I remember as the end of my senior year of high school was fast approaching, I was often asked if I was going to college to be a teacher or a nurse. I said, neither. While I am grateful for others who have the patience to do those particular jobs, I knew I did not. They held no interest for me whatsoever.
I was truly astounded that people assumed that those were the only career choices for girls. Obviously, the common sense of the times suggested that I should not have been astounded. My goal of being an accountant was evidently not considered a particularly acceptable career choice for a female.
In ninth grade, algebra was my homeroom and I was elected homeroom president. Our teacher, Mr. Wheeler, often had students, including me, demonstrate problems on the blackboard. Three weeks into ninth grade, Mr. Wheeler asked me to stay after class. I had no idea why. After the classroom was empty, he said to me, “I couldn’t believe it when the class elected a dumb bunny girl for homeroom president! But you’re not a dumb bunny girl.”
I understood he meant it as a compliment, but I was speechless. I headed to my next class, shaking my head and rolling my eyes that he actually considered all girls dumb bunnies!
I considered algebra fun. It was a puzzle. I loved puzzles. I never bothered to mention this to anyone for decades. My parents were never told. It was simply a part of life as a female back in the 1950s. As was the fact that I was the only girl in high school physics and the only girl in college algebra. I was mostly ignored but never ill-treated, and I never allowed myself to feel out of place.
In my freshman year at Grays Harbor College, Mr. Aiken, from the Aiken and Sanders Accounting firm, spoke to our accounting class. He said, “I see there are three girls in this class. The only thing I can say about women in accounting is that they add a little spice to the conventions.”
We three females sat in silence, as was expected of us. It was such a nonevent back then that I never discussed this with my friends or family, and we three never even discussed it among ourselves. We made our point by proving our abilities in what were then male-dominated areas.
For my college sophomore year, I received the Aiken and Sanders Accounting Scholarship for a deserving accounting student. At the presentation tea, I thanked Mr. Aiken for the scholarship, and we chatted. I could tell he was uncomfortable that the recipient was a female. Finally, he couldn’t stand it any longer and asked, “You weren’t in that class I spoke to, were you?” I said I was. I felt his discomfort and he rose a tiny notch in my mind — because he was uncomfortable. I said nothing more about it. Not because I cared that he was uncomfortable, but because his narrow-mindedness spoke for itself.
On job interviews in the early ’60s, I was asked such things as: What does your dad do for a living? What does your father-in-law do for a living? Your husband? Do you miss work every month? I knew these were irrelevant questions. But I gave the male interviewers no satisfaction of any perceived or real discomfort on my part and answered their questions as briefly as possible. I realize I could have spoken up and taken a stand against this ridiculousness, but it would not have been to my benefit, nor likely changed the questions for the next prospective female employee.
Financial constraints and motherhood slowed my education. But I eventually got my B.S. degree, shortly before my daughter graduated from high school, and later went on to get my MBA. I thought briefly about looking up Mr. Aiken to let him know that his firm’s money was not wasted because I was a female. But I thought better of it. Although I would have liked to know if his mind-set had changed, I had already thanked him for his financial support and I had proved myself to me. His opinion of female worth in business mattered not.
My college-age granddaughters are astounded when I tell them these stories. I want them to appreciate the doors that are now open for them. I strongly respect those women who stood up to open those doors. They spoke up loud and clear, and slowly changes happened.
But there was also an army of the silent female minority who simply did what we knew we were capable of and proved our worth. And if we weren’t accepted, we were at least tolerated and allowed to strive for, and sometimes accomplish, our personal goals. And for that I am forever grateful.
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