The Girl in Me Doth Protest

I have been a debater since high school, and I have always loved speaking in public. There's nothing like the stage of public speaking to get my adrenaline running, and there's nothing like the rich applause of my audience to tell me that I just performed a job well. I was a public speaker all the way through high school and college, and I toured the Philippines along with my fellow professors in order to talk about genetically modified organisms.

I love genetics, see, and it was fun to talk about it to different audiences. I talked about basic genetic engineering before an audience of high school students, lectured on forensic molecular biology in front of high school teachers, and discussed diseases testing with elementary school students.

My emotional downfall came when I started work as a science communication specialist, and I had to talk to other scientists from various countries.

I like using humor in my speeches, and I like using my energy when I speak. I have always gotten good reviews for this energy: students find it contaminating, teachers find it encouraging, and scientists find that it breathes life into otherwise boring science. What I got, however, was a slap in the face.

"You can't use humor - it makes you look nervous."

And thus began my protest against stereotypes. I know myself best, and I know when I am nervous: when I can feel my heart pounding in my throat, when I'm not sure I remember what I'm supposed to say, I become sedate and quieter. But when I know every single word of the concepts that I wish to impart, my brain goes into hyper-drive: I can turn concepts into humor, and I know that I have the gift of imparting knowledge without looking like a stodgy scholar.

"You're a girl, and you're young and attractive. It's hard to take you seriously."

And thus began a fresh protest against stereotypes as these words were uttered by a superior in my company. I felt defeated: I had been born with two X chromosomes, I had a pretty good mix of genes from attractive parents, and I was no more than 26 years old. I had biology against me - and someone, somewhere, had drawn the lines and said that women who were young and pretty had not right to talk. This made me wonder, of course, why I had been pushed into the talking arena in the first place by my critics - and it made me wonder: has stereotyping become so institutionalized in our culture that I could not break out of molds without being chided?

After a month of silently ruminating on the criticism and plotting world domination, I realized that I had come up against an opinion. Some people like sedate speakers who impart an air of serenity. I like energetic speakers who are openly enthusiastic about their subject matter. The matter of me being a young, attractive woman, however, still hurt me. The stereotype runs rampant in Asian cultures, it appears: women are not seen as managers or superiors, and if anything, they are teachers of basic subjects. They cannot claim authority, superiority, or expertise. Pretty women are apparently decorations: they do not have brains, and in the Asian brand of genetics, the "Pretty," "Brains," and "Communication Ability" genes do not occur together.

I may not be the best public speaker in the world, but I know that I can do good things, teach well, and impart learning. How can I fulfill my dreams if I am turned away - if all ears are shut - even before I start talking?

Gates Shut, Eyes Open

You see, but you do not know
That I am more than a woman
in heels and trinkets tiny,
dressed to decorate what she sees as the greater gem

You see a girl to grace your fantasies, a jester to laugh at,
my mouth mere purveyor of words
while the owner is but the wall through which other voices speak

I see a woman who speaks and jests for she knows things you do not
and wishes that you, too, would love learning
and not simply love the sight,
shut the gate,
and watch the speaker

I see a woman who weeps within as your eyes brim with fire
and wishes that you would stop
or look away
or see beyond the borders of your imaginings