Graci Harkema. Jen Blair. Alpana Singh. These women, like countless others, have one thing in common: They’ve renounced or resigned from their prominent positions in the beverage industry due to sexism, racism, discrimination, and continued mistreatment at the hands of men in power.
Other women, like Libby Crider and Laura Maniec Fiorvanti, have also voluntarily revoked their memberships from leading trade organizations in beer and wine—namely, the Brewers Association and Court of Master Sommeliers—due to said organizations’ lack of oversight and accountability when members were accused of harassment or apathy towards racism.
It’s a common but impossible choice for many marginalized people—to work within the constraints of existing, oppressive systems, or to leave to create something new (but less stable) that will embrace you for all that you are. Neither path is perfect: To abandon already-established, highly visible, prestigious spaces limits opportunities for career advancement, threatens financial security, and eliminates any chance to make change in spaces that so desperately need it. But even the perception of seemingly aligning oneself with a toxic entity, regardless of the reasons for doing so, can whiff of complicity, and the context of intent and impact continues to be glossed over, to our collective loss.
There’s no doubt whatsoever that the cost of staying in an inhospitable space is high. Women face consistent sexual harassment, gender-based discrimination, violence due to society’s perceived entitlement to our minds and bodies, and inflexibility in the face of life events like pregnancy and raising children. These risks are amplified for women who are not white. Women who are trans or gender non-conforming. Women who are fat. Women who are disabled. Women who are neurodivergent. Women who are merely outspoken about these pervasive inequities. Creating a new space remains an attractive alternative, although it’s not one without sacrifice.
Without the perceived organizational safety net, women entrepreneurs are less likely to have the ability to access capital or find affordable single-payer health insurance options. Flexibility is fantastic—especially for working moms—but there are no guarantees of financial solvency or sustainability. For those without partners who are able to provide support, whether it be access to health insurance or a reliable salary, entrepreneurship can remain out of reach.
When I left my 9-5 marketing job to pursue a freelance writing career, I said goodbye to a biweekly paycheck, health insurance, and paid parental leave. The payoff of flexibility was worth it for me, a privileged person who could fall back on their spouse for financial and moral support. I should be viewed as the exception, not the rule.
The push-and-pull of existing within hostile spaces is something I’ve grappled with more than usual recently. After Brienne Allan tore off the veil of naive optimism from the eyes of the craft beer industry, she revealed to the world what every woman in beer already knew: It’s an unforgivingly harsh environment designed to keep us in a lower place than men. It makes me wonder not only if writing about it is worth it, but if it’s even something I enjoy enough to continue fighting for. Is there another space where I could truly thrive and not simply survive? I haven’t found one yet.
Throughout my career, I’ve been mansplained to more times than I can count, despite the fact that I’m a certified beer judge with years of experience writing about the industry. I’ve been harassed and threatened to the point where I paid for a service to erase as much personal information off the internet as possible. I actively scrub all metadata off pictures before I post them, so as not to unwittingly reveal where I live. I don’t post public pictures of my son online, out of respect for his privacy but also to keep him from becoming a target of ire meant for me. I’m active on Twitter because it seems I have to be for work, but with every career opportunity comes twice as much toxicity.
But if I choose to opt out of the conversations happening about social justice in craft beer, I can’t shake the knowledge that even temporary inaction makes me silently complicit to continuing inequities. When I use the platform I do have to bring light to injustice, I open myself up to criticism, both constructive and not. How can I—how can anyone?—balance physical safety and mental health with our shared human responsibility to participate in dismantling oppressive systems? When does a noble exercise turn into an effort of futility? (If anyone has an answer to any of these questions, please let me know.)
Needing reassurance of one’s efforts isn’t necessarily a plea for recognition. The best work, the most worthy work, isn’t always loud, and that’s OK. When that work takes a stark personal toll, however, it can be difficult to remember the reasons for doing it.
Recently, I caught myself repeating the tired old adage, “Life isn’t fair,” to my son. Regardless of the truth behind the words, accepting that things are unequal cannot, must not, be the stopping point. Women exist in a society—and in an industry—where we are set up to fail and then blamed for fulfilling the destiny set before us. We are paid less and expected to tolerate much more. Is it any wonder more people are choosing to leave beer behind? What will it take to keep women, who are simply fighting for the same right to exist in craft beer, happy, healthy, and most importantly, here?
