Chapter 1 is here.

CHAPTER TWO: THE LUNCHROOM

My morning had been stressful, but I was not brought up to complain about my situation. My parents were ordinary hardworking people. They wouldn’t have wanted me to feel sorry for myself. Instead, I thought of the troops; how they sacrificed so much and were willing to die to protect the people who treated me so badly. I knew that they were the true heroes, and so I resolved to work even harder to prove myself to all of the sexist people who dismissed me because I was a mother.

By 11:30, I was tired again and really needed to recharge my batteries. My favourite way to recharge is to go for a long run in the wilderness, where I can breathe fresh air and really be free. This isn’t some loopy, weird one-with-the-universe thing like you see on TV. It’s real life in the real Yellowknife. But my boss refuses to allow me to do that. I’m not angry about this. Instead, I pity him. I know that he only has this silly rule because he’s too fat to run. Some people just want everyone to live the same way they do. If they can’t run, neither can anyone else.

But I would never complain about that. I’ve seen women try to take on the system. And they get taken DOWN. And rightfully so: Nobody likes a whiner.

So I grabbed my Prada purse and headed to the lunchroom, ignoring the chorus of complaints from my co-workers, who didn’t understand that even though it wasn’t technically lunch time, I needed the freedom of some time away from the office.

It was a good-old-fashioned lunchroom, the kind of place where you carried a tray and the lunch lady knew your name. And she didn’t pretend to be a “sandwich artist”, or whatever the Hollywood types call them these days. I was never above eating day-old bagels, and I don’t drink smoothies like the limp-wristed fellow in the office next to me. No, I feel most at home in a lunchroom where I can buy peanut-butter sandwiches and noodle soup, and don’t feel pressured to donate my change to the local animal-rights group.

I got in line behind a well-dressed man with hair that had obviously been blown dry. I’d never met him before, but I’m not the sort of person who dislikes strangers, like the snooty secretary on the other side of the building. We made friendly conversation as we went through the line, each choosing what we wanted to eat.

Why’s he acting so friendly? I thought. He doesn’t even know me. I’ve never seen him here before. Even though he looks like he doesn’t belong here, maybe he’s another one of the hard-working Yellowknifers who care about their neighbours.

And then I saw it. A single raspberry yogurt at the end of the line. That’s what I really wanted. My tone became perkier as I thought about how much I wanted that yogurt. I took some carrots off the shelf, and he took a burger and fries. Some ketchup got on his shirt, but I would never mention something like that.

And then — he reached for it. And he took the yogurt I wanted so badly. And there was nothing I could do about it. He paid for it with a crisp hundred-dollar bill from a silver money clip.

I couldn’t help it. I’d been dealing with sexism all morning, and now I was losing the yogurt, too, just because I was a woman. Tears came to my eyes, and I tried to choke them back.

No, Megan, I thought. Your Dad didn’t raise any crybabies.

I knew that my critics would sling even more unfair insults in my direction if it became known how disappointed I was about the discrimination I faced every day. I didn’t think that complaining ever served women’s interests, anyway. Instead, I prayed for my critics. This calmed me down, and I was able to pay for my carrots and find a table.

As I munched my carrots, I thought about freedom. I’m proud to live in a world where I can forgive the people who’ve wronged me. People like the ugly guy on the third floor, who once cut me off in traffic. I’ve forgiven him even though he still pretends he doesn’t recognise me. And I am better now because of that forgiveness. I know that the government can’t legislate forgiveness. That’s the sort of thing that needs to come from within. We don’t need the government to get involved in our lives and complicate things that we can do on our own.

I was still hungry, but, unlike my co-workers, I’m dedicated to my job serving the shareholders of this company, so I stood up quickly to go back to work. But first, I brought my tray over and threw away my garbage. Any little bit I can do for the lunch lady, I’ll do. I know she wants to get home to her husband and kids.

I passed the custodian, who was separating the recyclables from the rest of the garbage.

How unfortunate, I thought. He’s been sucked into that liberal nonsense about recycling. And here he is with his hands in the garbage. That’s not the kind of job that makes you proud. He should be doing a job that makes him proud.

And I resolved to find a way to convince the owner of my building to stop making him pick through the garbage.

“Everything will be OK for you,” I told the custodian. “If you just work hard, you’ll make something of yourself. That’s what my son is doing.”

He looked up at me, and I could see that what I thought was honest hard work was really just a way to get money for him.

“SHUT UP, BITCH!” he yelled at me. “I DON’T CARE WHAT YOUR SON DOES!”

I was appalled at this unprovoked attack on my son. I can handle personal criticism, but there was no need to bring my family into it. I knew that the people who want to see me fail would stop at nothing to bring me down. They would even attack innocent children in the pursuit of their agendas.

I thought about my son and his sweet little face. And anger roared within me. I couldn’t believe children were being used as weapons in the custodian’s obscene tirade of hatred. I knew that he would never have said something like that to a man. Men come and go from that lunchroom every day. I’ve never seen the custodian attack one of their children. No, only women have to deal with that.

And I thought about a woman who’d been fired a few months back. We were all told that she was fired because she yelled at the boss. But now I wondered if it was really because she was fed up with the boss’s deep, deep sexism. It wouldn’t surprise me if that was true. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she hadn’t yelled at the boss at all. For all I knew, she’d been fired because she needed a day off to take care of her kids when they got sick. Nobody had ever provided proof that she didn’t have kids.

Why is it, I wondered, that we’re so willing to just trust the authorities? It’s not as if the people in charge have ever done me any favours.

I left the lunchroom silently, pondering how I could help the custodian become a better person. True patriots don’t try to get revenge. We try to help our critics. Even though the custodian seemed to hate me and my family for no reason, I was willing to help him make something of himself.

UP NEXT: CHAPTER THREE: I PLAN TO TAKE MY BOSS’S JOB.