“We will fight them…”

This is another story from the Pink Collar Wars, the fight for women’s job equality in the 1960’s and 70’s.  It is also a tribute to Doris Travis, my absolute favorite ally in that effort.  Doris turned 80 earlier this year.  We have been friends for more than half of her life, but when we met, everyone around us predicted that we would never get along.

Doris on the 25th anniversary of her
coming to New York

It was 1969.  I was a junior officer in the Personnel Department of the Bankers Trust Company—a prestigious Wall Street bank.  Fresh from helping to institute the bank’s affirmative action program for minorities, I focused my statistical analyses on the position of women.  The picture that emerged was abysmal: if one drew a line at a salary of $15,000 per year, 85% of the women in the bank were below the line and 85% of the men were above it—many men substantially so.  The closer one looked, the uglier the picture became.  I vowed to use the strategy that my colleagues and I had recently employed with our efforts on behalf of minorities.  That meant beginning with a pitch to the Chairman of the Board.

The Bankers
Trust building
at 16 Wall St.

My higher ups in what would now be called Human Resources were not at all supportive, but they were unwilling to openly oppose the idea.  Instead, they decided to throw me to the lions.  The lioness they had in mind was Doris Travis. HA!  Little did they know!

They told me I would have to make my own appointment with the Chairman and to do that I had to begin with Miss Travis, the Chairman’s administrative assistant.  “She will not be sympathetic,” the department head said.  “She’s no bra burner;” my boss actually smirked.  Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead, I thought.  The WWII image turned out to the prophetic.

Not without some trepidation, I dialed her extension.  A woman with an elegant, clipped British accent answered and to my glee gave me no nonsense and an appointment within a few days.  My management raised their eyebrows and must have thought I would return headless.

On the appointed day, I dressed in my most feminine business outfit—a flower-print number with a lot of pink—playing against type and presented myself to Doris Travis ten minutes before my scheduled appointment.

I found a tall, lovely woman with a beautiful smile.  “I am so glad someone is FINALLY addressing this important issue,” she said.  She was all business: making sure I had everything I needed, cluing me in on how best to approach my subject.  A couple of minutes to zero hour, she took me into the women’s room.  “What else can I do to be helpful?” she asked.  “Do you have a handkerchief?”

When she was sure I was all set, she put on a wonderful imitation of Winston Churchill: “We will fight them in branches, we will fight them in Trust Department…”

What a woman!  What a comrade in arms!

                                                   

I later learned that Doris is Jewish and had endured the terror of growing up in London during the Blitz.  She came through that misery full of spirit and wit and with a delightful sense of fun.  We have been close friends since we met.

And in those banking battles we fought side by side—WE WON!

Annamaria Alfieri 

 

The Sherlock Birthday Party: Pictures

Here are some photos from the Sherlock Holmes party I described in my post of the week before last.

Himself

Preparing the clues: Diana Dander, Sarah Sahara, and Farmer Fred.

Detective team led by Sherlock puzzling over clues.

Lots of crime tape for decorations.

Africa! The game's afoot!

Many of the kids said it was the "best party they had ever been to!"

Robin Hathaway

The Literary J.T. Pudding

Inspiration for this title came from two places:

1. While reading a terrific thriller by J.T. Ellison called A Deeper Darkness
2. After reading about the many delicious recipes and meals described by the charming Jungle Red bloggers.

The weather outside was climbing to the mid-80s. In the middle of a critical juncture of my WIP, Smoke Screen, I needed a quick, nutritious bite to eat.

Considering time and weather, and stirring in the fact that I'm a lady who avoids HARD CORE COOKING whenever possible, I checked the fridge and pulled out this assortment:

A dab of left-over cold oatmeal with apples, made from one of those little paper packets.
Pristine container of ricotta.
Unblemished, picture-perfect banana.

Added vanilla extract, cinnamon, powdered ginger, and one lone Splenda.

Mixed sloppily with a sterling silver spoon.

Since J.T's new book lay beside the dish and me on the table, I thought it would be fun to dedicate the dish to my fellow thriller writer from Nashville, Tennessee.

J.T. and I have roots in Tennessee; she resides in Nashville and I lived in Sewanee for ten years and my maternal kinfolk all came from Knoxville. (And everyone knows how those Southern roots are!)

If that wasn't enough to bond, she and I both graduated from a college in Lynchburg, Virginia called Randolph-Macon.

I've been following this writer's progress since her first book came out.

I realized soon that she has "the gift."

She keeps my nose in the book long past bedtime.

Can we give a writer louder praise!!!

So, dear friends, try the J.T. Pudding.

And run, don't meander, to your corner bookshop to get your copy of A Deeper Darkness!!!

P.S. Although I've never met her, I naturally like J.T. Ellison – you see, one of my best friends at the above-named college was also named J.T., who became a Chemistry Professor at our college, then served for many years as Dean at Agnes Scott College in Georgia.

T.J. ( not J.T. ) Straw

Don't call me, I'll call you

My telephone rang this afternoon, and when I picked it up a woman with a thick East Indian accent identified herself by name, called me by name and asked me if I were the person with the computer. "Which computer?" I said. We have a few of them in the house, most cobbled together out of discarded parts. Harold runs Unix on one of those, just to see what might happen. Another one is his normal workaday desktop, where he can often be found putting texts into HTML or playing spider solitaire.

I do my writing and Facebooking on a MacBook, the replacement for the one I spilled a glass of water on a couple of years ago. Son John is visiting, and he has a tiny little pink laptop, which he painted over with a fierce death's head to keep it from looking effeminate.

"The one running Windows 7," the woman said.

Ah. She meant the new Dell tower I bought last week to make movies on. Seven years ago I fixed myself up with a nice Dell, big monitor, good sound, and a copy of Pinnacle editing software. I made two book trailers with it, among other things, and I found that film editing is a truly engrossing occupation, more fun in its way than writing. But the motherboard died, worked to death, no doubt, and I bought a replacement for it, with a slightly hotter Intel processor and Windows 7. So I told her, "That would be me."

"I'm calling to say that a virus has entered your computer and very destructive malware is downloading right now."

"Mercy me. How terrible. Why, that's just shocking."

Oblivious to the heavy sarcasm in my voice, because she was, after all, of another culture, and it's hard to read sarcasm in people of other cultures, she went on:

"Yes, and it must be fixed right away. Please go to your computer right now and follow my instructions."

"Not a chance," I said. "Have a nice day," and I hung up on her. How did she get my name and number? I'm guessing there's a guy in the Dell mailroom making a little money on the side by selling the names and numbers of potential goats to scammers in Calcutta. Harold, sitting at his own computer, looked the scenario up on the internet and confirmed that it was a known scam.

I'm not even mad at her, mostly because I saw her coming a mile off and that makes me feel unusually smart. Also because I entertained myself for the rest of the day by thinking up smart remarks I might have made to her. Rudeness can be really delicious for a person who has tried to be polite all her life.

I may be turning into one of those old ladies who enjoys being rude. I expect to have a lot of fun.

Kate Gallison

Sounds That Once Set My Heart Racing…

…now set my teeth grinding. For example:

The Ice Cream Cart Jingle
When I was a child and heard that tune, I would rush out with my nickel or dime full of anticipation. Today, that repetitive melody sends me rushing to shut the windows and a desire to hire a sniper to pick off the driver.

Fire Engine Sirens…
…used to send me racing to the window to see if there was smoke on our street. If there was, I would run out to join in the excitement. Now I plug up my ears until the noise dies away and I can go about my business.

A Telephone Ringing…
…once had me tearing to the phone to answer it. Maybe it was a girlfriend, or even--a BOYFRIEND! Now the sound merely irritates me. I know it will be either a telemarketer or someone asking for a donation to some cause I have no interest in, or, worse yet, someone doing a survey.

The Thump of the Mail Hitting the Floor of the Vestibule…
…would bring me panting to see if that boy I met at summer camp had finally written to me. Or, when I was younger, if Grandma had sent a present or a card with a dollar bill enclosed. Today I know the mail will be nothing but bills, advertisements, and catalogs selling wart-removal ointment, back braces, and lotions to prevent receding hair.

The Clink and Clank of Pots and Pans in the Kitchen…
…once signaled my grandmother was baking cookies or my mother was preparing a delicious dinner. Now it’s probably the cat threading her way through the pots on the stove looking for a stray morsel or my husband making a pot of fresh coffee.

A Shrill Whistle…
…from a boy wearing a Phillies baseball cap and had a chip out of his front tooth, would send me careening onto the sidewalk to play stick ball, roller skate, or dig fox holes in the back woods. Today that same whistle would send me to the sidewalk again, to see how that cute guy turned out.

Robin Hathaway