Dear E. Jean: I'm at one of the top companies in the world, and I'm good! I get my work done, perform well within quality standards, and I'm dedicated.
So here's the kicker. Last year, I transferred offices and was told by my new manager that I acted like I "knew better than everyone" and that I "talked down to people." He said there were "several complaints." I shaped up. Then nine months ago, I had a disagreement with a colleague, and he complained to my manager that I'd "talked down to him."
Now I've just come from my performance review with upper management. They said everything was excellent, except that in the question-answer portion of the interview they thought I came off as a "know-it-all." I burst into tears right in front of them! I'd spent the whole session trying to sound strong so I wouldn't cry, and it backfired.
I've spent the past year trying to be nice! I've gone beyond being nonconfrontational. How do I stop being a know-it-all? Or at least acting like one? I think my career—not just my job—is on the line now. I am pretty much willing to do anything at this point.—Struggling Against the Current
Struggling, My Young Sage: Bah! They'd have to flog Auntie Eeee with the entire Hermès belt collection before she'd tell a woman how to "stop being a know-it-all."
Maybe you do know it all. Maybe you know it all and then some. Who's to say how much you (and your company) are losing by you pretending to be "nice" and doing only what's expected?
In my own corporation, Tawkify, we specifically look for know-it-alls when we hire. (And we're growing like mad.) But I've seen this kind of "nonconfrontational" twaddle firsthand at other Silicon Valley tech start-ups. When a man asserts himself, he's called a leader. When a woman asserts herself, she's a "know-it-all." Here are my observations:
Scientists around the globe are seeking the WIMP—the Weakly Interacting Massive Particle—believed to be the stuff of dark matter making up about 25 percent of the universe. WIMPs exert tremendous gravitational force on stars, planets, and just about everything else.
They are looking for the WIMP up on the Space Station and 8,200 feet under the sea. But Auntie Eeee knows where the WIMP hides. Wherever there's a woman sobbing in a corporate bathroom, the WIMP will be there. Wherever a woman is being beaten up in a performance review, he'll be there. He's your manager. He may mean well, but like many a male manager in corporations like yours, he's the dark force exerting immense pressure for you to behave in certain ways.
Smacking the WIMP is a simple matter of dreaming up ways for your division to earn $18 million more a month. While you're doing that, watch out for the Cocky Chin. Yes. It's a thing. Lower it and you indicate a willingness to cooperate. (This is why Princess Diana was so popular.) Raise it, and you show you're trying to dominate. (This may explain why people complain that you "talk down to them.")
Also: Listen. Ask questions, but not phony ones. Have a lot of solutions. Collaborate. Dole out protein bars. (I know, I know, but it works because chocolate, gifts, and protein lift people's moods. So does beer—we have it on tap at our WeWork office in New York.)
Try to meld your fake "nice" work personality, your fake "nonconfrontational" work personality, and your "dedicated" work personality (we're all up to our gills in multiple social identities, but you seem to possess a harem) into one supersmart professional woman.
The cleverest move you can make is to use your know-it-all reputation to bring out the brilliance in the people around you. Say the manager's manager is doing a great job; make his triumph public. He will say to himself, "If she's so right about my new sales strategy, maybe she does know how to market this new product."
Good luck, Miss S. When you're running the company, offer your fellow women the floor whenever possible!
P.S. Steve Jobs was famous for bursting into tears during meetings.
This letter is from the E. Jean archive.
I write the ASK E. JEAN column in ELLE magazine. Incredibly it's the longest, currently-running advice column in American publishing. I live in a little cabin on an island (it's about the size of a mattress) in upstate New York. I used to write for Saturday Night Live and was a contributing editor to Esquire and Outside. I have noticed one thing about writing: when I get stuck I find that walking into the kitchen sixty or seventy times to eat something really helps.
