Page 2 of Mutual Discord

As I tried to swallow around the knot that had taken root in my throat, I glanced over my living room, my gaze tracing over this house I had worked so hard to make mine. I took in the colorful woven area rug that I had lounged on countless times while I painted my toenails; the rust velvet sectional, which numerous friends had said was the most comfortable sofa ever, adorned with throw pillows I had patiently collected from estate sales; and the mosaic-tiled woodburning fireplace decorated with pillar candles and a large trailing pothos that had grown from a small clipping my mother had gifted me. A tall archway provided a view of the kitchen I had renovated down to the studs that now showcased sage-green cabinets, butcher-block countertops, a pink Moroccan-tile backsplash, and a large bay window that let in an abundance of sunshine for my herb garden arranged in terra-cotta pots on the sill. I had spent years curating this house to reflect my personality, and it was my safe space. My dream come true. But it was a dream I might not be able to afford now that I was unemployed.

“Goddamn, Josh,” I muttered, swigging another gulp of tequila.

Twenty minutes later, and after at least another shot of alcohol, I lay sprawled on the sofa, mindlessly scrolling TikTok. As if the gods of irony sensed my misery, a video appeared on my For You Page from an engineering college student talking about how her group project partner had done nothing to contribute to their assignment yet still received the same grade she did, despite the professor knowing about the work disparity. Something about the woman’s frustration amplified my own feelings of impotence, and I quickly sat up, closing my eyes while my equilibrium righted itself. Without thinking, I clicked on the add post button, selected a sixty-second video, and hit record.

“It was 1967 when a badass postgraduate student named Jocelyn Bell Burnell discovered a ‘bit of scruff’ ”—I made air quotes—“on printouts of her experiments tracking stars across the sky. She realized they were a series of consistent radio pulses and, unsure of what they indicated, took the anomaly to her adviser. Their team spent months investigating the regular radio signals, calling them LGMs, or ‘little green men’…as if aliens wouldn’t take one look at this hellhole and nope right out of here.” I snorted. “Eventually, Jocelyn and the team realized that the signals were emanating from rapidly spinning stars, which were dubbed ‘pulsars.’ ”

I had no idea why I was talking about Jocelyn Bell Burnell—whom I had learned about while researching the term “little green men” for a campaign—but perhaps it was because I felt more comfortable venting about her story on the internet than my own. So I added a few other facts about how Burnell was treated by the media after the discovery, and highlighted, with disgust, how her advisers received the Nobel Prize but she did not. Without rewatching the video, I typed out a quick caption, which basically amounted to “You can always count on a man to be a grifter,” and hit post to my SLikeTheSun account. Closing the app, I connected my phone to the Bluetooth speaker on my console table and pulled up my music app. Soon Rihanna’s forceful voice echoed through my bungalow. I pushed myself to my feet and swayed and spun to the music, all alone in my living room. And when the song got to the chorus and bridge, I belted out the words at the top of my lungs.

I’ma fight a man, a man, a ma-a-a-a-an

—

The following morning, I woke up in my own bed with a dull ache behind my eyes. It could have been much worse, but Denise had arrived with not just cheeseburgers and french fries, but also bottles of Gatorade that she pushed me to drink between tequila shots. We had laughed and talked shit about Josh and Desert Media 360 for hours, snickering over Josh’s Instagram photos before we turned on a telenovela and binged several episodes.

I rose now, stretching my arms over my head, thankful a slight headache was all I had to show for yesterday’s overindulgence. Denise was the best sort of friend, and the least I could do to thank her after such a night was to get breakfast for us.

Dressing quickly in an oversized T-shirt and biker shorts, I tiptoed past the guest room where Denise was sleeping. I slipped on a pair of flip-flops and quietly opened the front door, wincing at the glaring sunlight. Usually I preferred to walk to Dulce’s, my favorite panadería, but because the cicadas were loudly singing the song of their people and heat was already wafting off the concrete, I opted for my car, not wanting to start my day dehydrated and sunburned. After a short drive, I pulled into a strip mall parking lot, thankful to snag a spot right in front of the store.

A bell chimed as I pushed open the door, and the older woman behind the counter greeted me with a friendly “Buenos días” before she returned her attention to the customer she was assisting. There were only three people in front of me in line, and I used the time while I waited to inspect the items in the case. When my turn arrived, I ordered two large iced coffees; an assortment of pane dulces; apple, pineapple, and pumpkin empanadas; and a dozen tortillas. I may be Puerto Rican, but having spent years in the southwest, I had a deep appreciation for the culinary delights of my Mexican cousins.

On the drive back home, I sang along to a song on the radio while I mentally made a list of the things I had to do now that I was unemployed. Reach out to human resources regarding my severance pay. Sign up for COBRA so my medical insurance didn’t lapse. Update my résumé. Hit the job boards. A deep sigh fluttered my lips. This fucking sucked.

Ten minutes later I found myself curled up in an armchair in my living room with my iced coffee and a concha on a plate near my elbow. Taking a leisurely sip of coffee, I opened my TikTok app only for it to immediately crash. Frowning, I tried again…and almost spit coffee all over the screen. My notifications were out of control. With an open mouth, I scrolled down the page as thousands of comments, likes, and shares populated the screen, and it took me a long moment to realize they had been left on the vent video I had recorded the night before. The video about Jocelyn Bell Burnell. I slapped a hand to my forehead when I remembered that I hadn’t even rewatched the video before I posted it. I didn’t think I’d said anything dumb, but then again, I had recorded it after several shots of tequila. With my stomach at my feet, I quickly set aside my coffee, opened the post—ignoring the three hundred and fifty thousand likes—took a deep breath, and hit play.

My face appeared on the screen, and I heaved a sigh to see that I didn’t look terrible. Sure, my eyes were a bit red-rimmed and my skin was a tad blotchy, but considering my mental state at the time I recorded the video, I could have looked much worse.

Then I listened to my words. Reporters asked about her hair routine. If she was dating. Yet they asked her male colleagues the specifics of her discovery and what it meant to our understanding of space. Jocelyn was reduced to a helper—an assistant—when she had made the fucking discovery in the first place.

There it was. The anger. It colored every word that left my mouth. Every blink of my eyes. The intensity with which I stared at the camera. I had been pissed when I filmed the video, and it showed. Being laid off from Desert Media 360 so soon after having my work stolen had left me with a gnawing anger I didn’t know how to channel. An impotent rage with no one to vent it upon. My video was no more than a minute long, but it had been cathartic to share my frustrations through Jocelyn Bell Burnell’s story, because truly, women’s accomplishments—their ideas, innovations, and brilliance—have been stolen by men since the dawn of time.

Biting my lip, I opened the comment section, prepared for the worst. I’d been raised on the internet, and knew it would probably be a cesspool. And there were plenty of snide, outright rude comments. Some were from obvious mouth breathers who had barely learned to use their opposable thumbs, and some were from men I was sure I’d find in my DMs, asking for pictures of my feet.

But surprisingly, there were more supportive comments than anything else. Messages expressing solidarity and empathy, and some that reflected the very same anger that had prompted me to film the video in the first place.

After months of asking my husband to help me retile our guest bathroom, I finally did it myself. Ripped out all the old tile, replaced the rotted floorboards, and laid the pristine new porcelain tile all by myself. When my in-laws came over to visit, my husband took credit for the work.

At my old job, my boss constantly ignored my emails or requests for help, but anytime my work was praised by company leadership, suddenly he remembered I existed.

I was the only girl on my math league team, and although I answered more competition questions correctly than any of my teammates, I was cropped from our championship photo in the school yearbook.

With a knot in my throat, I read through the comments one by one, blocking some users and responding with a kind word to those who offered one first. But my eyes kept returning to the most popular sentiment shared: You should make this a series.

Pressing my phone to my chest, I glanced wildly around the room before my eyes latched on to my closed laptop. I had to update my résumé. Apply for insurance coverage. Search the job boards.

Slowly, I glanced down at my phone, just in time to see five new notifications flash in the app. Maybe…this was a chance to try something new. Lots of people made money on social media, and perhaps I could do the same. There were plenty of stories throughout history of women whose accomplishments had been downplayed, ignored, or forgotten entirely, and I could shine a light on them. Would happily shine a light on them. And if I made a few dollars in the process, well, that would be the cherry on top of this nightmare sundae.

I stared at my phone, watching in real time as comments and likes appeared in my notifications. I could do this.

A comment abruptly captured my attention, and I barked a laugh.

User16892: a man wouldn’t know what to do with a pulsing object even if a woman put his hand directly on top of it.

“Oh my God, did you pick up pan dulces?”

I jerked my head up, stifling a gasp. I hadn’t heard Denise stirring, but I managed a shaky smile now as she walked by on her way to the kitchen. “I figured it was the least I could do after last night.”

My friend reappeared several moments later with her iced coffee and a plate piled high with a pumpkin empanada and a palmera. Situating herself on the sofa, Denise took a drink from her straw and stared at me. “You look good, especially considering the state you were in when I arrived.”