A woman's worth

By Fayza Hassan
Jim Brodie was my superior in the new job. I had landed it with much difficulty, since in those days, Australians were extremely reluctant to give married women with children positions of responsibility. Jim, however, seemed to understand my circumstances, and we soon became friends. During coffee breaks and lunches he told me about his two boys and his wife Janet. She was a full-time housewife, of course, but made lampshades in her spare time to supplement the family income. Jim made it clear that that was what a real woman should do -- unless she fell on hard times, he would add quickly in order not to hurt me. I never met Janet, but was very envious of her lifestyle. It made me feel worthless. While learning the intricacies of flow charts and computer languages, I secretly dreamed of changing places with her.
What if I told my husband that I wanted to quit my job, cook and clean and look after our daughter full-time? I could knit rather well... I could make beautiful pullovers and sell them... I never dared broach the subject with him, though, and instead did my best to advance in a career that did not particularly interest me.
One morning, I observed Jim handing out forms to the men in the department. What about me? I asked. He seemed slightly embarrassed. "These are applications for a scholarship at the Sydney Institute of Technology. There will be a qualifying examination and... well... it is for men only," he finally told me rather lamely. I decided to make a fuss and demand to see the regulations. They were not discriminatory; in fact, there was no mention of the applicant's gender. "Look," said Jim patiently, "this is a statewide affair. Every company in New South Wales will be sending four of its employees. You don't think you have a chance, do you?" I did, and to shut me up, he gave me an application.
On the day of the qualifying exam my daughter came down with chicken pox. It was very hard to find a babysitter for a child with a contagious disease, but within the hour I had managed to hire a proper nurse. Her fee was prohibitive but I chose not to worry about it. Already feeling guilty and nervous, I thought for a moment that I was really not meant to take this route, when I was refused entry to the examination hall by a polite official who explained that wives were not allowed to talk to their husbands before the exam. Could I not see that there were no women inside? "You don't understand," I told him, "I am really a man -- one of the candidates. Look: it says so on my admission card." He stared at the word Mr carefully hand-written on the card, then shrugged, unable to make up his mind. "What, haven't you ever seen a transvestite?" I whispered, and pushed my way quickly past him.
I was just in time to take the test and eventually found myself among our company's chosen applicants. Jim had done well too, and the following week we met at the institute of technology. My fellow students, rather astonished at the unexpected feminine presence, were extremely gallant, bringing me tea and cake as I endeavoured to put my notes in order during the short breaks. Jim drove me home every night and eagerly offered to explain the points that I did not understand. The various teachers seemed to be addressing themselves to me alone. I began to revel in the attention. It was not unpleasant to be a woman in a men-only province.
More trials were ahead, however. A grueling nine-hour examination crowned the very boring six-week course. My daughter's temperature was not going down and on the fateful day, as I traced the numerous charts under the attentive eyes of the supervisors, my mind was really elsewhere. Half-way through the ordeal, I promised myself that if I ever managed to pass, I would gather enough courage to tell my husband that I wanted to be a stay-at-home mum, at least for a while.
When the results came out, I couldn't believe my eyes: my name was at the very top of the list. I promptly brushed aside housewifely dreams and returned triumphantly to work, expecting congratulations and slaps on the back, having proved beyond doubt that I was one of the guys. To my utter surprise, the atmosphere was rather hostile, and nobody even mentioned the results. Regardless of my overtures, Jim was not speaking to me. There was certainly no mention of the promotion or increase in salary that should have resulted from my success, since I had given my company reason to be proud.
The following weeks were dismal. Although my daughter was back at school unscathed, I felt terribly uncomfortable at the office. In time, I found out that not only would I not be rewarded for my accomplishments, I had blocked Jim's promotion who had been reprimanded for not doing as well as I had.
Finally, I was summoned to the big boss's office. "We are expected to do something for you," he began, "but we don't really know how to handle this. I am beginning to regret hiring you," he said, interspersing his words with many ums and ahs. He always pretended to be British. At this point I made up my mind. "I am perfectly happy to forget what happened," I told him. "I wish you would too."
The following year, I had a new baby and acquired a great deal of wool to supply many exclusive boutiques in Sydney with my handiwork. It was almost as good as making lampshades.
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