I wore a pantsuit to my interview when a table full of BIG LAW partners told me they were happy I didn’t have a wedding ring because I wouldn’t waste their training by becoming a mom.
I wore a pantsuit when an old white judge told me about how outrageously successful his former male law clerks were and his one female clerk was “cute as a button just like me.”
I wore a pantsuit to the Virginia bar exam even though the rules said I was to be wearing a skirt.
I wore a pantsuit to court when a client told the judge he wanted to fire me because I was a woman, and therefore too emotional to defend him from trying to honor kill his wife.
I wore a pantsuit every day I went to work for the federal government, and earned 20% less than my less qualified male counterparts.
I wore a pantsuit to work when a high ranking Bush administration official suggested I could have married well, and then I wouldn’t have to be in the room.
I wore a pantsuit when my boss told me that he never had any child care issues because his wife had the good sense to stay home to care for their children.
I wore a pantsuit every time I was mistaken for the court reporter, the secretary, or a social worker.
I wore a pantsuit every time I was asked to fetch coffee for the group at a deposition or settlement conference.
And now, I am going with my husband and my two daughters down to the library and vote for a woman who has experienced all of this and more while wearing her pantsuit. And we are going to cast our ballot for her and we will be overjoyed.