“Miss” is back, ready to serve up a juicy tart of academic hijinks, scandals, and misadventures…with a whipped topping of political intrigue, hackery and hypocrisy.
Get out your knives and forks and dig in!
…if you can't say something nice about higher education, say it here…
One of the perks of working for a college president is that occasionally you get to rub shoulders with the rich and famous. I, for example, once attended a Rose Garden swearing-in ceremony and met President Clinton, Senator Daniel Patrick Moynahan and General Colin Powell. It was thrilling. Another time I sat inches away from Stevie Wonder as he belted out his greatest hits to a private audience of 100 or so. It was a toe-tapping good time.
Of course, such moments happen but once in a great while, and a lot of mundane stuff fills the in-between times. If you have the good luck, or misfortune, to serve as the president’s executive assistant, in addition to the mundane you perform a dizzying variety of “other duties as assigned.” This can mean picking up presidential offspring at daycare, folding laundry, and taking trips to the car wash–all tasks assorted EA’s, all of the PhD’s, tell me they have undertaken.
Being an executive assistant does not require a doctoral degree (although it might help), but it does demand that the amanuensis have a high degree of stamina. The president I worked for once asked me to leap out of his car at a tollbooth on the New Jersey Turnpike in order to retrieve his briefcase from the trunk, an act for which foolhardiness, or a death wish, as opposed to stamina, was requisite, I suppose. One executive assistant I knew managed to combine foolhardiness with stamina in pursuit of her extra duties. She and the president’s spouse took two-hour liquid lunch breaks, imbibing various spirits to fuel their gossip about college employees. As you can imagine, this career move earned the EA great respect from her colleagues. And a big raise from her boss. Go figure.
These days former Executive Assistant to the President Pamela Reid, late in service to retiring Mills College President Janet Holmgren, has a lot of time on her hands to figure out how she lost her job. Poor Pamela. One hot August day last summer her career in higher education went to the dogs. Specifically, to President Holmgren’s dogs, a pack that included Chihuahua-terrier mix Holly. Holly sank her dainty fangs into a toothsome bit of Pam’s left ankle as the EA was attempting to ready the president’s house for a fund-raising event. California law makes no bones about it: victims of snack-happy canines are to report the bite to animal control; Pamela did and that’s when things turned vicious.
According to her wrongful-termination suit, filed in Alameda County Court, after she reported the injury, Ms. Reid soon went from top dog on the president’s staff to permanently ensconced resident in the dog house. Says Ms. Reid, “I got nasty-grams.” The torment continued for five months, until Ms. Reid was “laid-off.”
You know as well as I that at age 62, Pamela Reid will have a hard time finding a new job. In today’s market, not many employers will give an old dog even the opportunity to learn new tricks, so it’ll probably be a long time before Pam lands a new position, a dog’s age I would estimate. Her suit may be “meritless,” as the college of course claims, but I can understand her dogged pursuit for justice. She should know, though, that looking for compassion from a college president is really, really barking up the wrong tree.
I could retell the story of Associate Professor Lisa Chavez, the English Department’s resident dominatrix at the University of New Mexico. It’s the tale of a poor creative writing teacher who, post-divorce, turns to phone sex to raise quick cash for the mortgage payment. Phone sex soon turns to sadomasochistic photo shoots with lowly graduate students.
The story reaches its crisis when the departmental chair discovers how Professor Chavez aka Mistress Jade, “a stern teacher ready to punish unruly students,” has been supplementing her niggardly salary. When confronted with her unseemly behavior, the professor/mistress had a ready defense: DISCRIMINATION! You are discriminating against me because I am Hispanic! Because I am bixsexual!
But if I told you this story, you might think I was embellishing a boring and predictable tale of intra-departmental warfare of the kind English Departments everywhere have made their signature strife. So I am urging you to go to the source and read Chronicle yourself. You won’t be sorry you did.
In June I wrote a post about Alexander Kemos, who faked his resume, landed a highly remunerative job at Texas A&M, rose quickly to an even more remunerative position, cozied up to the university president, got caught in his lies and was sent packing.
Now comes word that another senior official at A&M has lost his lucrative perch on the administrative ladder, although this time the malfeasance seems to be institutional rather than personal. Or maybe it is personal, because Robert Hash was relieved of his duties as vice dean of the medical school—and demoted to an untenured faculty position—because “he had personality differences with other administrators,” according to A&M mouthpiece/general counsel Andrew Strong.
Of course, if you ask ex-Dean Hash you get another story, one of ethics violations, real estate chicanery, sweetheart deals, and institutional retaliation for whistle-blowing. You can read all about it in the Austin, Texas statesman.com, then decide for yourself if “personality differences” constitutes a demote-able offense. You might even be moved to ask yourself if, in academic workplaces, “personality differences” play a role in getting the brass ring, tenure, the job for life. Or you can simply enjoy the farce of a lawyer saying something supremely stupid.
I am interested in this all-too-familiar tale because of its similarities to what happened recently at Washburn University. There is a key difference between the two sagas, however, one well worth a few moments’ contemplation. The Washburn whistleblowers, women, were fired outright; ex-Dean Hash, a man, was demoted. For those of you out there who like to think of colleges and universities as bastions of all things enlightened, wake up and smell the sexism. When something ugly happens on a campus, you can bet the farm that punishment will be meted out along gender lines reminiscent of those found in Sharia law.
A long-time colleague of mine, a woman I respect as highly for her professional expertise as I do for her warmth and compassion, was recently given her walking papers at a small liberal arts college located in Collegetown USA. Her “supervisor”—a faculty member put in charge of my colleague’s non-academic division—let her go after subjecting her to a year of petty humiliations.
Since this scenario—a new male boss enters the picture and it’s bye-bye women of a certain age—has been replayed ad nauseum in the last few years at Liberal Arts College USA, my former colleague was not surprised by her dismissal. She, like every other member of the staff and administration, served at the pleasure of the trustees, so unemployment lurks around every corner ready to getcha at a moment’s notice.
But what, you might wonder, had this particular administrator done to incur the trustees’ displeasure? According to her boss, she was “not in alignment” with her fellow administrators. Keep in mind that this is a liberal arts institution, not a school of chiropractic, so her “alignment,” or lack thereof, should not have been an issue at all. But, just like a personality difference, a difference of alignment can be fatal when the stakes are every man for himself.
And that’s pretty much how it is these days at LAC USA: every man for himself. Women are useful so long as their alignments conform to the patriarchy’s specifications, but female administrators are about as welcome on campus as full-need students with C- averages and no claims to victimhood. As a former administrator and a woman still, I scratch my head over how so sorry a situation has come to pass.
Actually, I don’t. I know exactly why it happened. When former Massachusetts Governor Michael Dukakis ran for president, he evoked what he called an old Greek proverb to describe the Reagan-Bush administration. Fish, the governor said, rot from the head first. Not a pretty image, but a compelling one and applicable today at LCA USA.
The college has been adrift for five years now, when a new president arrived and promptly announced that he had been hired to “clean up the mistakes of the past.” And to his credit, that is what he did. Noticing that the president had to use the same toilet as the rest of the male administrators on his floor, he acted decisively: the very first bricks-and-mortar project he “tasked” the buildings and grounds department with was the installation of a bathroom, complete with shower, for his personal use. After that, construction and renovation pretty much stalled on campus, but one terrible sin of the past had been redressed. The next wrong the president righted was to cut down on the amount of driving that he did. This was not so much a go-green gesture as it was long-overdue recognition that it was absurd to expect a college president would not have a car and driver at his disposal.
Having addressed his two most pressing priorities first, the president then turned to the meat-and-potatoes of college life, the mission and future of the campus. He penned a think-piece intended to stimulate the faculty and the board to begin strategic planning for the years ahead. The LCA USA, he wrote, needs to “reinvent liberal arts education,” “educate students for a global economy,” “find away to become sustainable.” Are you yawning yet? This tattered list of been-there, done-that shibboleths has floated around every college campus for decades—the only difference being some of those colleges years ago turned their rhetoric into action.
But the president’s approach to planning was two-pronged. For the board he wrote an annual retrospective chronicling his achievements of the past year and his goals for the coming academic year, thus guaranteeing that LCA USA would have an event horizon no further out than the president’s next evaluation and compensation review.
Such an iteration of incremental enhancements year-to-year can accrete to overall improvements in the college. The substitution of short-term projects for long-term aspirations and directions is worse than no planning at all, however, for it presents a convincing illusion that the long-term interests of the college are being served. Here we are five years later still waiting for a strategic planning process to begin.
In the interim, though, the president has continued his bold correction of the “mistakes of the past”: nary a woman in charge of, well, anything on campus five years ago is still present and accounted for on payday. My colleague is simply the most recent in a long line of female former LCA employees joining the queue at the unemployment office. Men who didn’t measure up were given different titles and new offices.
But let’s hold our noses and revisit Governor Dukakis’s decaying flounder. The president also worked his mojo on the LCA USA board of trustees, once a national model of diversity with a heady mix of men and women, blacks and whites, young and old. As a trustee retired (or resigned), chances are if he were a man he was replaced by a man and if she were a woman she was replaced by a man. The president convinced the board that it needed a shake-up, so a game of musical chairs began whereby the heads of various committees were replaced. When the music stopped and the chairs were filled, guess what? With one lone exception, all of the women who had led committees had been relieved of their duties so that a man could take their place. They don’t call them “chairmen” for nothing, after all, and with the men back where they belong—in charge—the president could finally say his board was in alignment with the as-yet unspecified and unplanned-for future goals of the college. Oh, happy day.

The president and his dream team study the campus map to root out the last of the female administrators. (Scene recreated using actors.)
My colleague should wear her premature retirement as a badge of honor. She has joined the ranks of some impressive professionals. More than their ouster, these women share something else: all held non-faculty positions. Their commitment to the college, their contributions, their wisdom all counted for naught, and there was no safety net of tenure to protect them from the caprices of a misogynist president.
And all the while, the faculty stands by and enjoys the show. So sad. By their failure to act, the faculty will get the administrators they deserve. And then it really will be too late.
I wish Supreme Court Justice-nominee Elena Kagan all the best, just as I do any woman being considered for a tough, important job. I even feel a passing kind of kinship with her, perhaps because she is from New England and the academy and she’s unmarried. Full disclosure: I’m pudgy, too.
But you know what? I also know if I met her, I wouldn’t like her. Because she represents the very worst of academic-lefty do-as-I-say, not-as-I-do kind of double standard. It’s OK for Miss Kagan to keep the details of her private life out of the limelight. Fine. Great. Personally I think she probably doesn’t have time to have much of a private life. But it’s not OK, then, for her to have banned ROTC recruiting from Harvard Law School, when she was dean, because of the persistence of “don’t ask, don’t tell,” President Clinton’s brilliant, Solomonesque solution to keeping homosexuals in the armed services.
Miss Kagan can keep her mouth shut to land the job of her dreams, but she does not accord G.I. Joe or Swabby Sue the same privilege. Score one for the hypocrites.
“Don’t ask, don’t tell” is one of the precious few policies of President Clinton that I respect. Indeed, my respect for the policy, and the president’s wisdom in promulgating it, has only deepened. Here’s why: “don’t ask, don’t tell” actually preserves the recruits’privacy, in exactly the same way that Miss Kagan has so carefully preserved hers.
In practical terms, what I believe this policy acknowledges–and this is why it is so brilliant–is how we behave in groups and as individuals. Imagine a barracks’full of green recruits. Some from the inner city, some from the rust belt, some off the farm. Their degrees of sophistication and of exposure to a world wider than ten city blocks or the north forty are as varied as their skin tones. What’s job one with this untested mass of muscle and testosterone? Assessing then building individual fitness, physically, mentally, and, in the sense of group cohesiveness, socially. Job one point two? Cementing that group cohesiveness, so that this company of men can, in times of duress, think and act as one. These early days of making a fighting force out of young and ignorant strangers are really hard: why make them more difficult by introducing the exotic element that even unto today homosexuality represents? Let group-think prevail, until the group is forged and the individual bonds of its member are strong. At that point, “don’t ask, don’t tell” ceases to matter, because that gay guy over there has become your point man, and you’ve learned he’s a tough fighter and a good poker player. You’ve learned something about diversity that I assure you no college kid attending LGBTQ workshops would recognize if he/she/te fell over it.
Don’t ask. Don’t tell. Don’t change the policy. Do call Elena Kagan on her hypocrisy.
On a different subject entirely: Yes. As a single straight woman of a certain age, it annoys the heck out of me that it’s a common assumption that spinsters are lesbians. Yes. Elena Kagan is entitled to her privacy. But not at the expense of her intellectual honesty.
The most interesting end-of-the-week-dump-of-the-news-you-want-buried was the Friday afternoon announcement by the White House that social secretary Desiree Rogers would be leaving her post:
“It has nothing to do with being glamorous — that is all make-believe in the eyes of the press,” she said in a telephone interview. “I’ve always dressed this way. This is who I am.”
Like the First Lady, Rogers has some pretty fabulous threads, and her sense of style is definitely more hit than miss. But nevertheless, I find her comment, “I’ve always dressed this way. This is who I am” much more than disingenuous. It’s not that I don’t believe her. I do. I’m sure that her closet is full of designer duds. She can afford them, so why not?
Why not, indeed. As a private citizen Rogers can now wear whatever she wants whenever she wants. As a (soon to be former) employee of the White House, though, she had to abide by rules not of her making, difficult as that is, rules that are largely unwritten and rooted in professional decorum and common sense.
Let’s start with her job title, social secretary, and all that it implies. Unlike a cabinet-level official or a corporate capital-S Secretary, a social secretary is a small-s secretary, holding a critical and important position to be sure, but one defined by its attention to detail, its fealty to routine, and most of all its lack of original initiative. A social secretary’s job is no different in this sense from any other small-s secretary’s: make the boss look good. Anticipate problems and fix them before they happen or as soon thereafter as possible. Let the boss take credit for your work. And never, ever upstage the boss. If you do, you’ll find yourself at Union Station with a one-way ticket on the Lake Shore Limited.
Right now you are protesting: But Desiree never upstaged Mrs. Obama! They’re friends! They are friends, and Mrs. Obama’s generosity of spirit in permitting her friend-employee to grace the cover of WSJ is admirable. But as soon as the Salahis elbowed their way into last fall’s state dinner, Rogers became the center of attention, a position that is way, way out of her pay grade, as her other boss would say.
For me Rogers departure makes sense. She wanted to work at the White House, who wouldn’t? But she probably hadn’t reckoned with the crippling effects of tradition, the squeaking disapproval of her predecessors from prior administrations, or, most of all, the difficult and ultimately impossible transition from making the rules to following the rules.
A social secretary is the little wren that hovers at the perimeter of the pecking order: drab to the point of invisibility, she is at her best when nobody knows she’s there. It may be an upstairs job, but it requires a downstairs sensibility. And Rogers, who cuts a regal figure, whose familial and educational pedigrees are impeccable, and whose prior work experience is executive-level, simply does not fit that mold. That she thought she could break the mold was her hubris and her undoing.
I’m guessing that spending a year trying to be someone she so obviously is not was worth it to Rogers for the chance to be a White House insider. When forced to choose—her wardrobe or her livelihood—she didn’t drop a stitch.
A note from Callmemiss: This post, in a slightly abbreviated form, was originally a listener essay read during Morning Edition, WFCR-FM, December 24, 2004.
On Saturday, two days after Thanksgiving, one day after Black Friday and two days before Cyber Monday, I heard a Christmas carol on the car radio. Since I had spent the day on the hunt for early-bird specials and door-busting values, I was already aware that ’twas now the season.
I did not need the reminder: my thinning wallet and thickening stack of receipts were a dead giveaway. But those first cheery notes harmonized with my inner alarm bells, ringing full blast with their annual warning: Get ready! Paste on a smile! Practice looking like you care! Office holiday party ahead!
Now, don’t get me wrong. I am as sociable as the next person. And I genuinely like my colleagues. Most of them, anyway. It is the annual workplace ritual of gift exchange that starts me contemplating if not hibernation then at least early retirement.
These rituals start off innocently enough. Tins of cookies or fudge appear in the copy room, seemingly free for the taking. When complimented, the stealth baker will modestly reply: “it was nothing. I made them for my kids’teachers. These are the leftovers.” Inevitably, the hint, along with the last gingerbread man, is swallowed whole by some rookie in the relentless game of holiday merry-making. “I have a great idea,” he’ll say, “let’s bring in some little something for each other.
Plans for an office party then begin in earnest: lists are compiled, assignments are doled out, and names drawn for a “secret Santa” gift exchange. Then come the decorations: a plastic wreath here, a blow-up vinyl Rudolph there and cunning elves capering across the secretary’s desks. One year, we even had monogrammed stockings tacked to our doors, and our office was the envy of the campus. All in preparation for an afternoon orgy of high-calorie snacks and grab-bag presents.
My experience with office holiday parties and gift exchanges spans a quarter century, and I have been the bemused grabbee of gifts that range from soap-on-a-rope so old it’s wrapped in yellowed cellophane, which, along with the surfactant inside, crumbled to a fine power …to a battery operated mechanical dog that barks “Jingle Bell Rock” while shaking its booty.
Yes, yes. I know it is the thought that counts. My thought is that the only real way to survive the office holiday gift exchange is to adhere devoutly to a single, simple rule: gifts for the office must not only be cheap, they must look cheap. Nothing cuts through the faux holiday cheer and says, “forget the bonhomie, give me a cash bonus” like a hastily selected, carelessly wrapped gew-gaw–preferably purchased at the dollar store. At the very least it must have “Made in China” stamped on the bottom, or, if it is a comestible, be rapidly approaching if not past its sell-by date. If you buy something on clearance, make certain that a tell-tale portion of the red or yellow “reduced” tag is clearly visible. Better yet, recycle that little something under last year’s tree–the gimcrack you shoved in the junk drawer on Boxing Day. Best of all: re-gift what you pulled out of a prior grab. This is not only the apotheosis of apathy, if challenged you can simply look smug and declare you are celebrating a “green Christmas.” What with that global warming and all, you are seeking out every opportunity to conserve!
Colleagues of mine, and perhaps you will join them in this view, have accused me of being petty and mean-spirited. Actually, I am not. My office-party survival rule does have one important exception: it applies only to the gifts you give, not the ones you receive.
Yesterday’s on-line edition of the New York Times (http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/03/your-money/03money.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=gay%20partners&st=cse) contained a long story bleating about the “High Cost of Being A Gay Couple.” It seems, according to the Times’s calculations, that gay couples are doomed to shelling out anywhere between $40,000 and $140,000 more, over a lifetime, than married straight couples of identical fiscal circumstances. The big villains: insurers, taxes, Social Security and the costs of child-production. How tragic. How unfair. Boo-hoo.
Of course, a torrent of comments followed, virtually all of them sympathetic to gay couples who struggle with their position behind the financial eight-ball. A couple of brave souls, though, suggested that the Times run a similar analysis comparing the costs of being single to those of being coupled—gaily or straightly. While I applaud the suggestion, I doubt it’ll be followed. In the first place, there is no social agenda to be advanced in pursuing such an analysis. In the second place, it might put the economic “suffering” of couples in an unflattering light. And in our culture of victimology, it’s a fight to the finish to see who ends up at the bottom of the heap. It wouldn’t do to have the victims du jour wind up on top.
In my last post I wrote about health insurance, so I’m not going to revisit that topic here. But I would ask the Times if, when looking at work-place sponsored insurance, it considered all of the benefits to which employees—gay, straight, married, partnered, single—are entitled. Health insurance is only the beginning. Where I worked, for example, family members (defined as spouse, partner, or spawn) were entitled to use the athletic facilities and the library. For singles, there was no alternative benefit. Tuition remission was provided for children, partners, and spouses. For singles, there was no alternative benefit. An on-site facility provided subsidized day-care for the children of faculty and staff. For singles, there was no alternative benefit. These benefits were not a zero-sum-game: real institutional costs were incurred by making them available. Once again, a “family” of two or more simply has that many more hands to stick in the benefits cookie jar. While the singles are just stuck, hoping for a crumb to be tossed their way.
Next the Times should consider the costs of running a household. Heat and electricity charges are the same whether there are one, two or twenty-two people in the abode. Ditto for landscaping services. Ditto for snow removal. Ditto for property taxes: the larger the family, the better the deal here. Schools, libraries, public facilities all have heavier usage by families, and yet the single-homeowner pays exactly the same tax for demonstrably less service.
And then of course there are the costs of travel. I challenge the Times to explain how gay couples who take cruises, packaged vacations, or who simply stay in hotel rooms are worse off than their straight counterparts. Or to compare the cost of these luxuries to what a single pays for the same commodity. In the case of the hotel room, the cost is exactly the same, effectively doubling what the single is expected to cough up. In the case of the cruise or vacation, the steep “single supplement” tacked on to the published “double occupancy” fare makes it clear that singles aren’t welcome.
Then finally there is the social tax on singles, the invisible burden of being the “extra person” that no partnered gay or straight must ever shoulder. My next post takes up this levy. I hope you’ll check it out.
I’m writing Call Me “Miss”! (CMM) to take on the stereotypes and myths about single-for-life women, or SOLOs (singles over a lifetime only). I’ll use CMM to define the experience of single women in America and draw of the personal experiences of dozens of them of varied ages, professions and interests. CMM will examine the preconceived notions of proselytizers of family values, the misplaced pity of married friends and coworkers, and the self-righteous sanctimony of partnered (married or otherwise) gays. For inspiration, I look to Class, Paul Fussell’s perennially-in-print poisoned-pen valentine to American social mores. What Class did for out-of-sights and proles, I hope CMM will do for spinsters and old maids.
CMM will examine the touchstones society uses to interpret the life of a SOLO, the archetypal Dizzy Dames, Culture Vultures, Ice Princesses and Swingin’ Singles who populate literature, television, movies and the biases of most marrieds. CMM will also focus on the real lives of real Solos: the SOLO Sisters (SOLOS), a demographically diverse group of women, will share their experiences and insights throughout the text on topics as diverse as themselves—from good-luck-trying-to-buy-a-car to thank-you-but-I’ll-take-the-table-by-the-window-not-the-kitchen-door to I-get-all-the-hot-sex-I-need-on-Saint-Martin. And I’ll spill my guts as well. Full disclosure: occasionally I’ll be snarky, and at times, to be completely truthful, I’ll indulge myself in a bracing, gut-busting, soul-satisfying rant. Readers can just sit back and let it wash over them…waves of feminine pheromones telegraphing the message: “I’m independent. I’m well off. I’m not lonely. I like my life. Deal with it!”
Just as Fussell used Class as his platform to delve into the totems of social status, I’ll use my quirky world view to shed light on the unique accoutrements that SOLOs are believed to possess: the cloak of invisibility, the calendar of perpetually free time, for example, and share with you the pecking order that couples and partners use to establish the hierarchy of SOLOs:
CMM will venture into the work place, the market place, vacation destinations, and home. We’ll do reconnaissance in the most impenetrable suburbs, where real estate signs still proudly advertise, “no singles need apply,” and the denizens would no more have a dinner party or a card game with an “extra woman,” than they would mix up martinis in which guests could actually taste the vermouth. It is in these venues that the life of a SOLO stands in stark contrast to those that surround her. You might be surprised—and maybe even a little abashed—to visit these places and see them through SOLO eyes. You’ll definitely never look at them the same way again!
In the nearly fifty years since Helen Gurly Brown coined her memorable phrase, the sex life of a SOLO has changed—for the better, no question. But with the good comes the bad and the outrageous, as you’ll read in my reports from the world of post-adolescent dating. Together we’ll de-brief them. And believe me, there is nothing that gets a SOLO really fired up as a good de-briefing!
CMM will also review the honor role on contemporary and historical SOLOs of note. The list—from Elizabeth I to Condoleezza Rice and Janet Neapolitano—is empowering and inspiring. We’ll look for clues to discover whether, like many SOLOs, these women simply forgot to get married in the course of their impressive lives, or if there is some one fundamental element of singlehood that characterizes such women of accomplishment.
Perhaps the darkest topic I’ll take on in CMM is the negative fallout from school shootings, fast-food firefights, and lone-gunman hostage situations. We sit by our TVs or radios, and once again are forced to listen to a “grief counselor” sagely opine that “he was a loner” or “he kept to himself” or “he like to read instead of play with the other kids” as the explanation for criminal, for insane, for deadly behaviors. We take cold comfort in the fact that the perp is inevitably a he and not a she. Indeed, the loner-as-crazed-killer paradigm has so infiltrated popular culture that all singles—crazed or otherwise—can’t help but wonder if it’s true. Or if that Uzi under the bed really is there just for protection. Of the many stereotypes applied to singles, this is the most vicious and insidious. We’ll take apart and lay it to rest.
I am eager to begin this journey. I hope you’ll come alone. I mean “along.”