Gender Manager Wanted. (Who said that no one’s hiring?)

I love to look through the Executive Focus (want ads) in the front of The Economist. Mostly they make me wistful that my career wasn’t international, wasn’t do-goody, wasn’t NGO. That I never worked as a teller at the World Bank, shook a coin-carton for UNICEF, or “made a difference to millions”, which is what the Economic Adviser – Trade to “The Commonwealth” is being offered £56,552 to do.

What was I thinking? Man…..

A few years ago, the job I most wanted to apply for was assistant private secretary to HRM The Queen. (Yes that queen: accept no substitutes.) Alas, my only qualifications were 73 w.p.m. and looking good in hats.

The most recent ad to catch my want-adding eye was for a position at the European Bank.

They’re looking for a Gender Manager.

Just what, I wondered, does a Gender Manger do?

And would I be qualified.

After all, I have been managing my own personal gender for quite a few years now, having become aware of it for the first time when my mother plunked my brother Tom down in the tub between my sister Kathleen and myself.

Ah, there, in the claw foot bath tub that yielded such little hot water that my mother had to supplement it by heating up a kettle full and pouring it into the tepid inches we bathed in, was something far different than the plumbing Kath and I possessed. Weird, peculiar, and – I must confess – a tiny bit icky. At three, I was just as happy not to have to manage that particular piece of gender apparatus, however fascinating.

A year later, my grandmother sent me a pair of PJ’s – all the way from Chicago – that violated gender norms. Whether all of her grandchildren (at that moment in time, I believe there were only six of us, four girls and two boys) got the same style I cannot say. She was big on dressing her grandchildren alike, but generally differentiated girl clothing from boy clothing. Thus, we (the girls that is) are all at my Uncle Jack’s wedding in look-alike, slightly color-varied dresses – mine was turquoise striped – while Tim and Tom were sported out in blue shorts and matching Hawaiian shirts.

Anyway, if the pajamas had been on sale, six for ten bucks at Wieboldt's – pronounced Vee-bolt’s in Grandma-speak – my grandmother wouldn’t have given a hoot whether they were boy PJ’s or girl PJ’s. You’re inside your house. You’re inside your bed. No one’s there to see you. What difference does it make? What would have mattered was that we all would have gotten something that cost the exact same amount of money.

Anyway, I was laser-focused on the fact that these purple, green, and white striped cotton PJ’s were boy pajamas. With a fly. Which, if I’d had one of those things, the thing would have peeped out of. Talk about weirded out. Icked out. And fascinated.

But fascination aside, I hated those pajamas. I know that I wanted my mother to sew the fly up, but don’t know whether I ever asked. Or whether she complied. It’s one of those things that could have gone either way. The request would have met with either “Don’t be ridiculous” or “Get me a needle and thread.” I probably didn’t ask. Perhaps I was waiting to see whether wearing those boy PJ’s would make me grow a thing. Which would have changed my entire perspective on gender management, that’s for sure.

Fast forward a few, post boy-PJ years.

When my period started, gender management really began in earnest. (Let me tell you, you haven’t lived until your sanitary napkin falls out while playing co-ed kickball in eighth grade.)

Then there were the usual gender management issues that we all have to deal with, which I won’t go into. (It’s not that kind of blog.)

So, yeah, gender manager. Been there, done that.

Still, I did have to wonder just what the European Bank was looking for.

Disappointingly, it turns out that they’re “keen to boost the participation of women, particularly in business and decision-making roles.” That they’ve “created a comprehensive Gender Action Plan” – which no doubt sounds more interesting than it is – and want the Gender Manager to “bring it to life.”

They’re looking for an advanced degree (check!) and the types of “gender equality experience” that can help “introduce a gender equality dimension to the Bank’s investments.”

Well, everything I know about the gender equality dimension I learned by working in high-tech for a kabillion years. Most of what I learned was this: That a woman’s voice is like a dog whistle – only certain ears are attuned to hear it. That admitting to mistakes and failures is perceived as a sign of weakness, not of honesty. And that no woman would ever take the Wall Street Journal into the restroom at work to read while on the pot.

Based on a quick assessment, I suspect I don’t qualify for the job of Gender Manager.

But don’t you think they could have come up with a better title for this position? Something a bit less weird, peculiar, and fascinating?

Maybe it’s the Brits.

I googled “gender manager” and the first relevant thing that came up was a “Gender Mainstreaming Manger” for Amnesty International in the U.K.

Yep. As I suspected, it’s the Brits.