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Infosec Twitter is busy gnashing its teeth this week over a particularly uncomfortable debate: when conference stages feature a disproportionately high number of women – relative to the skewed industry norm – does that mean that the women speaking were held to a lower standard for their invitation to present? In the aftermath of this debate, we are left with the term “quota women.”

The conversation is taking place during a for in the community, and at a time when the outcomes could have swift implications: we’re less than a month out from the RSA Conference and the call for proposals for two other major information security conferences – DefCon and Blackhat – currently sit open.

As a think tanker, I spend a lot of time considering gender-balanced event programming. I’m generally skeptical of the ‘quotas mean lower standards’ narrative. Although there are certainly ineffective and even detrimental ways to include women in the program, many seasoned conference attendees attest that the female presenters they’ve seen on stage have been above average quality. But since this evidence is anecdotal and “quality” of a presentation is subjective from the outset, it’s awfully hard to prove the point. In fact, it’s hard to even get a count of what a “disproportionate” number of women on stage is because data on the number of women in the field is a bit fuzzy. (Is it of the field? That depends on your .)

But there are other potential factors that might inhibit women from taking the stage or affect how the quality of their presentations are viewed.

• It’s possible that presentations by women come from slightly different perspectives, which are less likely to appeal to selection committees that are habituated to a certain way of approaching a problem. These proposals might appear less relevant, but their inclusion adds a valuable new approach to thinking about a problem.
• What comes across as a “lower quality” presentation can be a function of unconscious perceptions of a speaker’s credibility, itself likely to be tied to their gender. In other contexts, women are seen as than their male counterparts. Women are also for their part in collaborative work. With these dynamics at play, it’s hard to imagine that conference-goers and selection committees aren’t unconsciously deciding that female presenters are less qualified.
• Perhaps the presentation topics that are considered “sexy” are influenced by the topics that our men and women – and boys and girls – internalize as appropriately interesting for their gender. (And with a term like “sexy” to describe the preference, could we doubt this is possible?) Selection committees may be predisposed to think topics coming from men are likely to appeal to conference attendees simply because they reflect the topics that men find compelling.

Undoubtedly there are many more dynamics at play. Given all this, one could argue that a program committee’s decision to establish a quota for female participation is simply a means of leveling an otherwise deeply flawed playing field. But quotas are just one tool that gender-conscious conference planners should have in their toolbelt. How might this tool stack up against other options? I would love to conduct an experiment in which a conference had no quota but took every available opportunity to counter unconscious bias – blind submissions, pre-submission consultations available to all presenters, targeted outreach with the call for proposals to underrepresented communities, tracks that appeal to diverse interests, and so on. Would this increase female participation without raising questions over quality?

Regardless of whether or not quotas actually do influence quality, finding effective alternatives would likely have a real impact on women’s confidence and performance at conferences. Indeed, in my personal experience, women can internalize the ‘quotas mean lower standards’ narrative, leaving them to wonder if they were selected for their credentials or for their gender. But maybe it’s worth fueling these doubts in order to turn around entrenched unconscious bias. I see friends and luminaries in the field (of all genders) make strong arguments in both directions.

In the face of what is genuinely a difficult question, the best I can do here – and indeed, exactly what the Humans of Cybersecurity project is intended to do – is share my own experiences. One point I want to make very clear is that every single time I stand behind a podium, I wonder if I was invited because of my gender. Every job I have held, every paper that has been published, every single roundtable invitation I have received leads me to wonder if I was held to the same standard as those around me.

Many years ago as an intern, shiny and new to D.C., I overheard the boss review a stack of pre-sorted applications for next semester’s cohort of interns. The staffers – both men (and very decent human beings) – that had screened the applications were sent straight back to the drawing board because all ten candidates they had pulled were men. Was this a function of their own unconscious bias in evaluating candidates’ experience, or just the reflection of a field with few female candidates? At the end of the internship, I asked one of the staffers if he thought I was held to the same standard as my male colleagues during my own selection process, and if not, was that to my advantage or disadvantage? The poor guy turned green on the spot. It’s simply an impossible question to answer.

At other times, I know I have been able to contribute unique insight because of who I am. Because my experiences are different, I see different questions than my colleagues. This is not just because I am female; it’s because of all of my experiences: where I’m from, what I’ve studied, the people I’ve worked with, the languages I’ve learned, my hobbies, my beliefs – it all impacts my perspective. The problem comes when we unconsciously create a common image of a “a serious speaker” or “someone with credibility.” It’s not the fact that I’m from Denver that bumps me out of folks’ top-of-mind list when they’re looking for gravitas. Similarly, when a group is looking for a note taker, it’s not my degrees that get me nominated. And when I’m at dinner with the great and powerful, I’m not feeling like it was my niche research specialty that earned me a seat at the table.

It’s easy to argue that quotas interfere with fair competition, but that reasoning is flawed simply because the competition was never fair. Fixing the process certainly means that we’re forced to redefine what we should expect out of our conferences, and that is understandably uncomfortable for everyone. Moreover, there are other reasons to question whether quotas are the right answer. But making the debate about vague and anecdotal notions of “quality” only reinforces the same doubts and uncertainties that got us into this mess in the first place.