As she spoke, she started to sound more like herself, but the despondency only increased.
“I have to demonstrate the appropriate amount of gratitude daily for being included on projects and grants that are full of my original ideas. I can’t take for granted that I’ve earned anything, because I never will, because everyone—even other women—are just waiting for me to prove everyone right, that I’m too young, too sensitive, too female to be worthy of my place at the table. They want my ideas, my research, but not enough to change the culture or be inconvenienced. Not enough to entertain the notion that I’m just another person, just like them.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “I have to be faultless. I have to be perfect. I can’t afford mistakes.”
My heart in my mouth, I asked without thinking, “Am I a mistake?”
“No! God, no. Never.”
“But sending me pictures of yourself, that’s a mistake.” I didn’t know why, and I didn’t understand the impulse myself, but bitterness had leached into my voice. Not even the rawness of my vocal chords could disguise it. And yet, I wasn’t mad at her.
I was just . . . bitter.
“If—if your phone got hacked, and pictures of you in a bathing suit were leaked or published.” Now her tone was soft, almost pleading. “Or—or the photos you already sent me, if those were leaked, would it be a big deal? Would it damage your reputation?”
“You already know the answer to that question. I’m on billboards in my underwear. No one would care.”
“Oh, they’d care. But if any picture of me not looking uptight and professional were leaked, I’d never live it down. It would be ‘Girls gone wild, rocket scientist edition.’ Women—especially women in science, or politicians—aren’t allowed that freedom without lasting consequences. It’s not just my male colleagues who will judge me, it’s everyone. And that’s just the way it is.”
I felt like putting my fist through a wall, growling, “The way it is sucks.”
“I agree. But—” I could hear her breathing, it had quickened, like she was working herself up to say something difficult, and a spike of alarm had the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. Before I could interject, she finished her thought, “Abram, we live in two different worlds.”
My bitterness morphed into anger, making me seethe. “I refuse to accept that. We live in the same world.”
“Our paths are—they’re very different.”
“No. They’re not. They’re the same. We’re on this road together, Mona. We’re on this path together. And I want you—I want you to feel empowered, because you are powerful. You. Are. Powerful. Someone should be telling you that, making you believe it, every damn day. You feel like you have to hide part of yourself and it pisses me off. So, yeah, I need a minute here. Because I need to mourn the fuc—” I stopped myself, taking a deep breath, grinding my teeth, telling myself to calm down. “I need to mourn this world in which we live, where gentlemen and ladies exist who are less, so much less than you. And yet, because of how a flawed system is built, they get to decide how and when you share yourself with me.”
“Abram! Are you on the phone?”
I glanced up at the sound of Ruthie’s shrieking question. She stood just inside the doorway, holding a tray.
She also wore an impressive scowl. “That better be your priest, because Imma kill you now.”
Suddenly tired, I gave my guitarist a quelling look and turned away, lowering my voice to a whisper. “Listen. I have to go. We have a—a thing. Stuff to sign and this interview later.”
A few seconds of quiet, and then Mona said, “Okay. See you soon.” She sounded distracted. I didn’t like it.
“Hey. See you soon. I lov—” I’d wanted to say I love you, but she’d already ended the call.