I am one of those people who hate confrontation.
To the point that if I ever have to confront someone, I will inevitably end up crying, not because I’m sad or overly mad, but because that is my stupid impulsive reaction to anything stressful in my life.
Car breaks down? Cry. Have to get up before 6:00 a.m.? Cry. Have to tell someone something negative? Cry. Imagine horrible situations where my cats die? Cry.
Recently, my newish boss at work said a few things to me that I found very humiliating. Snide, offhand comments about my abilities as a writer, such as, “So you want to be a copywriter when you grow up, right?” (Note: I AM a copywriter. It says so on my business cards.)
The first time it happened, I wrote it off because that is what I do and it was much easier to assume he was joking and to vent and grumble and let it fester than to just DEAL WITH IT. Some people call this passive-aggressiveness. I call it My Life.
Yesterday, we had a department meeting where everyone aired their grievances. I aired mine (how I felt pigeonholed as only an editor and wasn’t being utilized as a writer) and felt good about everything. Not five minutes after that meeting ended, I was in another meeting, where I was given a golden opportunity to do non-writing-related work for a new client. I was elated.
Then my boss spoke up.
And said some more comments that I found unflattering and completely condescending. Something along the lines of how I needed to go to school before I could even think of becoming a copywriter.
And I realized that he was never going to recognize me as a writer. A writer that I already am. I writer that I have been for over eight years.
And I was pissed.
But too scared to say anything at the time.
I went home frustrated, determined to say something, but not knowing where to begin. I told Jason the story and started crying – coming full circle to my natural instinct when faced with a tough situation.
Yesterday morning in the shower, I practiced what I was going to say. The first four to five tries were too wordy and sounded too rehearsed. In the car on the way to work I fine-tuned it, getting straight to the point and not pulling any punches.
I marched into the office full of confidence and strode directly into my boss’ office.
He wasn’t there. Naturally.
I paced around my desk for a few minutes and finally spotted him. I went into his office, shut the door and said, “I need to speak to you. I just want you to know that you hurt my feelings when you said those things about me being a copywriter. I know you haven’t gotten to work with me on very many projects since you’ve arrived here, but knowing that you don’t consider me to be a writer and knowing that you won’t list me as a resource for new projects makes me feel like I’m getting the short end of the stick.”
(I like to work the phrase ’short end of the stick’ into as many conversations as possible.)
He said, “I didn’t mean anything bad by it. I meant it as encouraging, because it’s very difficult to work your way from an editor to a writer.”
I said, “You might not know this, but I’ve been a writer for EIGHT years. I actually took a step down responsibility-wise when I came here, but I have the experience and the ability to be a writer.”
And then the most amazing thing happened, something my paranoid mind never considered when running through all the possible scenarios, one of which may have involved him screaming at me and me retaliating by keying his car:
He apologized. And promised to put me into the writing rotation immediately. And then he thanked me for bringing this to his attention.
I’ve never felt so happy about taking charge of my life as I did at that moment.
I was so happy I almost cried.
