This morning I am going through my emails at work and I see, not for the first time, not even for the first time today, that someone has addressed me as Thomas.
My name is (first name) Cassidy (last name) Thomas. But because I sit behind a computer, and the (mostly) men that I talk to all day cannot see my hair, or my perfectly-winged eyeliner, my boobs, or an ass that sometimes has me wanting to change my name to Kassidy, or any of the other things that have cavemen beating at their chests, grunting, “Ugh! Woman!” I am automatically assumed to be Thomas.
I imagined myself standing up at my computer, hopping on my desk in my red Baywatch swimsuit, whipping off my war helmet, my long blonde hair blowing in the wind, yelling “I am no man!”
I contemplated sending that sexy photo that I definitely should have never sent to my ex (if you’re reading this: vete a la verga culero!) with the caption, “Do I really look like a Thomas to you? Do you know many guys named Thomas with hips that don’t lie?”
My inner feminist bubbles were boiling. How dare they! Don’t they even read? Can’t they tell the difference between the beautiful flowing words of a strong-minded female writer from the turd droppings an average man would put on paper? I thought about all the women who stood up for feminism (Gloria Steinem, Emma Watson, Malala Yousafzai, Amal Clooney; Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, the Unburt, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons…shesh what a mouthfull) and how strongly worded their emails back would be.
WWHD? What Would Hermione Do? Accio Equality!
But then I remembered my horoscope said a little something about thinking before I speak.
So, I took a deep breath and thought…
I will just give them Thomas.
In the Thomas family, it is hard to say who has more sass, the men or the women. And yes, you should have definitely read “sass” with a z-snap.
It was, however, very clear who had more sass between myself and my male alter ego.
Where Cassidy is eager to help out anyway she can, Thomas is eager to help you off the side of a cliff, while eating the last slice of pizza. Thomas made bolder decisions, fired back wit to customers, drank more coffee, and, most importantly, had a lot of fun.
I was shocked to see how easy it was to slip into this persona. 95% of my daily correspondence is via email. No one knows who I am, or what I look like, or that I might or might not be wearing any panties under my dress.
I was feeling very early 2000s, playing around on the internet.
(A/S/L?)…You know what I’m talking about.
But, as my day spent catfishing customers drew to a close, the feminist bubbles started to boil again.
Why did I have to pretend to be a man to be confident saying and doing the things I did?
If I had done the same as Cassidy, would I have been met with the same positive encouragement?
Or would I have been called irrational, hot-headed, and insubordinate? Back to the kitchen, blah blah blah.
I cannot say. Though, if someone had said “Back to the kitchen,” I would almost certainly say “Go fuck yourself.”
And there is a but. I did learn a bit about myself.
Even though I was playing a “character,” I was still able to make decisions and stand up for myself. I learned not to fault people for not knowing any better.
So quickly our eyes scan over emails, not seeing all the words, picking and choosing what we want to let soak in.
Ignorance can be forgiven.
So what if a few people chose to only see Thomas, and not Cassidy. The best thing I can do, is try to show them the things they are missing, to try and teach them something.
It was almost 5:00 and time to go home when my phone rang.
“This is Cassidy,” I answered.
The man on the other line said, “Hi I’m looking for Thomas.”
“Oh,” I replied, with a renewed sense of pride. “This is her, but my name is actually Cassidy…
Thomas is just my last name.”
After all, bitches get shit done.
Written by Cassidy Thomas.