sacred and mundane, red states and blue states, resource rich and resource poor countries, or cis-gendered and non-binary. Between the personal and political.

No matter what the border, we need brave fluidity in ourselves and how we lead.

This brave fluidity is like being in the seats and on stage at the same time. It asks us to bear witness and participate in the kind of awkward listening spaces that I found myself in at the Vagina Monologues.

Stories change us. Listening changes us.

Looking back, I regret not yelling out during the performance. I wish I’d worn my VM merch proudly into the legislature and left that scarf behind.

It’s a reminder to not hide ourselves. So go ahead return the gaze and holler back if you need to. And if you don’t, listen with humility at whatever border you find- even if you need a poker face to get through it.  

A liberated future depends on this embrace of the personal, political and the tension in between- no matter where we sit in the theater.

 

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*Dennis Fentie, former Premier of Yukon passed away in 2019 and was a strong advocate for gender equality. He’d enjoy telling this story, though would have a very different version 🙂