I was a female Ph.D. student in mathematics for six years. And even though I left my program without a Ph.D, I sure did get an excellent education in discrimination. Here is one of my many stories.

When I was in the second year of my Ph.D. program, I took a graduate Probability course. This course, taught by Professor B, was extremely difficult and, like many introductory math graduate courses, heavily dependent on lengthy and very challenging problem sets. Professor B in particular had quite a reputation for writing impossibly hard problems. It was a well-known fact that when he had a hand in authoring the infamous Analysis Qualifying Exam (or Qual, as we called it) — a required subject test for a Ph.D. in my particular flavor of math — the passing rate plummeted. So, getting the best head start was precisely one of the reasons that I signed up for this class — I was planning on taking the Analysis Qualifying Exam in the near future, and from what I was told, Probability was a great place to practice the concepts tested on the exam.

Being an extrovert, I was always a social learner and like usual, assembled a study group. Quickly, we realized the homework was too hard to complete on our own — it was time to go seek guidance from the professor at office hours. After attempting the first homework assignment, we compiled a list of questions to ask Professor B, and then dispatched two ambassadors to go to office hours and get some answers. This task fell on my (male) friend and myself, since we didn’t have class during Professor B’s office hours.

When we arrived at office hours, Professor B was sitting at his desk. When he looked up at us, however, a somewhat unusual expression appeared on his face. I was very confused, when I realized he was zeroing in on … me. He asked, “What are you doing here?” Taken aback, I answered that I had some questions about the homework, to which he answered, “Are you sure you want to talk about math? You don’t want to go to the beach?” What? Why the beach? Somewhat stupefied, I replied, “I don’t like the beach, and I never liked the whole sand and sunblock thing…”. “Oh, really?”, Professor B quipped, “because you are dressed for the beach.” I looked down to see what I was wearing.

Let me take an aside and explain that this was September in Los Angeles. An oppressive heat wave kept the temperatures in the 90's, and merely walking to class from the graduate dorms left you feeling pummeled with radiation. So, I wore what a typical 20-year-old would wear, a Summer Girl Uniform of sorts, consisting of a jean skirt, a tank top, and flip flops.

Oh, I thought, and then looked over at my study group companion. As irony would have it, he stood there, safely outside Professor B’s judging stare — but looking equally under-dressed. This bastion of professionalism sported a backwards baseball cap, t-shirt, baggy shorts, and skater shoes. His skateboard was under his arm. Nonetheless, he was a male, so, coincidentally, no “are you off to the skate park” comment came his way. Well, then there was nothing to do but laugh the beach comment off, and proceed with our homework questions.

It was only after we left the office, and I had some time to mull it over, I realized the whole encounter was deeply uncomfortable, unfair, and quite upsetting. I was confused what I did wrong. After all, this man taught math classes to undergraduate students weekly, so certainly it wasn’t his first time encountering girls in summer attire. So, why was he commenting at me?

Apparently, I was now a Ph.D. student, and was expected to act as such. By now, my mathematical skills surely should have progressed enough for me to set my Summer Girl Uniform forever aside and swap it for something a bit more drab. I was expected to give up looking cute. Forget cute, I was expected to give up common sense and roast alive, just to demonstrate academic focus. My femininity somehow was inherently ‘not serious’, its very presence disrupting the stuffy and pedantic airs apparently required to study ‘serious’ topics like probability.

Professor B’s comments made me very uncomfortable, and I resented him for that. So, for the rest of that semester, I made sure to wear the smallest skirts that I could find in a weird attempt to ascertain my right to wear what I wanted. It was almost as if my inner anti-establishment troll needed to affirm my femininity — I was not going to give it up because some asshole in power had some antiquated notion of what a mathematician looked like. Back then there was no #ILookLikeAnEngineer hashtag. And besides, I was never an engineer, so I doubt that he would understand the parallel. Math professors, in my experience, don’t have the best track record of understanding simple discrimination arguments.

Looking back, I have more breadth of view on what had happened, and on the subtle, but insidious way women are perceived as less ‘serious’. It happens at many levels of an academic career, but usually starts at the graduate student level. Many of my female friends who were graduate students in STEM fields affirmed feeling a certain professional pressure to not wear too much makeup, not dress too fashionably — so people don’t sully your accomplishments with idle speculations about whether you got to where you currently are by sleeping with someone. But back when I was young, I remember always being struck by the transformation that happens to female STEM students in between undergraduate and graduate school, wondering what had happened to them so that, in the span of a few years between degree programs, they turned from stylish to disheveled and frumpy? And there I had my answer, sexism happened.

I ended up getting a B in that probability class, which is like the grad school version of failing. But hey, at least I amassed an entire wardrobe of beachy outfits. And by the way, I eventually did pass the Analysis Qualifying Exam.