these mistakes because I was terrified by the supervisor. The supervisor was an elegant and attractive black man who roamed all day among the aisles of typists, watching us work. He smoked while doing this. When I lit a cigarette, he pounced on me.
“You can’t smoke,” he said.
“But you’re smoking.”
“Typists are not permitted to smoke.”
I looked around the room. All typists were women; all supervisors were men. All supervisors were smoking; all typists were not.
When break time came, at ten-fifteen, the bathroom was stuffed with smoking typists.
“Can’t we smoke in the hall?” I asked. There was an ashtray outside the bathroom.
But we couldn’t. We had to smoke in the bathroom.
The other problem was clothes.
“No miniskirts,” said the supervisor.
This put me in a pickle, as I had only miniskirts, and I had as yet no paycheck. “Why?” I asked.
“No miniskirts,” he repeated.
Smoking was Monday, miniskirts was Tuesday. Wednesday I wore a black miniskirt with black tights and hoped for the best.
“No miniskirts,” he said.
I scooted to the bathroom for a quick cigarette.
“No smoking except on break,” he muttered as he passed my desk on his next round.
This was when I began making my high-priced mistakes.
Thursday he beckoned me over to his desk, where he sat, smoking.
“Making some mistakes,” he said. “We can’t have that.”
“If I could smoke,” I said, “I wouldn’t make so many.”
He just shook his head.
Friday I didn’t go in. I didn’t call either. I lay in bed smoking and thinking about the office. The more I thought about it the more absurd it became. I couldn’t take all those rules seriously. I started to laugh, thinking of the typists jammed into the bathroom, smoking.
But it was my job. Not only that—I was the one person who had trouble with the rules. Everybody else accepted them.
Was this a mark of my madness?
All weekend I thought about it. Was I crazy or right? In 1967, this was a hard question to answer. Even twenty-five years later, it’s a hard question to answer.
Sexism! It was pure sexism—isn’t that the answer?
It’s true, it was sexism. But I’m still having trouble with rules about smoking. Now we’ve got smokism. It’s one of the reasons I became a writer: to be able to smoke in peace.
“A writer,” I said, when my social worker asked me what I planned to do when I got out of the hospital. “I’m going to be a writer.”
“That’s a nice hobby, but how are you going to earn a living?”
My social worker and I did not like each other. I didn’t like her because she didn’t understand that this was me , and I was going to be a writer; I was not going to type term bills or sell au gratin bowls or do any other stupid things. She didn’t like me because I was arrogant and uncooperative and probably still crazy for insisting on being a writer.
“A dental technician,” she said. “That’s the ticket. The training is only one year. I’m sure you’d be able to manage the responsibilities.”
“You don’t understand,” I said.
“No, you don’t understand,” she said.
“I hate the dentist.”
“It’s nice clean work. You have to be realistic.”
“Valerie,” I said, when I got back to the ward, “she wants me to be a dental technician. It’s impossible.”
“Oh?” Valerie didn’t seem to understand either. “It’s not bad. Nice clean work.”
Luckily, I got a marriage proposal and they let me out. In 1968, everybody could understand a marriage proposal.
Topography of the Future
Christmas in Cambridge. The Harvard students from New York and Oregon had switched places with the Columbia and Reed students from Cambridge: vacation musical chairs.
The brother of my friend who was going to die a violent death—but we didn’t know that yet; his death was nearly two years in the future—took me to the movies, where I met my husband-to-be. Our marriage as well was two years in the future.
We
“You can’t smoke,” he said.
“But you’re smoking.”
“Typists are not permitted to smoke.”
I looked around the room. All typists were women; all supervisors were men. All supervisors were smoking; all typists were not.
When break time came, at ten-fifteen, the bathroom was stuffed with smoking typists.
“Can’t we smoke in the hall?” I asked. There was an ashtray outside the bathroom.
But we couldn’t. We had to smoke in the bathroom.
The other problem was clothes.
“No miniskirts,” said the supervisor.
This put me in a pickle, as I had only miniskirts, and I had as yet no paycheck. “Why?” I asked.
“No miniskirts,” he repeated.
Smoking was Monday, miniskirts was Tuesday. Wednesday I wore a black miniskirt with black tights and hoped for the best.
“No miniskirts,” he said.
I scooted to the bathroom for a quick cigarette.
“No smoking except on break,” he muttered as he passed my desk on his next round.
This was when I began making my high-priced mistakes.
Thursday he beckoned me over to his desk, where he sat, smoking.
“Making some mistakes,” he said. “We can’t have that.”
“If I could smoke,” I said, “I wouldn’t make so many.”
He just shook his head.
Friday I didn’t go in. I didn’t call either. I lay in bed smoking and thinking about the office. The more I thought about it the more absurd it became. I couldn’t take all those rules seriously. I started to laugh, thinking of the typists jammed into the bathroom, smoking.
But it was my job. Not only that—I was the one person who had trouble with the rules. Everybody else accepted them.
Was this a mark of my madness?
All weekend I thought about it. Was I crazy or right? In 1967, this was a hard question to answer. Even twenty-five years later, it’s a hard question to answer.
Sexism! It was pure sexism—isn’t that the answer?
It’s true, it was sexism. But I’m still having trouble with rules about smoking. Now we’ve got smokism. It’s one of the reasons I became a writer: to be able to smoke in peace.
“A writer,” I said, when my social worker asked me what I planned to do when I got out of the hospital. “I’m going to be a writer.”
“That’s a nice hobby, but how are you going to earn a living?”
My social worker and I did not like each other. I didn’t like her because she didn’t understand that this was me , and I was going to be a writer; I was not going to type term bills or sell au gratin bowls or do any other stupid things. She didn’t like me because I was arrogant and uncooperative and probably still crazy for insisting on being a writer.
“A dental technician,” she said. “That’s the ticket. The training is only one year. I’m sure you’d be able to manage the responsibilities.”
“You don’t understand,” I said.
“No, you don’t understand,” she said.
“I hate the dentist.”
“It’s nice clean work. You have to be realistic.”
“Valerie,” I said, when I got back to the ward, “she wants me to be a dental technician. It’s impossible.”
“Oh?” Valerie didn’t seem to understand either. “It’s not bad. Nice clean work.”
Luckily, I got a marriage proposal and they let me out. In 1968, everybody could understand a marriage proposal.
Topography of the Future
Christmas in Cambridge. The Harvard students from New York and Oregon had switched places with the Columbia and Reed students from Cambridge: vacation musical chairs.
The brother of my friend who was going to die a violent death—but we didn’t know that yet; his death was nearly two years in the future—took me to the movies, where I met my husband-to-be. Our marriage as well was two years in the future.
We
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