This is the eighth post about the making of my wall installation regarding Apple and the EEOC. To read the whole series from the beginning, start with It's Raining Men, then Somewhere Over the Rainbow, Have You Ever Seen the Rain, Purple Rain, Heavy Cloud No Rain, Both Sides Now, and Clouds in my Coffee.
At the start, this project intimidated me. I’d never made an artwork of this size and scope.
In some ways, this echoes my EEOC case. Blowing the whistle on my employer was overwhelming to imagine.
Before filing the charge of discrimination, I read and reread the agency's website. If the government made Apple fix their illegal pay practices, it could help tens of thousands of others. But the costs of taking this on weren't at all obvious. The process is supposedly designed for victims to navigate without legal counsel, but that doesn't make it free.
What would it cost me, my family, my career, my health, my finances? Could I afford it?
I didn’t yet know how poorly the U.S. government treats victims who dare to come forward. Only 20% of equal pay cases filed the same year were deemed to have “merit.” The other 80% of victims who reported—if their stories are anything like mine—received retaliation and institutional betrayal in place of justice.
At the time, I told myself to just focus on each single next step. Fill in the web form. Wait to hear back. Do the intake interview. File the claim.
It felt both overwhelming and important to get everything right.
With this wall hanging, there were also a daunting number of unknowns. I didn't yet know how I'd color clay, make templates, stamp the words, or hang it on the wall. I was also concerned that Apple or the EEOC could come back to harm me more, or to sabotage the work.
I know many people aspire to quit their job and make art full time, but I didn't. Knowing my bosses valued my work lower than that of less qualified peers—in a career I enjoyed, was good at and had spent decades honing—made it intolerable for me to stay. I've had to face the reality that paths I travelled before are no longer accessible... and maybe never were.
When I post photographs of colorful clay or videos of my process from my studio, it may look like I'm healed. I'm not. The damage is irreparable. My ability to learn new skills does not mean I wasn't harmed. My ability to self-fund this work for now does not mean I'm safe from poverty. My writing about it doesn't mean words come easily.
What you are seeing is the hard and solitary work to rebuild my agency. By making room for trial and error, I'm pushing back on the narrative that any flaw of mine is what kept justice out of reach. I'm interrogating the suggestion that I was not enough by quietly observing my capabilities for myself. I'm retelling the details outside of the legal container to observe who still covers their ears, and by contrast, where my voice resonates.
Control of my narrative was taken from me, and I am wresting it back. Where others have failed me, I will not fail me.
In the final post in this series, I'll share my hopes for getting this artwork seen.
I put a cup out on the windowsill
to catch the water as it fell
now I've got a glass half full of rain
to measure the time between when you said you'd come
and when you actually came
—Ani Difranco