You know, I worked with some very fine women during the glass ceiling years at the paper where I spent 20 years. The writer’s conference I go to is coming up in about three weeks and this is hot. My fingers are tingling to tell the stories of what went on for women during my 20 year tenure at an American newspaper.
For Jill Abramson and my former colleagues.
Abramson was a Radcliffe girl. I was remembering how I saw Ali McGraw in Love Story in my very young teens. After I saw that portrait, I knew I wanted to be a college girl just like her. I even had the plaid midi and opaque Danskins.
Abramson was fired just before Benghazi is about to break. Funny thing, that.
I can’t stand the NYT or that little bastard Stinkburger. Not after what they pulled on me. So you will get that, as Abramson taught in “Harlan Ellison Boots.”
This is what I said earlier. And I meant it.
“ABOVE THE FOLD” Valley of the Newspaper Dolls. Newspaper Death Watch a story made for all the Jills and the Marcias and the Cissys and the Jennys and well, just about all the women I worked with during the age of Second Wave Feminism as it hit the desks in what was left of the shoulder pads circa 1981. For those Radcliffe girls and the UC system girls that didn’t sleep their way to the top, but worked, disguised, their sexuality not showing to prove they were equal, that they needed equal pay. Women who were told that they should never learn to type because they’d end up secretaries. Women who had to “work it” because they had a kid to raise, women that got the coffee for some fat assed IT fool in charge of the electronic spine that would engulf whole rooms like a dark evil whip. Women whose keystrokes were monitored in the typing pools. Women in minis like little flowery tutus, their tits falling out while the men stood gasping. This is for you.