I grew up in a small, rural town where the girls dressed in jeans and played as if they were boys. I had horses and rode a bike and learned to mow the lawn as well as clean the bathroom. My friends were the kids I went to public school with from kindergarten through graduation. Everyone was taught to work hard, period.
Throughout school, I went after what I wanted—recognition from my teachers, the highest test grade, the academic award. My teachers pushed me with difficult math problems and English essays and made sure I applied to top-level colleges. I understood that if you wanted to succeed, you had to go for it. And it worked—I graduated as valedictorian and was the first person from my family to attend college.
College was the same. My roommate and I were science majors, and we made our marks by participating in research projects and attending conferences. There was no question we would succeed, and the fact that we were women never crossed our minds. I graduated magna cum laude from Juniata College and went on to graduate school at the University of Virginia. Working toward my PhD, I was mentored by a community of diverse male and female scientists. The only time I was treated differently because I was a girl was by the male undergraduate students when I was a teacher’s assistant. Their comments and behavior were easily brushed off. Currently, I work as a staff scientist at the National Institutes of Health (NIH).
So is this story, in which I was never treated differently because I was a girl, common? Or am I in the minority?
According to the Association for Women in Science, women make up 28 percent of scientific researchers worldwide. About half of biology graduate students are women, whereas only 18 percent of full professors nationwide are women. Compared with other STEM disciplines, salaries in biology are lower and competition for jobs is higher. Sexism is exemplified by statements from Nobel Laureate Tim Hunt, who noted that girls in the laboratory are an issue because “when you criticize them, they cry.”
I’ve been lucky. Unlike what the statistics show, about half of the employees in my group at NIH are women, as is our immediate supervisor. We are educated women with families who manage work, school, sports, etc. Though gender inequality exists in many research institutes, it is not present where I work. As in my childhood, I am surrounded by people who challenge, respect, and inspire me.
Despite my accomplishments, I did have an experience where I felt I wasn’t supposed to do something because I was a girl. And it didn’t happen when I was growing up or going to school or at my job.
It happened last year.
My children attend a small private school where parent volunteers help with various activities. I agreed to coach one of the boys’ basketball teams since my son was on the team and I had played in high school.
I prepared—I found my old basketball playbook, I looked up drills online, I put together practice and game lineups. I walked into the first practice with my whistle and clipboard, ready for the challenge. Before practice, a father was looking for the coach, and rather than ask me (the adult with the whistle, clipboard, and basketballs), he asked another dad if he was coaching. I introduced myself, telling him how excited I was to be heading the team. He turned away dismissively and eagerly greeted the assistant coach, a dad who had arrived late and took over the drills I had started. For the rest of practice, I was essentially demoted to ball girl. I went home angry and questioning everything.
Did those dads assume I had no idea what I was doing?
Did I allow the prospect of being “head coach” to go to my head and show up unprepared?
Or was it simply because I was a girl?
I vented to my husband and to other moms and double-downed on my coaching responsibilities. Still, I felt the same disregard I had felt at that first practice from other male coaches during games, and I realized that it was because I was a girl that I was being treated this way. Gaining acceptance into the boys’ club was going to require some work. That pissed me off, because I hadn’t ever experienced this sort of blatant sexism before, not growing up, not at college, not while getting my PhD, and not ever at work. My instinct was to quit—I was supposed to be having fun, not proving I could coach nine- and ten-year-old boys.
But I didn’t quit. I was patient and accommodating—sharing ideas for new skill work and splitting practices with the assistant coach. I willingly helped the less skilled players and let him focus on the more proficient players. Honestly, the boys did listen to him better and tended to goof off when I ran practice. That changed when we won some games; the boys even started calling me “coach” outside of practice. Not surprisingly, my son was my biggest supporter—he was the first to follow my instruction and not fool around during practice. Besides winning some games, having him back me up was my proudest moment.
It was 40-plus years before I was made to feel I was incapable of succeeding because I was a girl. It was lousy and made me feel incompetent. Looking back, I realize how ridiculous it was—especially since my reaction was to step back. I should have stepped up and used those years of empowerment to take control at that first practice and show that I belonged there with that whistle. I coached basketball again, and it was an overwhelmingly positive experience, primarily because of the support from the dads (who called me “coach” from day one).
Most important, my takeaway from this experience was that I showed those boys that a mom can do whatever she puts her mind to—graduate as valedictorian, be successful at her job, coach a boys’ basketball team. She does it because she works hard and holds high expectations for herself as well as for them … even if they are boys.
MY TAKEAWAY FROM THIS EXPERIENCE WAS THAT I SHOWED THOSE BOYS THAT A MOM CAN DO WHATEVER SHE PUTS HER MIND TO—GRADUATE AS VALEDICTORIAN, BE SUCCESSFUL AT HER JOB, COACH A BOYS' BASKETBALL TEAM.