Would you speak to me this way if I were a man?

by Raffaella Mulas

I’m in a big lecture hall with around a hundred students. I’m giving the first lecture of a combinatorics course, moving between intuition and formal mathematical concepts. I also share some anecdotes and make small, silly jokes here and there, in the hope that these first-year bachelor students, who are not studying mathematics, will not hate it. The lecture seems to be going very well: the students are engaged, they ask good questions, and the atmosphere is lively and interactive. I end the lecture with a theorem that has a rather technical and abstract proof, and I say: “If any of you would like to stay and go through the proof again, I’m happy to repeat it. I have some time, and we can take it slowly.”

Most students leave the classroom, while around ten of them come up to me at the blackboard. They all appear to be men, and they form a semicircle around me which makes me feel a bit like I’m trapped.

I start going through the proof again on the board, but I’m immediately interrupted. I expect questions like: “Could you explain that step again?”, or “Why does that implication hold?”. Instead, I get comments and questions that feel confrontational, delivered in an angry tone, as if the goal is to show that I am wrong.

“This step is wrong.”

“There is a missing piece here.”

“You cannot make a different change of variables for the two terms of the sum.”

“This proof just doesn’t work.”

“I believed you for half a second, but then I saw the next step and realized it didn’t work.”

I feel even more trapped.

For a brief moment, I doubt myself. Not my reasoning, because I know that the proof is correct. I doubt myself as a teacher. I must have said or done something very wrong. Maybe I am terrible at explaining, or maybe the friendly way in which I gave the lecture sent the wrong message.

I remember the advice a professor gave me when I was a PhD student: “Don’t make jokes during your talks if you want to be taken seriously. You are a woman. You have to be extra careful, because you are judged differently than a man.”

Yes, I gave them the wrong message. It’s my fault. They treat me like this because I gave the impression that they could.

But I am lucky that these thoughts only last for a brief moment. I regain clarity and remind myself of all the times I have been on the receiving end of mansplaining from my students, that this is inappropriate, and that I have to speak up — not only for myself, but also for all the women they will talk to.

“Let’s stop here for a moment. I understand your frustration with this proof. It’s tricky, abstract, and technical. It’s not easy to grasp, especially if you’re seeing it for the first time. I want to help you understand it, but I don’t like your tone and your attitude. Would you speak to me this way if I were a man? I don’t think so. And, for the record, I didn’t come up with this proof myself. It’s due to Isaac Newton, who was a man. Now let’s take a step back, adjust the tone, and try to have a calm and constructive discussion.”

For a second, the intrusive thoughts return. Did I overreact? Was I too harsh? But then I look at them. From their faces, it’s clear that they realize what I said was true. I see their embarrassment, and a sense of guilt for something that was perhaps unconscious, but still harmful. They all quiet down. After a moment of silence, something shifts. The calm brings back clarity. I start explaining again, and they all begin to understand the proof. Without the anger, they are able to follow it. When we are done, they apologize, one by one, and I can see that they are genuinely sorry.

I’m proud of how I handled it, and I’m grateful for the apologies, but for the rest of the day I feel empty and drained. I try to get through my meetings, and then I go home with a bad migraine and a deep sadness. It’s a sadness that does not come from this one episode, but from all the similar ones I have experienced, and I know that I will experience again, just like any other woman in my position. 

As I lie on the couch, the intrusive thoughts return: What did I do wrong? Am I too friendly? Do I look too young? Is it the bright Barbie-pink nail polish, or the jeans with flowers? 

Rationally, I recognize that students may have unconscious preconceptions based on my gender, my age, and the fact that I’m Italian, and that there is nothing I should have to change because of that. And maybe my bright Barbie-pink nail polish plays a role in how they perceive me, but that’s their problem, not mine.

The day after, I talk to many friends and colleagues about it. They thank me for how I handled the situation, and most say that they wouldn’t have had the courage to react that way. A colleague from another university tells me she has been in similar situations and has always gone home with a deep sense of guilt, feeling ashamed of herself. She tells me that she doesn’t feel as strong as me, and these situations make her feel broken.

It’s just one of many similar episodes, but this time, I decide that I won’t just let the frustration pass. I want to do something with this frustration. And if there is one thing I can do, it is to speak about it.

I hope this reaches women who have felt broken, and helps them feel less alone. I hope it also reaches students who will choose to break these patterns.