A Nation Built for Men and by Men
A Random Tale of Male Fragility in the Workplace and the Origin of Female Archetypes.
The United States of America: A government created for men, by men, our founders. Of course, we now know them as our Founding Fathers, a phrase coined and capitalized by President Harding in 1916. While meant to inspire patriotism and link them to the divine, I interpret it as more Oedipal: man-babies trying to overthrow King George III, their tyrant daddy.
Alexander Hamilton, our “ten-dollar founding father with no father” (Thanks, Lin!), said it best: “The President of the United States would be an officer elected by the people for FOUR years; the king of Great Britain is a perpetual and HEREDITARY prince.” See? Even our founders hated nepotism. He had a point, though, Kings were perpetual, but so are the proverbal dick measuring contests American’s have had to endure in the male dominated political arena.
Today, scholars have a clearer picture of King George III: a flawed man, but not necessarily a tyrant. It’s American lore in the name of patriotism. In England, however, he is celebrated for his contributions. “Farmer George,” as he is affectionately referred to. Some would say Shonda Rhimes’ version of him in Queen Charlotte: A Bridgerton Story is closer to the truth. Probably less sex- maybe not, who am I to assume? The truth, however, is somewhere in the middle. Human, flawed, chosen by God. We are expected to overlook powerful men and their flaws, aren’t we?
American women, however, are rarely granted that kind of revisionist sympathy. We are still bound by our biblical archetypes, translated by men with a political motive. Powerful men boiling women down to obedient shells of what we were. No, we are not allowed the privilege of hypocrisy. We comply, and we are labeled good, God-fearing women. Dissent and run the risk of being labeled, or worse, executed.
Why can’t we know the whole story? Maybe Eve just wanted Adam to eat some fiber for once in his life? Instead, she is called manipulative and blamed for the fall of man. Mary Magdalene, a financial supporter of a broke preacher with big ideas, was labeled a prostitute—a classic "before they were famous" trope. Delilah—guilty of betrayal and gossip—just wanted to share a story about her boo's luxurious hair. How’s that fair? And let’s not forget Mother Mary, who became pregnant under some sketchy circumstances, but she gets a pass, I guess, because virginal mothers are all the rage. I kid, of course- but I am not entirely wrong.
It’s a narrative that chases women through time. All designed to silence, shame, control, and erase us. Our motives were overlooked. Our contributions snuffed out and replaced with stories of Witches, heretics, sirens, madwomen, harlots, shrews—all with a clear message. Comply or die.
In the United States, systematic failures are commonplace. For a while, progress flickered just enough to make women feel part of the discussion—then it stopped. Our rights are slowly shrinking backward like a limp male appendage, no longer seeking approval. Just shriveled and leaking piss. Offended that we dare to call it out. Stay silent. Smile and laugh at his jokes. Appease his male gaze. It’s a survival instinct bred into us. Innate in nature. They can’t kill us anymore, but they still try to diminish us. Comply, or we lie.
The American Dream was designed for white, straight, male landowners only, and handed down to their white, straight, male descendants armed with generational wealth and insatiable greed. They are our “perpetual and hereditary princes”.
So, where do women fit in this mess? We are expected to uphold the rules thrust on us. Be sexually satisfying, but don’t flaunt it; stay virginal. Give them heirs in their likeness. And stay home—unless you want or need a job. You have freedoms, so get a job, but don’t get any crazy ideas about a career, you selfish bitch.
I know the horrors of working with these toxic mindsets. After all, I spent my first years of motherhood in a male-dominated office. My employer felt entitled to my time, energy, and effort. In addition to my actual job, I was the dedicated party planner, kitchen stocker, and childcare provider when he wanted to show off his kids without actually interacting with them. My male equals weren’t given those tasks; they were given promotions. I was called the office mom, and they were referred to by name.
If I defended myself, I was a bitch. If I complained, I was petty. If I were nice to a male coworker, I must have had a crush. But if I were being attacked, they came to my side like white knights, as men are expected to be. Just kidding—they didn’t. It was a double standard. I was in their world. Attacks on women were allowed and rarely addressed.
Many moons ago, my former employer assigned me the prestigious task of desk reassignment. "You’re better at feng shui than I am." Direct quote. He never saw my house, by the way, so the implication was clear: I was female and therefore had some magical interior-design intuition. Did it matter? No. I smiled and nodded, playing the role expected of me.
After receiving input from most of my fellow managers, it was decided that each team would be assigned a new space in the large, repurposed factory. Team leaders were given corner desks. Everyone in management had input, except for one: a fellow lead, an equal. This difficult Man-baby did everything he could to avoid contributing, shifting his eyes away from me during my updates, tossing memos into the trash.
Two days before the move, Man-Baby finally decided to investigate the obvious changes that were about to happen. His desk was going to be moved. He liked his desk where it was—in the center of the room. He screamed at me for two hours straight. The office was closed, but I was scheduled to work late- I couldn’t leave. He could have gone home, but wouldn’t. Comply or suffer the consequences.
I wouldn’t give in to his demands either. Morally, I had an obligation to move him from his current location. His NSFW viewing pleasures were on display for the office to see. The new seating arrangement would block his screen from the rest of the office. It wasn’t just the naked women. It was the way he stared at them—tilting his head and zooming in, as if memorizing each crevice for his spank bank. This is where, for no reason at all, I would like to note that recent surveys suggest that 35% of men admit to masturbating at work. Again, not related but… important to mention.
The more I resisted man-baby’s demands to stay put, the more he berated me. My employer was in the next room, separated by a glass wall. He had a direct view of what was unfolding. I was in a panic, I kept glancing over to make eye contact- a silent scream for help. Nothing. A 300 lb. former football player sat on the other side of the room, also looking away from this display.
My phone buzzed. A welcome distraction—until I saw the text from my employer: "Good practice for when your children are teenagers." My resentment grew. I was playing my part: interior designer, caregiver, dutiful employee. And he couldn’t even stand up for me? Nothing to see here, just three man-babies and a truly disappointed little lady. Tom Selleck would have been disappointed.
The day of the seat change was worse. Man-baby paced the floor rabidly, refusing to move. He got in people’s faces, swore, yelled, and demanded support from his subordinates. It took multiple calls for assistance before my boss stepped in—and even then, he threw a mini-fit when I approached him.
"I told you to handle this," he snapped, storming off to address the situation. Man-baby wasn’t sent home. He was scolded and reluctantly agreed to the corner desk. It took years and multiple bullying complaints before man-baby was removed from his leadership position. No pay lost though, just a title demotion. A few years later, he was found passed out at his desk. Our employer was surprised.
It wasn’t news, though. The man-baby smelled. He was dirty. He threw up in the bathroom weekly, sweated through his clothes, even shit himself on occasion. His downfall into whatever addiction he had was evident to all, except our boss. No one wanted to confront our employer. So I did, and received the immediate blowback. I was a gossip. The life of a female in a toxic, male-dominated office. I was a punching bag for male fragility.
To sum things up, I have moved on. The scars are still there, though. Is it fair, no? Has my ex-employer changed? Probably not. But some men buy into their privilege, refusing to change while demanding obedience. Their ignorance is perpetual.