Manterrupting in the Hallway Track

Women, stop me if you’ve heard this one before:

You’re at a tech conference,  one that you are attending as a tech professional with interest and expertise in the subject matter. You’re standing talking to a man – perhaps he’s a speaker whose talk you just heard, or someone with influence in your field, or you have any other professional reason to speak with him. There you are, deep in conversation, when another man suddenly swoops in and starts talking to the man you are talking to, about a completely different topic, as if he didn’t even notice you were there.

Usually, he is allowed to completely disrupt the conversation you were having. Your original interlocutor may not even notice that you were interrupted. If he does, he may throw a sheepish look at you, while going on listening and responding to the interrupter. You wait patiently until the interrupter finishes and goes away (possibly without ever acknowledging your presence), then finally resume your own conversation. No one thinks anything unusual has happened.

But, as the interuptee, don’t you feel… small? As if whatever you had to say – or even basic good manners – will always be less important than what a man wants to say, the second he wants to say it?

This may have been happening to me all my life, but I’ve become more aware of it over time. One egregious incident occurred at a tech meetup run by a small company. I had business reasons to speak afterwards with the CEO, and he was definitely interested in speaking with me. As we stood talking, another man butted in with a technical observation completely unrelated to our conversation (which he hadn’t heard). He monopolized the CEO’s attention for ten minutes, and there seemed no way to stop him and return to the conversation that was of actual business interest to the CEO and me. The second man barely even noticed I was there. But, that time, I definitely noticed that I had been interrupted – very rudely, too.

Some years back, Brendan spoke at BSides, and I attended as well. After his talk, as usual, people wanted to talk to him. I sat on the periphery of these conversations (we were at a table), listening in. Most of the people wanting to talk to him (and most of those at the conference) were men. A young woman waited her turn to talk ask Brendan a technical question. She had barely got started when a man lunged across the table, saying: “Hey, man, I just wanted to say how much I admire your work!” Right in the middle of the woman’s question. He didn’t even notice that she had been speaking – but somehow it was the woman he interrupted, not the men who had been speaking before her. Brendan responded politely, and the interrupter, after a few more sentences, withdrew to his seat.

Brendan and the woman were about to resume their conversation, but I couldn’t just let it go like that. “You just got interrupted for being a woman,” I pointed out to her. “And you need to not let that happen,” I said to Brendan.

Later, after they had finished their technical discussion, the woman said: “I didn’t even notice I had been interrupted. I’ll notice from now on.”

And that’s fine. But it’s also men who need to notice, and need to react. Don’t let other men do this. If you were speaking with a man and some third man came and interrupted, you’d most likely say, “Hey, let me finish my conversation with this guy first.” You need to do that for women, too. But first you need to notice that it happened.

Just… Wow

By a combination of circumstances, somewhat my “fault”, my University of Texas roommate Robyn ended up living quite near me in Europe: she has long been in Neuchatel, Switzerland; I lived for 17 years nearby in Italy, first in Milan, later on Lake Como. So we used to exchange visits fairly regularly. We especially enjoyed going up there for the local wine festival every September. It wasn’t an internationally-famous event, but did draw visitors from outside the region.

One memorable year, we stayed late at one of the tents, sitting at long, communal tables, eating good, rustic food and drinking the more-than-decent local wine out of plastic cups. Buxom, middle-aged Swiss farm wives danced the Macarena on the tables, and a good time was being had by all.

Our daughter Rossella was around 6 or 8 at the time, very cute, charismatic, and sociable. She struck up an immediate friendship with a tall German guy wearing black motorcycle leathers and a silver tinsel wig. They didn’t have much language in common, but they laughed and chatted. We kept a close eye, but he seemed okay. After a while Ross came running back to us to show that he had given her a 5-franc coin (which would buy a fair amount of fair junk or candy).

After some time, he came over to us and tried, in halting, half-drunk English, to explain what he meant by it.

“I like kids, I have some child friends back in Germany and sometimes I give them small gifts or money.” He thought about that for a minute. “Just as friends!” he added hastily.

“I know a lot of great kids, but her…” he searched for words. “She’s just… wow!”

I have to concur — Rossella was and still is just… wow.

 

Bangladesh Memories

In 1976, after a period of unemployment in Connecticut, my father accepted a job with Save the Children (US), as country head of their operations in Bangladesh. He and I and my stepmother Nancy moved to Dhaka (then spelled Dacca) around October, 1976. We didn’t take much with us. Our furniture, dishes, etc went into storage in the US. I took a few treasures – some board games, my plastic animals – and whatever warm-weather clothing I owned at the time. 

Before leaving, we all got lots of vaccinations, and the dental work that we hadn’t been able to afford for a while – Nancy proved to have a mouthful of cavities.

I guess we flew from the US east coast to the west coast and then to Korea, where we were hosted by the Korean arm of Save the Children as an opportunity for my dad to learn from projects that the organization was carrying out there.

Continue reading Bangladesh Memories

Sorry, Wrong Person

The name “Deirdre” has never been terribly popular in the US – it’s much more common in Ireland (logically – Deirdre is a character out of Irish myth) and somewhat common in England. But there are always a few of us, and we tend to notice each other.

Somewhere around my own generation, Deidra seems to have a popular variant among American blacks. And it’s very common for people (of any race) to mis-understand or mis-pronounce my name that way. 

And therein hangs a tale…

In the mid-80s I worked as a secretary at a lobbying firm in Washington, DC. This was the era of central switchboards, and one day our receptionist passed a phone call to me. It was a young man, whom I assumed from his voice to be black, asking for “Deidra.” He gave his name and said he was calling to follow up after meeting me at a club the night before. I thought I was being pranked, though I couldn’t think who would pull this particular prank on me. “I hardly ever go to clubs, and I wasn’t at a club last night,” I said, truthfully.

“Yes, we met, and you gave me this number to call.” He seemed really smitten, and kept insisting that I had met him. No doubt he thought I was pranking him (rather cruelly) in return. I couldn’t think of any way to convince him that I was not the girl he’d met in the club. Finally, I asked: “Can you describe this girl you met?” “Yes! She’s a real pretty black girl!” “But I’m white!” I wailed.

Poor guy. At that he was finally convinced. I passed him back to the receptionist, who eventually worked out that we had had a temp worker in for a few days whose name was Deidra, and she had given him the office number. By that day she was no longer working in our office, and I’ll never know whether she gave him that number to get rid of him, or actually hoped to hear from him.

The Red Volkswagen Camper

My grandparents owned a classic 1960s Volkswagen camper. I don’t know why they ever had it –  they didn’t strike me as camping types. The VW camper was a classic hippie road trip vehicle, so it was fitting that when my father and I returned to the US in 1972, my grandfather  gave it to him. I guess we drove it from Louisiana to Pittsburgh that year, via my aunt’s place in Texas.

In the summer of 1973 my dad, Nancy, and I set off on a classic hippie road trip in the camper. It had a fold-out mattress in the back that made a double bed for them. For me, Dad drilled holes in two metal pipes to fit over hooks he installed into the car’s frame on either side of the front seat. Nancy stitched a heavy canvas hammock that fit over the poles suspended above the front bench seat, and that’s where I slept while we were on the road. A curtain pulled across behind the seat gave them privacy.

We called the camper Shambala, from the Three-Dog Night song.

After some days on the road, possibly with a stop in Louisiana to see my grandparents, Dad and Nancy dropped me off with my aunt Rosie and cousin Casey in Coupland, Texas, where I was happy to spend the summer among their pets and horses. Dad and Nancy went on to Mexico where they had lots of classic hippie adventures that I later heard lots about. They came back with a Mexican God’s-Eye hanging from the rearview mirror, among other souvenirs. I think they brought me an embroidered Oaxaca blouse.

On the way back from that trip, we had another classic hippie adventure: nearly getting arrested in Tennessee. We had just picked up a pair of hitchhikers along the highway (where it was illegal to pick up anyone). We exited in Cookville, TN, to get gas. Someone made a mistake, and Dad ended up t-boning a car carrying a family with a pregnant woman. Our VW spun around, shaking us all up like beans in a can. I had been sitting on the rear-facing seat behind the driver’s seat, and later realized I was lucky not to have been thrown into the sharp corner of the little fridge next to me. 

Nancy had had her head out the window, and severely banged it on the window frame in the crash. But she retained the presence of mind to hastily palm a baggie of dope to the hitchhikers to dispose of before the police showed up, as well as to instruct them to say that we’d picked them up at a previous rest stop. I accompanied Nancy to the hospital in an ambulance while Dad was taken away by the police. The crash was determined to have been Dad’s fault, but no one was seriously hurt and I guess nothing more came of it. Eventually we reconvened where the van had been towed to a nearby gas station. The hitchhikers had stayed with it, and now told us that they’d hidden the stash in a toilet tank in the gas station bathroom in case we wanted it back (we didn’t).

The van got us back to Pittsburgh I think, and survived a while longer. One night Dad had been out and came home to see two men trying to push start a VW camper. He cheerily went to help them until he realized that it was in fact our van, which they had hot-wired. They ran off.

The van was eventually replaced with a classic blue VW Beetle, and then a Volkswagen Thing.

My dad owned the book How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive: A Manual… for the Compleat Idiot. I didn’t care much about cars, but I liked the way this book explained things, in simple language and rich cartoony illustrations, and made it seem possible for anyone to repair their Volkswagen. Unconsciously, I later adapted this style in writing a student Survival Kit for Woodstock School, and then multiple software manuals, one of which won an award.

photo: This Playmobil version of the VW camper even features dolls that superficially resemble my dad and Nancy at the time! Note that our VW did not have the classic white roof and nose, but was painted a solid rusty red.

Deirdré Straughan on Italy, India, the Internet, the world, and now Australia