Something for Her

I worked for a terrible, terrible man for over eight years when I was fresh out of college. I was young and enthusiastic about any opportunity that would pay my rent in my brand new city, and I didn't have a sense of just how much I was worth. I did not yet know what global economic disasters loomed in the near future, and I thought, "Sure, let's give this a try. See where it goes." 

Within the first month I knew what kind of man I was now devoting 40 hours of my life to each week. And yet I stayed at that job, fighting every instinct in my body, for almost a decade. 

I'm not going to delve into every sordid detail of sexual harassment I endured in that office, or all the small-minded, entitled, and overpaid men I was forced to interact with. I won't dwell on the immense number of coffees I fetched, long into my late twenties. Years later, it still makes me cringe to think about it. 

No, today I am here to broadcast a line into the still reflecting pools of my future possibilities. They are deep waters, murky with self-doubt, darkened by the tiny moments of every day that just get away from me, when I'm doing something else, wasting time, being responsible. 

Because I know what hell it is to work for a man who is undeserving of my talents and time, and because my wounds from that life are still scabbing over, I know I can not work for another man. Not for a long while. What I really want, deep down inside myself, I know, is to work for myself. To own something that is all mine and to work for it every second of every day. I want to be a boss. The boss. 

For a while after I left the aforementioned company, I fantasized about opening a coffee shop here in my new city, now no longer quite so new. I have experience slinging coffee. I can tell you the difference between an Americano, a Latte, and a Cappuccino, and I can make them well. I know enough to know that Starbucks tastes like hot dirt water, but I'm not such a snob that I don't drink it multiple times a week. 

Independent coffee shops are booming all over this city. Everywhere you turn there's a 30-year-old barista with a beard churning out something exquisite for a pretty penny. "I could get in on that game," I thought, with a bank loan and some elbow grease. 

I tossed around some name ideas for my new business venture. I wanted my shop to be different, to reflect me, and to be a place where everyone could feel comfortable going, regardless of how chic, hip, or on-trend they were feeling that day. I landed on Thunder. Thunderbolt. After a few weeks I realized that was a terrible name and was soon onto something completely different.

Still reeling from rampant workplace sexism and flat-out abuse of power, I was longing to create a supportive feminine workplace utopia. Someplace where men could be, but where the world didn't revolve around them. I landed on a new name, one which I LOVED. She Coffee. A shop owned by a woman, staffed by women, hopefully frequented by women (and men) and which maybe even contributed shares of its profits to women-centric charities. I would employ survivors of domestic abuse, looking for some financial independence as they struck out on their own. I was so happy to have found the answer, and I was excited to bring my vision to reality. 

Talking about my idea to other people proved to be difficult, though. I was shy about my baby coffee shop, hesitant to bring it up, or to tell anyone what I wanted to call it. I was embarrassed and afraid that I wouldn't be taken seriously. Embarrassed that people would think it was weird. And those fears were justified, in a conversation I had with one particular male friend, who balked when I said it,

"She Coffee." 

"She?"

"Yeah, She." 

"I just - I don't know if I could go to a place called 'She'" 

And in a moment I was completely deflated. I couldn't start a risky venture off by alienating half of the city's population, could I? Maybe man-friend was right, maybe ALL men would be so turned off by those three simple letters strung together in such a way on the door, that they would be forced to travel another few blocks down the road to get their caffeine fix! 

I was upset. I was enraged. I dithered and doubted myself, and felt stupid. Ineffectual. Weak. 

I feared She Coffee would be a niche, novelty thing, not taken seriously by anyone. Like chick flicks, chick lit, and any other pinkified product marketed to the fairer sex. Far from the mainstream. So I chickened out. My feminist coffee utopia never came to be.  

Perhaps this is all overwrought and overthought. I certainly didn't abandon my dreams because of the negative feedback of one man. I did, however, and still do feel defeated on a daily basis by the general otherness of womanhood. Women are perceived to be the lesser in all things, and the things that we value and find interesting are constantly relegated to the fringe. Meanwhile, we are all expected to watch 50 hours of NFL Football a week, and like it. 

I would later visit an establishment called Cafe Mustache, and not even think about it, until days later, and with agonied fury. To me, the mustache is yet another iconic masculine phenomenon that we must all mindlessly revere. Meanwhile, most men would pause at the door marked "She Coffee" and strongly consider whether their image could withstand the five minutes they would need to spend inside. 

I still dream of being my own boss and owning my own business. Not to be rich, and not to be powerful, but to be free, and to be respected. I hope one day to start a feminist and feminine business that celebrates women, and in turn is celebrated by everyone.