Twenty-Five Years Later

I've been in training the last two days.

This is training for first-time managers, and it shows.

I was actually scheduled to take this training back in November. Now, anyone who reads my blog or personally knows me might recognize that timeframe as a challenging one for me. At the beginning of that month, I was learning how to move myself from a bed to a wheelchair using only my right arm and leg. I was practicing remembering more than one thing at a time. I was practicing getting in and out of a fake car. I was learning how to rearrange my kitchen and my life to accommodate my diminished capacity.

Work wasn't exactly on my mind.

I was doing all of this because of the reckless actions of a stranger in a hurry. A person who decided to hit the accelerator to get the jump on traffic. A person who claims they didn't see a brightly lit Harley Davidson roaring down the left lane of oncoming traffic.

So you can imagine my surprise when I returned to work months later and found an email chastising me for neglecting to attend. An email reminding me of the importance of honoring the institution's investment in my development.

How thoughtless of me.

How selfish.

I'll try to schedule my next near-death experience around the corporate calendar.

So I promptly rescheduled this incredible opportunity and spent the last two days availing myself of the institution's generous reinvestment in my future.

The first ten minutes told me everything I needed to know.

The facilitator stood at the front of the room and began speaking. He introduced himself as a leader of leaders. Then he instructed us to introduce ourselves, making sure to project our voices, speak clearly, enunciate, and make ourselves heard.

He began working his way around the room, one person at a time.

Except me.

He looked directly at me more than once. Then he moved on.

Now look, I understand mistakes happen. But when you're a six-foot-one transgender woman sitting in the front row wearing biker gear, you're not exactly easy to miss. He saw me. He just didn't acknowledge me.

And that pissed me off.

So I raised my hand.

He seemed confused that someone could possibly have a question this early in the presentation.

"Yeah, do you want me to go now?" I asked.

"You need to go now?" he replied.

"No. I'm asking if you want me to introduce myself now."

The realization washed across his face.

"Oh. Did I forget to call on you?"

"Yes," I replied. "You did. This is very indicative of my entire career here."

Then I stood up and introduced myself. Loudly. Because if there's one thing I’ve learned in all the years that I’ve worked here, it's that sometimes you have to remind people you're in the room.

I've spent almost twenty-five years at this institution. I've led teams. Solved problems. Built programs. Cleaned up messes. Protected people. Fought battles nobody else wanted to fight. I've carried responsibilities far beyond my job description. And somehow, after all these years, I still find myself raising my hand and saying, "Excuse me, I'm over here."

The rest of the training wasn't bad. It just wasn't for me.

Most of the presenters had been at the laboratory for three to five years. Maybe their information was useful. Maybe it wasn't. Honestly, I had trouble getting past the fact that I've spent decades learning many of these lessons the hard way while being instructed by people who haven't yet accumulated enough scar tissue to understand why the lessons matter.

That's probably unfair. But it's honest.

The truth is that I didn't leave the training angry. I left tired.

Tired of bureaucracy. Tired of corporate theater. Tired of sitting through presentations about leadership from people who have spent less time at the institution than I've spent managing some of my problems.

Most of all, I left reminded of something I've known for a while now: It's almost time to move on.

Not because I hate the place. I don't. This institution helped shape me into who I am.

But twenty-five years is a long apprenticeship. I've learned the lessons. I've fought the battles. I've paid the tuition.

And lately, I've begun to realize that the bravest thing I haven't done yet may be the same thing that's staring me in the face now: It's time to leave.

So yeah, I end this week carrying a little bit of "fuck you" energy.

Not because the training was bad. Not because the facilitator skipped over me. Not because some email months ago rubbed me the wrong way.

I carry it because twenty-five years later, I'm still having to raise my hand and remind people that I exist. And frankly, I'm getting a little tired of it.