Licenciada

The administrator smiles. He is the last stop on our welcome tour on our first day working at the university, the fall 2018 quarter having just begun. We, three young women — twenty, twenty-one, twenty-four — sit across from him at a circular table, equidistant from each other. Outside, the tropical humidity had left sweat stains on our shirts, and now, the chill of the air conditioner spreads goosebumps across our arms. The program had been successful in past years, he says, as all the previous assistants — young women, like us — had finished the year with new boyfriends in tow. We glance at each other in discomfort as he concludes by encouraging us to date our students — cultural exchange, of course. His smile no longer seems friendly. 

The program requires us to fulfill community service hours outside of our work schedule, so I tell my supervisor I want to volunteer at the state women’s institute, where women in need can access workshops, resources, meals. He thinks this is a great idea — so good, in fact, that he insists that he make the initial call to the organization, he make the appointment, he drive me to the appointment, he sit with me in the appointment, he speak for me in the appointment. According to him, since I am a representative of the university during my time here, he must oversee the process — it is, simply, policy. Years later, I have tried so hard to imagine why he felt this necessary, and I come up short. He is compelled, dead-set, on chaperoning me to this state institution designed to serve women, and disallowing me to speak for myself. As I sit beside him in the cramped office, my blood boils.

The national program coordinator, based in the capital city, comes to town for a routine visit. While she is on campus, they greet her as “Licenciada,” an honorific similar to “Doctor” to indicate that someone has a bachelor’s degree. My co-assistants and I continue to be referred to as “las chicas,” “las muchachas.” We have bachelor’s degrees, too. When I ask to be called “Licenciada,” the administrators chuckle.

Nearing the end of the first semester, our supervisor invites us to a meal at his home. His wife and young daughter, seven years old, are waiting for us there. We pile into his small, teal blue sedan. As we pull into the housing complex and head past neighbors’ homes toward his place, he jokes, “I hope no one tells my wife about seeing this!” His joke makes our backs stiffen. We arrive and greet his wife and daughter moments after being reminded that we are objects, that our presence implies bad behavior, betrayal. We eat fragrant, impeccably spiced chicken estofado and warm tortillas that this woman has lovingly prepared. We play on hands and knees with the girl. 

The new year has arrived, and there is a change in leadership at the university: a new governor-appointed rector to head the institution. As visitors with a little clout by this time, or perhaps we are just a novelty, we are invited to a sit-down with this new member of the community. He walks into the room, takes a seat, and talks at us for thirty minutes. Our silence makes my throat itch. At one point, he interrupts himself to remark, “You know, I actually don’t know where you are from.” I interrupt him in return to let him know that if he’d like us to introduce ourselves, we’d be happy to do so. My tone is icy. He is unmoved. 

As our time at the university comes to a close, we are asked to prepare a presentation. Our supervisor tells us that last year’s assistant focused on things that surprised her about her time here — like the existence of three-liter Coke bottles. He laughs. We have something different in mind. I go to the rector’s secretary and ask her to put our presentation on the calendar for all of the administrators, and she obliges, no questions asked. She offers us coffee and water on the day of, as though we are, in fact, valued guests. The three of us share about our contributions, our successes, our professional growth. We offer numbers, data, evidence, daring them to take us seriously. We ask them to hold their questions until the end, wary of being interrupted. The rector interrupts us anyway, ostensibly to ask a question, but really to monologue. He loves the sound of his own voice. I interrupt him back, letting him know that we’ll be continuing with our slides now. The men glance at each other in discomfort and giggle. I close my eyes and breathe the artificially cold air into my lungs. We continue on.

Heather Vaughan is a writer and educator from Southern California whose work explores culture, gender, sex, and belonging. She is based in Oaxaca, Mexico. Find her on Twitter at @heathercvaughan. 

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