Whenever it is published, today, March 8, I am writing this first entry for this blog. Today is International Women's Day, and, contrary to the herds of angry herds, I refuse to enter into inane discussions about whether we should congratulate women, with flowers and bonbonnieres, or commemorate the seamstresses who marched on that day, in 1857, in favor of their labor and human rights.
Just for fun, I'm going to talk a little bit about myself here—and about why, unlike many of my friends at México, I won't be appearing on the lists of the “most powerful women at México.”
Love-Hate Relationship with Recognition
Ever since I was little , I’ve had a strained relationship with status—and, for the same reason, with recognition. I grew up in a “rich” family in México, which is relatively easy in a country where having a roof over your head and a television puts you in the middle class. Let’s just say, then, that even though I’m light-years away from being in Carlos Slim’s league, I’m just as far from sleeping under a bridge.
As it happens, I do have something in common with the seamstresses who marched on March 8, 1857. My maternal grandmother was a seamstress in New York and a member of the “Ladies’ Garment Workers Union,” one of the strongest unions in the garment industry worldwide. My grandfather, who also worked in the garment trade, opened what was perhaps the first nylon stocking factory in my country. They did well—not quite as well as Slim, but well enough to raise a family that had more than enough money to live a cultured and lavish lifestyle; we were able to travel, collect art, see the world, and send our offspring to the best schools. I grew up in Polanco, where the rich live on México, and I went to a school near home, attended by the children of my country’s political elite. And while my classmates—and in particular my female teachers—were sucking up to them, I was locked in a constant feud with them throughout my childhood. I confess that much of my resentment stemmed from prejudice: some were truly awful onda and others were not. For example, the daughter of the then-Secretary of the Interior was insufferable—haughty as well as dim-witted. On the other hand, the granddaughter of a former president—and also the daughter of the owners of the dominant television group at México —was rather bland and gentle. Her face and temperament were like a screensaver. In any case, her political lineage gave me the creeps. For as long as I can remember, I’ve known that México has had only fleeting moments of democracy, and I’ve been, like my grandmother, one of those who go out, work, and write to protest in support of many causes. And I won’t deny it: I like the spotlight, but I hate seeking it out—and even more so, I hate having my self-esteem depend on it. A Greek philosopher—whose name I can’t recall at the moment—once said that “honors depend on who grants them, not on who deserves them.” It’s healthy not to become addicted to something that, for whatever reason, someone might stop giving you.
Path or Race? Open, Horizontal Growth
Almost half a century has passed since that little girl's stumbles with status and power. Since then, I was a bad student in junior high and high school (with failing grades), while I obtained outstanding results as a university student. I studied four degrees, including a master's degree and a doctorate in literature, after which I studied law to earn a living. My father, annoyed by my aristocratic hobbies -horses and letters-, warned that, after financing my legal education, he would not give me a penny again, perhaps until his death. So, after getting my degree, I accepted the first well-paying position offered to me in a government agency charged with regulating energy activities, i.e., the gas and electricity industry. As mind-numbing as I found the subject matter, it gave enough to keep the horses. However, after a few months, I found the energy industry very entertaining because it was buoyant with stories: big companies, tycoons, lots and lots of money, politics, corruption, intrigue and adrenaline. I no longer had to read novels; I lived them day by day. But, since I worked for the government, it didn't take long for me to run into some very high-ranking, thuggish public officials, defended by my boss, who was an inveterate iconoclast. However, when he left, I knew that my days as a bureaucrat were numbered.
Because of my talent, I moved into private practice at some of the international law firms where I grew a great deal professionally. Despite my own pessimistic predictions, today I pride myself on being a dynamic attorney who enjoys widespread recognition, even outside of México. But the hamster wheel of the big firms made me thoroughly unhappy. I say “hamster” and not “rat” because the former animal better serves the metaphor. “Hamster” in German means “bag,” and my role at the firm was to fill the partners’ bags with cash so they could adorn themselves with status symbols : cars, ties, private schools for their children, and golf clubs. My clash with the system was inevitable and predictable. Out of emotional dissatisfaction, I took off running from my glass-and-chrome cage.
Since then, I’ve done it all: I’ve taught at the top institutions of higher education in México, but I’m not an orthodox academic, so I couldn’t withstand the meticulous scrutiny of my colleagues. My work didn’t fit into any methodological framework. So I decided to open my own independent practice; I write, and I bought a ranch where I maintain a forest conservation sanctuary that also shelters 40 animals rescued from abuse and the cooking pot. Despite the ups and downs, while I can’t afford to do whatever I please, I earn enough to do, more or less, what I want.
Meanwhile, my friends—because they are or have been public officials or high-level businesswomen—appear today on the lists of the 100 “most powerful women at México,” and I do not. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t matter to me. It matters so much to me that I’ve dedicated an entire blog post to reflecting on why I’m not there. And that’s because I freely chose to leave the system. Because, for me, the cost of “breaking the glass ceiling”—whether in political power or on the corporate ladder—would have been too high.
Anyway, this day is to commemorate seamstresses, who did not and will not appear on any list, but who, thanks to them, opened the space for women who, like me, are free to choose between climbing to the top of power and money or walking in the open field. Thanks to her, I go from Polanco to pulque, from the highway to the dirt road.
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