A Woman’s World
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday May 17, 2014

We met in the rice cracker aisle. I hadn’t seen him in 25 years. We’d worked in radio together when I was the bumbling cadet and he was the news editor, sure-footed and velvet-tonsilled. I’d been in awe of him – or scared of him – one and the same thing to a 21-year-old feeling hopelessly inadequate. I can remember how he’d grow more and more frenzied as the clock sped towards news hour. He’d pound away on his IBM electric, a gravity-defying stub of ash dangling from the cigarette wedged into the corner of his mouth.

Now he was barefoot shopping in Coles and I was loading up on Saos for school lunches. We made small talk about radio days before he announced matter-of-factly: “You chicks have got it made. The media’s biased towards women. I should know – I got the sack for being male.”

“You don’t mean that!” I said, taken aback.

“Yes, I do. I was a man and they only wanted women. Attractive women, of course. I tried to grow breasts, but all I grew was resentment.” He laughed, but I could hear the indignation in his voice.

I wasn’t sure if he wanted my sympathy or a comrade in arms. Our conversation limped to a farewell at the checkout. Walking home, my arms strung with shopping bags, I tried to picture my career from his point of view.

I remember when alpha males ruled radio newsrooms. In the late 80’s, hardened newsmen with gravelly voices would sub my scripts then give my right cheek an encouraging pat: “Have another go, sunshine!”

Anxious to impress, I worried they’d peg me as the dumb blonde. (More often than not, I was). So I put my hand up to do the graveyard shifts, reading news bulletins til midnight, and fumbling out of bed at 4am, just as friends were staggering home. I thought hard work would make up for lack of talent.

One summer, desperate to be taken seriously, I took to wearing pretend glasses to work. They were Lois Lane style with square black rims. I thought they made me look intelligent. My girlfriends said they made me look hilarious.

By the time I’d crossed the divide into television, female reporters with big hair and pastel suits were as much in demand as their chain-smoking male counterparts. To me, gender was irrelevant: a scoop was a scoop. We never questioned that our news directors were all male: the corridors in management were awash with testosterone too. Women reported the news, they weren’t in charge of it.

For the next eighteen years, I had only one female boss. She grilled me once: “Are you wanting to get married? Are you thinking about children?”

“No interest in either!” I replied proudly, aged 27. Three months later she was gone, emptying her desk after a dip in the TV ratings and complaints about her abrasive ‘management style.’

Feminism didn’t do young female reporters any favours either. It told us we needed to be ball-breakers, to be strident and brash. But the one thing despised in a newsroom more than a bimbo, was a woman as aggressive as a bloke.

Sure, there were perks for women in telly. I got $2000 to spend on clothes. Staying blonde became a tax deduction. But the night a male rival got sloshed, I discovered his salary beat mine by $30,000.

I returned to one job after baby number two, feeling crushed by the conflict of motherhood. On Monday mornings, I’d race out my front door in tears, my small son howling in the arms of his babysitter.

The newsroom had moved on in my 18-month absence. Young, fresh-faced reporters eyed me suspiciously. I was intimidated by the new computer software and embarrassed to ask for help. What if I was outed by my childless colleagues as less competent? Or less committed? In the afternoons, I’d make a flurry of whispered phone calls to make sure 6-year-old son was safely home from school, that he was dressed for Tae Kwon Do, that a girlfriend was still good to take him, that my toddler had woken up happily from his nap.

Three months into that job, I fell pregnant again. It took me a week to work up the courage to ring my boss in Sydney: “Ben, I have some news you’re not expecting…” I couldn’t decide whether to sound euphoric or apologetic, as though I’d connived to deceive him.

He took my announcement in his stride. But I was floored by the glamorous young reporter who griped: “But didn’t you get pregnant last year?”

So, in answer to my former male colleague at the supermarket, the one feeling downtrodden by the effortless rise of women in media? Don’t complain to me buddy! I’m tired of talking about sexism. Ageism’s my thing now!