Harassment

Several years ago, I ran into a problem that I'd been fortunate to never experience until then: harassment.

The thing about harassment is you want to argue with the person. Their treatment of you angers you, and they fully give into their own emotions in their interactions with you. You want to sling back the arrows at them, give as good as you get, grab them by the scruff of the neck and rub their ignorant face into the gravelly truth of How To Interact With Humans.

Maybe that would work, for a moment; maybe they'd realize that they neither have nor deserve a monopoly on rights and emotions. But I doubt it.

In fact, maybe they know this. Maybe they feel that by hurling abuse at you, it will provoke you into being extra accommodating or deferential, to prove to them that you are not those offensive things that they describe you as.

Or maybe they don't realize they're being harassing at all.

That knee-jerk simpering reaction is certainly how I responded to the first few incidents. But concede one inch and you know exactly what they'll take before long. Pretty soon you owe them one for some hazy, made-up non-reason, just because you gave them one before.

It's a hell of a mistake to have to learn from, and it doesn't make your inner reaction any easier.

What's an Age Worth?

My first long-term job was on the front desk of an administrative office. It was a stepping-stone kind of job, which in a perfect world I would have moved up from almost immediately. It was a good place and I didn't want more than part-time work, as I was in the middle of working on my master's degree and simultaneously trying to knock off exams for my composition ARCT.

One day the watercooler conversation turned its attention on me, and the accounting assistant learned for the first time that I was in graduate school.

"I wouldn't have guessed you were in university," she said with a superior laugh. "I was thinking high school, maybe." I knew exactly what the comment implied: I've always been on the gangly side of willowy, small-chested, deferential, quick to smile, eager to complete directives, and sporting a kind of aged-emo style. In our largely big-boned office, I was like the runt of the litter.

But I'm in the camp that wants my years in this world respected.

People seem to think they are paying you a compliment by grossly underestimating your age. The implication is that you lack life experience, that you don't have adult responsibilities or worries, that you're not independent or successful by their measure. Look a little closer. Take a look at my eyes and you'll see a world of aged pain and wisdom. Really look at my smile, and you'll see how it has etched my skin. Look at my work, and you'll see years of higher education and adult common sense.

If you really want to compliment someone, think about what you actually mean. What is it about the person that looks youthful? Pick a feature—maybe it's their smile, or the sparkle in their eyes, or (and you're walking on eggshells) their physical build—and if you still feel the need to verbalize your thoughts, try to spin it in a non-offensive way.