WHAT IS THIS THING? It's FREE and it's the tenth column in a weekly series by Spike Gillespie, underwritten by Prodigy Services Company and sent to you directly. Each week, Spike tackles one women's issue or another, and profiles a cool woman you need to know about.
WHO IS THIS SPIKE CHICK? Well, that depends if you want the electronic profile (fearless! gorgeous! strong! successful!) or the whole package description (waitress until three years ago, sometimes bitter, always single mother of that human cannonball-- the Amazing Henry, attention monger, blotchy, strong, trying to be fearless, lifetime member of Dante's Inferno: "Been there, done been burnt by that," loather of exclamation points.) Tune in weekly for self-esteem updates.
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Someone wrote me recently, asking me to expound on my suggestion that those of you unhappy with your jobs resolve to quit those jobs in '96. Seeing as I've quit about four score jobs in my life, I feel overqualified to respond to that, to convince you once and for all that if you don't like what you're doing, you need to stop doing it. First, a look at my job history, which begins seventeen years ago, in a musty basement in South Jersey. There, I worked for a big guy named Pete, who ran a business out of his home called Lawn Doctor. I randomly phoned folks trying to eat supper, and offered them a FREE lawn evaluation. For every "yes," I got a dime commission on top of the paltry sum they paid me. Not only that, but Joe, the Lawn Intern, was particularly easy on the eyes and-- despite his youthfulness-- his five o'clock shadow hinted at a man wise beyond his years. I could hardly believe I was earning money to sit and fantasize about rolling across a perfectly manicured lawn with a fella like this. I took early retirement, at the age of sixteen, leaving the Lawn Hospital for, most often, the world of food service. You name it-- German, Italian, American, Mexican-- I've been around the world in a bevy of attractive polyester UNIFORMS WITH THEMES. French Fry Frauline of the Golden Arches was surely the worst. There, I was trained to respond to a buzzer by lifting a basket of fries from the fat vat, shaking it, and resubmerging it. Months after that job ended, I was still responding to my buzzing alarm clock by rolling over, shaking it, setting it down, and going back to sleep. In addition to feeding the masses, I performed countless other tasks, many of them grueling, most often in exchange for minimum wage. I sold shoes at Macy's. I was a live-in nanny/housekeeper for the sickest family I ever met in my life, a chambermaid (now there's a real nice job title), an English tutor, a term paper writer, and a home health care worker for a sweet but fussy old lady who loved to listen to Rush Limbaugh (and insisted I join her). I had a deli job that not only called for me to daily slice at least 3,000 pounds of boiled ham (very thin, thank you) but also required that I wear pantyhose. When I protested that my male cohorts got to go hose-free, my manager cryptically responded, "The bible says women should always walk behind men." (I walked behind him as he walked away, then I walked out the door, mid-shift.) Laughter got me through a lot of those jobs. Mostly laughter of the self-deprecating variety. But once I finally escaped underemployment, once I started to acknowledge what I am capable of, I stopped laughing. Going online only opened my eyes more. I have met, on the Net, some very smart, very strong women who tell me again and again that women are behind in a lot of places (like the Net, for instance) because we are taught not to want. We are taught to settle for. This doesn't apply strictly to women, of course. I live in the city where the movie Slacker was made, and believe me, there are plenty of underemployed, broke folks of both genders here. But in my case, specifically, I have to think the reason I stayed so poor and so discontent with work for so long has very much to do with the fact I am a woman. I was always a smart kid (how do I know? Easy, because I often heard: "Young lady, for someone who's supposed to be so smart, you're acting awfully dumb."). And while I had some teachers, to whom I am forever indebted, who nurtured my intelligence, far too many others punished me for being advanced. They isolated me, put me in independent study, failed to challenge me. My high school counselor, whom I shall take the pleasure of naming here, Bill Blair, was also the coach of the boys' basketball team. Despite my outstanding acheivements in and out of the classroom, Bill-- who spent a great deal of time seducing the student gym teacher from the local college (he eventually married her-- High Five, Bill)-- told me my parents' had no money, that my only option was state school and a teaching degree. (Despite the fact he was finding ways for his often-academically-challenged ball players to get scholarships, he never stopped to mention that idea to me.) Toss into this mix that I came from a family where college was not ever considered a noble goal. Now add my father's insistence that I skip college, learn secretarial skills, and find a husband. Finally, for fun, think real hard and tell me if you know any men who were told, "Forget about a good career, just find yourself a good wife..." Somehow, I figured it out along the way. I got myself to college, and I got myself a degree-- in English. Unfortunately, in the four year process, I also got hooked on and remained in, long after receiving my diploma, the field of waitressing. The money was okay and the hours were flexible. For a long time, I thought I was really pulling off something clever by avoiding some 9-5 gig. I never really considered other options in between the two. Exactly how I pulled out of waitressing, which threatened with each passing year to find me eighty and working in a truckstop, is a topic that merits its own space in the future. Briefly, I will say this: I was growing increasingly more miserable with my life, I was drinking more and more to take the edge off after a shift, my brain was turning to mush, and most of all, I ached to do something with my writing. But I was so afraid. I knew, from my feminist readings, that my fear was wrong. But for the longest time, I couldn't escape it. Then something snapped and I walked away from it. I suffered deep, deep financial setbacks, and dang near wrecked my credit setting up as a freelance writer. But I did it. There were times a part-time waitressing jobs would have made my life much less nervewracking. But once I looked back and saw what damage I'd done to my life in the name of avoiding my passion, I could do nothing but pursue my passion, to try to make up for lost time. I hear women complaining about the glass ceiling and they are right to do so. But I feel even worse for the greater number of women who, like me, made full cranial contact with the linoleoum ceiling. I eventually found a crack in the vinyl floor and broke through. But there are far too many women who will never pursue a calling of passion because the safety of settling seems so much easier to deal with than the fear of failing. I have two friends who have different takes on this. Molly is in her thirties, has two kids in school full-time, and works a part-time job. Her husband earns an excellent income, which has afforded them a fabulous house. Molly swears she doesn't mind that part of her duties include keeping the place clean at all times. Another thing she does though, is offer bitter sentiments that she never got to go to college fulltime, that she wishes she had a degree. I say, Molly, you're young, you're rich, you're white, and you have free time on your hands. GO TO COLLEGE NOW. I try to explain what I learned from the poet/writer Adrienne Rich who said, when asked how she managed to be a single mom and accomplish so very much, that she never cleaned. Molly always says she can't pursue college, not yet, not until she finds a curriculum that she and her husband agree will lead to a profitable career. This incenses me, and I always say so, adding she should take Shakespeare or dance or chemistry or whatever moves her. But I have yet to help her dismantle what I feel certain is the fear that holds her back. Bern, on the other hand, called me one night to tell me to turn on PBS to watch Claudia Shears' one-woman show, Blown Sideways Through Life (a book version is available). Shears' details all of her horrible jobs, all of her gleaned knowledge, all of the fantasies she held while performinng, among other jobs, answering the phones in a whore house. It is a poignant piece, fortified by the revelation that Shears obviously broke away from the mundane and pathetic and went on to follow her dream of acting. Shears is also wildly inspiring-- case in point, Bern. The day after the show aired, Bern called me. She had gone, as usual, to her waitressing shift at the restaurant we both used to work in. She looked around, she started shaking, she couldn't get the Shears' play out of her head. An astute customer, after a brief inquiry, put it all together and wrote Bern a note: Dear Manager, Please excuse Bern. She just can't work today. And then she walked out. She eventually walked back in to finish out two weeks' final notice-- because that's the kind of person she is. But it's been months now since she quit to pursue writing and illustrating. Like me, her finances are shaky. Like me, there's not a chance she's going back to slinging hash. She is going to make it in her chosen field, based not only on talent but on determination. As Bern says, "I don't want to say one day to my grandkids, 'You know, when I was young, I used to draw. But not anymore..." We still shake our heads, on those occasions we have time for coffee together, at the thought of how many years we worked so hard for the tiny rewards of foodservice. Which is why I sometimes get carried away pointing out that I am a writer. I have received more than one letter telling me that real writers should never say, "I'm a writer." They say I should write and that should be proof enough. I'm sorry if it gets irritating, but bear in mind this: I'm like a little kid who just learned the color blue and has to point it out to everyone. I forgive myself for perhaps mentioning my job too often, because right now it's so new that I am overwhelmed and have to repeat it over and over for fear it will disappear and I''ll wake up dressed in a burnt sienna mini skirt serving trendy martinis to young professionals whom I could probably intellectually wrestle to the ground. It doesn't surprise me that most of the letters criticizing my declarations of writerhood are from men. A lot of men are insulated from what women go through to have a shred of the level of self-esteem that often seems a birthright to those toting testosterone. This past week, Barbara Jordan died here in Austin, where she taught a political ethics course at the LBJ school at the University of Texas. For those of you unfamiliar, Jordan was an amazing speaker, politician, and all around inspiration. She was the woman who gave Nixon hell in an impeachment speech. She grew up a black woman in the Jim Crow south. She was confined to a wheelchair due to multiple sclerosis. And more recently, she suffered lukemia. None of these things ever stopped her. Perhaps they even spurred her on. In the extensive obituaries that ran here, I most appreciated this anecdote: In high school, a black woman judge spoke to Jordan's class. Inspired, Jordan decided to go to law school. Her father told her no, she would be a teacher. An argument ensued. Barbara Jordan won. Then, she went on to pursue a career she loved. And she succeeded, I'm certain, beyond anyone's hopes for her (except perhaps her own.) It's hard for me to imagine many people with more to overcome than Barbara Jordan had to overcome. In her memory, may I strongly suggest that whatever it is you REALLY want to be doing, you start doing right now. And when it gets rough, just think of Bern and me. We'll be raising our coffee mugs in a toast to you.
Laurie Kretchmar Managing editor of Women's Wire (http://women.com), a hip and intelligent interactive magazine
DESCRIBE YOUR JOB: I assign, edit and produce content with a team of editors, freelance writers and web people. We currently feature daily headlines, health news, advice galore from biz shrink to drill sgt. to sexpert and others, a backtalk area where we ask a hot question of the week (we've asked about everything from Barbie to Bosnia, and that's just the B's), profiles about top execs like Geraldine Laybourne, who built Nickelodeon into a major force for kids' TV, and entrepreneurs like designer Nicole Miller; a ton of links to other web sites and more. The goal is to inform and amuse. And that's what people tell us they like -- that we're both useful and entertaining, not just one or the other.
WHAT DO YOU DO OFFLINE? Go to movies, Rollerblade, think about the web, make myself jog.
HOW DID YOU GET STARTED? Women's Wire, which is based in the San Francisco Bay Area, recruited me from Working Woman magazine in NYC where I was an editor. Before that I was a reporter at Fortune and a freelancer for the Wall Street Journal (highlight: I wrote several "orphans" -- those offbeat features that run in the lower lefthand corner of the second section). I've also worked at daily and weekly newspapers and dabbled in radio and TV. The web is by far the most exciting and addicting medium I've worked in.
WHAT'S THE HARDEST PART? As anyone who works on the web knows, you're in a constant state of revision and refinement. Since the product of your efforts doesn't just "air" at a certain time like a TV show or get zapped by satellite to a printing press at regular intervals, you're never really finished; you can always try to make it better. It's what the Japanese call "kaizen," constant improvement. (I learned that term when I covered the NUMMI auto plant, the joint venture between GM/Toyota. It makes for good cars. I think it makes for good web sites, too;-)).
WHO IS THE TARGET DEMOGRAPHIC? Young-minded women -- and men, too (if they're cool). Wired (January 1996 issue) described our web site as "one to bookmark, regardless of your sex" and we agree! People with a sense of humor and an appreciation for cheeky, substantive information, whether it's about fashion (yes, fashion, check out "fashion plate," our style expert, she's hilarious) or how to pursue a hot career.
WHAT KIND OF RESPONSE ARE YOU GETTING? We launched Aug. 1 and we were soon getting 1.5 million hits a month. So far, in 1996, traffic is even higher, and we expect it will grow as more people hear about us.
PREDICTIONS FOR WOMEN AND THE INTERNET? It will take women to turn new media into a mass media. We're a great influence. Think about it: A lot of us are demanding, we don't have time to waste, we want things to be accessible and easy to navigate, we want friendly, not snotty service, and these are all attributes that will make the Internet far more successful as a medium. Surveys vary in how many women are online; some say 35%, but whatever the exact figure, we like to point out that it's going in the right direction -- up. (To help boost the numbers and spread the joy of email, ask yourself -- is your mom online? your sis? your best friend? If not, encourage them to give it a whirl and see for themselves what all the hype is about).
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