Sending this email is terrifying.

Have you ever been actively treated like you were invisible?  

Seriously. 

Like you didn’t exist, at all? 

This past week, my partner (Tharsihan) & I had our first contract back since COVID-19. 

Granted, photography and videography is still not allowed in Toronto just yet, but we were under special permissions since the training we were filming was deemed essential, so it was our first time diving back into our in-person work. 

It was also my first time feeling extremely invisible. 

Over the course of the two days of filming, I spotted a whopping 1 other woman at the location, and my partner and I were 2 out of the 3 people of colour. 

And let’s be clear — this was an active space, with a LOT of people. 

Having lived in small town Alberta and England, I am used to noticing when I’m the only in a space. It’s almost like a protective instinct — like a deer that hears a sound and instantly perks their ears up. 

But what I’m not used to, is actively being treated like I was invisible by multiple people in a space, but specifically this one person — we’ll call him Fred. 

Allow me to paint the picture. 

*Bold and italicized names are changed to respectfully keep individuals anonymous* 

We’re instructed to take some safety and COVID orientations for our safety and security, and get walked over to another portable. 

We walk out of our car and follow Sam*, the person who hired us. He’s a friendly face, and treats me with respect — we know each other, and he’s the project manager on location. 

We walk up the wooden steps to the office portable and step in, with four red-faced men chatting around to each other. They all become silent as we walk in, staring at me, then my partner, then me again. 

We follow Sam. 

Sam introduces us to the lecturer, Fred* who will be delivering the training. Fred says hi to my partner, nods towards me, but never makes eye contact with me. 

The same thing happens. Robert*, who delivers the safety training, only speaks to Tharsihan & Fred. He never makes eye contact with me, and uses only he/his pronouns when referring to safety scenarios. 

Orientation is over. We head back to where Sam is, and we get ready to start filming. Fred continues to only speak to my partner. I ask a few questions so I can get situated and Fred makes a suggestion to my partner on how he should do it instead. 

Tharsihan says it’s my call and decision to make. 

The training and filming begin. 

I bite back the microaggressions and the toxic masculinity that’s surrounding me all day. 

Tharsihan asks me a few times if I’ll be okay. He fully sees it, and he’s uncomfortable too. 

Sam, throughout the day, stays by our side and continues to be respectful and great to work with. He’s the client. He’s the person I am communicating with. That’s all that should matter, I tell myself. 

And yet, as Fred continues his lessons throughout the day, he barely acknowledges my presence. He uses only he/his pronouns when giving examples — sheepishly adding “or she!!!” whenever he sees me squint my eyes and cringe. 

And I stay quiet. 

Not my place. Not the time. Not going to make a difference, I tell myself. 

We come back on Wednesday and the situation is a rinse and repeat. Fred, the lecturer, only directs questions at my partner Tharsihan, then brushes it off when Tharsi respectfully points out that I can best answer since I run the business. 

I bite my tongue. And then we’re done, and our days of filming with Fred is over. We say goodbye to Fred, who only shakes Tharsihan’s hand, and gives me a tight-lipped smile before heading off. 

Sam shares a sympathetic smile, discusses a few details, and we say goodbye.

And for the first time in two days, I walk out of there and finally breathe.   

P.S. I wasn’t going to write about this. Or share this at all, really. This client contract is an important one for us. In fact, our actual client contact, Sam was also nothing but kind and respectful. 

In fact, sharing stories like this is terrifying when often, there are direct impacts on the livelihoods of the people who speak up about experiences like these. But I had to — because there was a pit in my stomach so heavy after the first day of filming because I hadn’t felt that invisible and truly disrespected in a really long time. 

I have friends who have told me that microaggressions are not the “worst forms of discrimination.”

Perhaps they aren’t. They’re not overt. They’re not easy to file complaints about, they are not necessarily easy to even describe or report. But they are insidious, painful to experience, and they take a little part of your soul every time it happens. 

So I’m sharing this to remind you that they’re real. 

That there is often nothing, or little that can be said (when your livelihood depends on it). 

And because it happens more often than we realize.