My nightmare has come
true. I've become one of those old fogies who say things
like, "Kids today! They don't realize how lucky they are!"
I'm jealous. I admit it. I envy the opportunities
they take for granted; the advantages I never had: Breakfast
with Mickey and friends in Disneyland at six...a car at sixteen...a
year of study abroad at nineteen. And later, at least three
weeks paid vacation...profit sharing...dental insurance...and
a shot at VIPdom for every Jack and Jill.
Not so in the Dark
Ages when I was young. Back then, career choices were limited
for girls. (That's right, girls. Not even our grandmothers
were called women then.) Except for the rare female who
was aggressive enough to ignore the rules, most of us docilely
trained to become secretaries, nurses or teachers. I now
find it incredible that we meekly accepted these boundaries, but
at the time I didn't question it.
I was so thoroughly
brainwashed that though I had always loved writing, it never
occurred to me as a vocational possibility. That was man's
work. I knew my place--at the blackboard, in front of the
class; by the bedside, bedpan in hand; or in the board room, taking
notes.
First I considered teaching. I thought about the satisfaction
of molding young minds. I thought about summers off and
not having to go to work when it snowed. I thought about
dealing daily with bratty kids and irate parents. I thought
I didn't want to teach, after all.
Nursing I didn't even think about. I have a germ phobia.
I get paranoid at the movies if somebody sneezes--on screen.
So I chose the only field that was left and enrolled in Boston
University's Bachelor of Commercial Science program, a euphemism
for Chauvinistic Serfdom (note the identical initials). I was
convinced that my mission in life was to help some man rise through
the corporate ranks and become president of his company.
My reward? A puny (but private!) cubicle outside the Great
One's spacious, windowed suite, and a china pot in which to brew
his tea, rather than the aluminum ones used by the secretaries
of lesser personages.
To achieve this wondrous goal, I spent four years studying shorthand,
typing, and unquestioning respect for my boss of the future.
(N.B., "boss," singular. When we agreed to work for someone
in those days, it was presumed to be until death or mandatory
retirement did us part.)
The only other acceptable reason for a woman to leave a job was
matrimony. In fact, not only was she permitted to
leave without stigma when she got married, she was expected to.
Everyone knew that a woman who hadn't managed to snag a husband
in school worked only to meet an eligible man (again, singular)
and get married. Once she reached this pinnacle, she was
supposed to retire to the kitchen and bedroom. If for some
reason she retained her job after marriage and became pregnant
(is it all right to use that word for a mixed audience now?),
she was expected to resign immediately, preferably as soon
as the rabbit died (yes, a bunny had to be sacrificed to determine
pregnancy back then), or at least before its funeral. Why?
Because no respectable woman wanted to be seen in public in "that
condition." Everyone would know how she got that way.
Those of us who weren't
successful (i.e., weren't wearing an engagement ring with our
caps and gowns) set about meekly to serve our life sentences in
the first company that did us the honor of hiring us after graduation.
Again, the brainwashing was very effective. I stayed in
my first job for fourteen years. During that time, I never
questioned being overworked, underpaid, and generally taken for
granted. When my boss's department's bottom line was bottoming
out, he frantically hired more salesmen to generate more revenue,
but never an extra secretary. The budget, you know.
"Rose will do your typing," was part of his welcoming speech to
each of those eager dynamos who were anxious to make themselves
visible. They did this by writing volumes of memos, letters,
and reports--which, of course, I typed. I also did their
filing, tracked their appointments, answered their phones, made
their travel reservations, and constructed their expense reports
from whatever bits and pieces of information I could salvage from
their attache cases (my first professional creative writing experience).
I did this days, nights, week-ends, and even on several holidays.
And I did it without one word of complaint or one penny of overtime
pay. It was never offered, and I never asked. Discuss
money? Not me. I was a nice girl.
But I was happy in
my little world. Hey, I was one of the privileged.
I worked for a department head! Eventually I was rewarded
with a promotion as secretary to my boss's boss, a division manager.
And the Idiot of the Century. I do not bestow such titles
lightly. The man earned it. He never dictated (couldn't
think fast enough) but instead scrawled his letters in longhand
and insisted I type them exactly as written. He felt threatened
if I changed one misspelled word, misplaced punctuation
mark, or ungrammatical phrase. He knew I liked to write,
you see, and he wanted to establish immediately that he could
write better than I could.
I tried not to tamper
with his prose. I really did. But I soon stopped putting
my initials on his letters lest anyone think I was the stupid
one. Either he didn't notice, or he approved. After
all, my initials weren't on his originals.
One day he handed me
a letter he had written to a nanny in England whom he was considering
importing to look after his children. "For the sake of convenience,"
his scrawl said, "I am sending you this letter instead of my wife."
Granted, it would have been much less convenient to stuff her
into the envelope; but I knew he didn't mean that. Though
he didn't deserve it, I thought I'd do him a favor and try to
slip one by him. I typed, "For the sake of convenience,
I am writing this letter instead of my wife." I still wasn't
crazy about it, but I wanted to change it as little as possible,
hoping he wouldn't notice. Silly me. He had memorized
every golden word.
He dove into my wastebasket and retrieved his longhand version.
"This is what I wrote," he said, his index finger stabbing the
sentence, "and this is what I want you to type!" Instead,
I typed my letter of resignation and hit the road. Unfortunately,
it turned out to be a dead end lined with more secretarial pit
stops. But eventually, hallelujah! I managed to tunnel
through and land a job as Operations Manager of a theater chain.
I became a friend to the stars. I negotiated contracts with
Actors Equity. Directors (who had no idea that my only prior
stage experience was when I played Amapola at a piano recital
when I was nine) asked my advice about blocking. Who
says there is no God? I just wish She'd led me to glory
two decades earlier, or arranged for me to be born two decades
later. Because young women today, they don't know how lucky
they are.
