No, I Will Not Be Your Nice Little Girl
By: Felicia C. Sullivan
Tags: Business, Women, Writing, Feminism, Self

We want women to smile. We want to be swathed in their warmth when the air conditioning in the office cranks all the way up. We want them soft-spoken and sweet — men can be jawbreakers, but women have to be cotton candy. We want them to be team players, accommodating, non-confrontational, on her knees if you please. We want our female executives to arrange the bagels and donuts on the conference room tray. Does anyone want a water? Would you like me to pat your hair? Can I bake you a muffin?

Is it that you find strong, assertive women intimidating or are you easily intimidated?

When I was an equity partner in an agency in New York, I was held to a different standard by men and women. My style was direct and to-the-point. I was assertive, spoke up in meetings, and I was tough — my bar was above the sky. I demanded equal pay for equal work. Although I was kind and compassionate, there was always an unspoken, fine line between tough and total bitch. My male peers shouted and raged and were sometimes unprofessional, but if I spoke to anyone in an even, cool tone I was deemed the mean one.

We want our women to placate. We want them serving feedback with a tray of brownies.

Forget how I fought for these same people behind the scenes. I fought for their pay raises and title changes. I defended them when my sociopathic boss made a game of who to fire — so much so that when he conducted a round of layoffs after I’d resigned, he said I could leave a week earlier, paid. Why? Because he knew I would lose my shit over how he dehumanized the people who depended on him for their livelihood. He knew I would hold up a mirror and hold him accountable for his bad behavior.

Yet, he was beloved and I was a bitch. Shall I curtsy? Do you like the pins in my hair? Do you like it when I say, oh, golly gee.

Every week, without fail, people tell me I need to be nice. Mostly men, but I’ve had my fair share of women who clutch their pearls over my direct way of speech. I write hundreds of articles that help their businesses and career, for free. There is no pitch. There is no obligation. There is no blatant sales funnel.

So, when I get angry over fuckwits stealing my work and profiting off it, suddenly everyone’s apoplectic. There’s frenzy in the streets. Wheel in the defibrillators for the heart attacks that will invariably ensue when I stand up for myself and come down hard on intellectual property thieves.

Oh, dear. I loved your work, but then (large gasps for air) you were so mean in that final paragraph (lips quiver). Threatening DMCA takedowns and copyright infringement to their host providers. My, my, couldn’t you have been softer? A bit more like Splenda? Couldn’t you have said, oh, please, Mr. Content Thief, don’t steal my work. Please don’t (flutters eyelashes).

Fuck all the way off. Fuck the pony you rode in on. Fuck your desire for me to accommodate your desperate desire for gentility. Don’t tell women to smile when they’re standing up for themselves. Don’t tell them to not kick up a fuss when they’re harassed, demeaned, passed over, or held to a higher standard. I am under no obligation to be nice, and let’s not confuse nice with kind.

I will kick up every fuss.

You are not my parent. Don’t tell me how to behave. I used to share my email freely, and wish I still could because it’s a direct and personal line between myself and my readers. But it’s about preservation and protection. I’m tired of litter in my inbox — I get enough it in the comments of my stories. I’m exhausted with men telling me to play like a good little girl. I’m drained by women getting palpitations when I say fuck.

I’m 44. I’m not changing. Deal with it. If you don’t like it, move on. Don’t feel the need to shove your propriety down my shirt.

What’s beautiful about being a human in the world is you have choices. You choose the people in your orbit. You choose to read one story over another. You can choose to walk away if someone’s not your vibe. What you can’t do is expect someone to conform to your expectations — especially if their anger, arguments, and requests are warranted.

And why are we not allowed to have feelings? There’s much in the world to be frightened and upset about. Why can’t we have our space to experience the basic range of human emotions? Or would you rather us be a Stepford wife?

Would you prefer us to say nothing at all?