Gina M.
The last time things seemed as horrible as they do now to me was 1991, when Bush Sr. started the Gulf War. I'd just finished a year of working at America's Funniest Home Videos but was not returning to production after the hiatus. I believe my final AFHV responsibility was to call one of the producers a "big, fat pig." In retrospect, it was probably not the most eloquent departure but fully deserved, and if this entry was about that, you'd understand why.
But it's not.
Back to 1991 - what a challenging year. I couldn't find work anywhere. Amazing how stressed out I became about it when I think how now, comparatively speaking, much more is at stake for me personally and fiscally. I was living in Los Feliz and having to accept temp jobs all over the city of Los Angeles. That's a huge area to cover, and after twenty-two temp jobs in 1991, I was very ready to accept any permanent position offered to me.
One day while working in downtown L.A. at yet another menial and boring temp job (I was part of a team relabeling an entire law firm's files and implementing a new filing system), I bumped into an old friend who directed me to another firm. Apparently there was an open, "permanent" position available. I rushed over.
I somehow rose to the surface from the multitude of applicants and landed the spectacular job of message desk receptionist. In one year, I had gone from having my name broadcast in the credits for AFHV and earning a healthy salary to taking messages for close to minimum wage on a dark, subfloor of a law firm. I was happy to have a new job but fairly down in the dumps.
Sharing the responsibilities at the desk was a young African-American woman named Gina. Gina was full figured and full of life, usually dressed in a blouse tucked into a short skirt, with strapped sandals with stiletto heels . A wide, radiant smile and a healthy sense of humor. Her streetwise commentary on the firm and its lawyers was endlessly entertaining and she quickly became a pleasure to spend time with. I really enjoyed working with her. We sat next to each other, answering phones and taking messages, responding to simple requests and gossiping about firm politics. Gina had been on the message desk for too long. She had aspirations of becoming a legal secretary or perhaps even a paralegal. She was very savvy and quick, and I had no doubt that soon she would move up the ranks and I would be training the next new message clerk.
We fell into the rhythm of our work world and I enjoyed the stability of my new job. I had a steady stream of income again (though not really enough) and managed to stay positive although inside I was in turmoil about whether or not my life really had any clear direction. I felt adrift amid the soaring downtown skyscrapers, a ghost of a young man who seemed to have missed the point. I took full responsibility for my condition and spent my lunchtimes relaxing in the sun, reading books and enjoying the relief in knowing that I was not necessarily someone on his way to the top. I decided to make the best of it and do whatever I was handed as well as I could. Taking messages was by no account my dream job but with a healthy shrug, I dove into learning about the legal world.
After four months, I began to be approached by management. Would I mind filling in for a secretary on vacation? Would I be interested in finishing up a special project for an attorney? Could I be borrowed from the message desk to help out in word processing? I said yes to it all. I was hungry for knowledge and focused on availing myself to the free learning being offered to me.
The problem was, Gina was being continually overlooked for these other projects. In addition to that, something was horribly strange at the message desk. After the first few months, I had begun to detect a mysterious and foul odor.
Gina began to aggressively express dismay over my receiving these special assignments. She felt it was unfair as she had served the firm longer than I and was therefore logically in line next to graduate from the message dungeon. I totally agreed with her and let her know it. Gina had become very difficult and vocal in the fourth month, lashing out verbally at attorneys and blaming me for her problems. She made it clear that our situation was yet another example of racism - I was a young, white male and it was clear to her to whom the firm's loyalty fell. As her resentment grew, she became louder and more vulgar. For example, Gina would often recount her time in the military at full volume in our reception area, telling me about her ability to get in full make-up and uniform in two minutes. The key, she stated, was to learn how to shower and only address the "hot spots" on her body. Anyone passing by or sitting in the lobby became uncomfortable and she made no effort to change.
Soon, management began to pull her aside and recount the complaints they had received. They also began to pull me aside and ask me questions, too. I always defended Gina and began refusing special assignments insisting they ask her, first. The firm's human resources supervisor informed me that they had been having trouble with Gina before my employment. It was clear that they would continue to utilize me for other work, and not Gina. I became trapped in the middle between this young woman who believed she was the victim of racism and my need to take care of myself as my refusal to accept new assignments began to place my job in jeopardy. And of course, Gina came to believe that I was the root of all of her problems. In her own words, she had confided and trusted a white devil and I had used it to my advantage, which in her mind was what white people were about. Nothing I could say could convince her otherwise and her hatred of me grew exponentially everyday we spent together at the desk. The days of laughing and talking together were over - we sat in silence, two feet from one another, 40 hours per week for at least two weeks, enveloped in an unidentifiable stench. I was beginning to long for unemployment.
Then finally, one day, the most awkward question of all: management wanted to know if I knew the origin of the odor emanating from the message desk. I was taken aback that it had been noticed but I should have realized it had become extremely noticeable. I explained that for the last month, I had been cleaning out cupboards, wiping the countertops and searching for the source. I told them I didn't know.
The next week, on Monday, Gina called in sick. I was finally alone at the message desk. There were two chairs at the desk, the chair I always sat upon, and Gina's. This day, I idly sat down in her chair to grab the phone. That's when I noticed it. The smell was coming from her seat. I couldn't figure out what it was, but I felt sorry for her. Had she been too upset to ask for a new chair? Had she been suffering and not knowing what to say? I wasn't sure, so I shoved the chair into a closet and shut the door. It was wonderful to work a day at the desk free from the smell. If she wouldn't ask for a new seat for herself, I would ask for her - but I would tell her first when she returned.
On Tuesday, Gina stomped into the lobby. When she entered, she immediately shot a dagger-like look at me and asked what in the hell had I done with her chair. I explained that I had discovered the source of the odor everyone had been commenting upon and that I would assist her in requesting a new seat. Gina belly-laughed and pulled the chair out of the closet. She sat down in full view of the lobby and explained that sometimes, if she forgot her feminine supplies, she would simply just pull up her skirt and use the chair. She then demonstrated her technique. Gina showed me this as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I could not disguise the appalled look on my face. What neither of us knew was that the message desk had been under surveillance for months. There was a small, closed-circuit camera hidden in the ceiling of the lobby. The chair, and Gina, were quickly replaced.
Gina never spoke to me again. I was given a position on another floor and began my steady climb up, ultimately becoming a corporate paralegal some years later. I only saw Gina one last time - walking on one of the raised foot bridges of downtown Los Angeles. I meekly smiled at her and she looked right through me. It was obvious that I would always be the white devil who cost the African-American the job and her losing the job would never, in her mind, have anything to do her habits or attitude. It was painful to be cast in this role and this experience has remained an awkward and delicate memory for me.
But it's not.
Back to 1991 - what a challenging year. I couldn't find work anywhere. Amazing how stressed out I became about it when I think how now, comparatively speaking, much more is at stake for me personally and fiscally. I was living in Los Feliz and having to accept temp jobs all over the city of Los Angeles. That's a huge area to cover, and after twenty-two temp jobs in 1991, I was very ready to accept any permanent position offered to me.
One day while working in downtown L.A. at yet another menial and boring temp job (I was part of a team relabeling an entire law firm's files and implementing a new filing system), I bumped into an old friend who directed me to another firm. Apparently there was an open, "permanent" position available. I rushed over.
I somehow rose to the surface from the multitude of applicants and landed the spectacular job of message desk receptionist. In one year, I had gone from having my name broadcast in the credits for AFHV and earning a healthy salary to taking messages for close to minimum wage on a dark, subfloor of a law firm. I was happy to have a new job but fairly down in the dumps.
Sharing the responsibilities at the desk was a young African-American woman named Gina. Gina was full figured and full of life, usually dressed in a blouse tucked into a short skirt, with strapped sandals with stiletto heels . A wide, radiant smile and a healthy sense of humor. Her streetwise commentary on the firm and its lawyers was endlessly entertaining and she quickly became a pleasure to spend time with. I really enjoyed working with her. We sat next to each other, answering phones and taking messages, responding to simple requests and gossiping about firm politics. Gina had been on the message desk for too long. She had aspirations of becoming a legal secretary or perhaps even a paralegal. She was very savvy and quick, and I had no doubt that soon she would move up the ranks and I would be training the next new message clerk.
We fell into the rhythm of our work world and I enjoyed the stability of my new job. I had a steady stream of income again (though not really enough) and managed to stay positive although inside I was in turmoil about whether or not my life really had any clear direction. I felt adrift amid the soaring downtown skyscrapers, a ghost of a young man who seemed to have missed the point. I took full responsibility for my condition and spent my lunchtimes relaxing in the sun, reading books and enjoying the relief in knowing that I was not necessarily someone on his way to the top. I decided to make the best of it and do whatever I was handed as well as I could. Taking messages was by no account my dream job but with a healthy shrug, I dove into learning about the legal world.
After four months, I began to be approached by management. Would I mind filling in for a secretary on vacation? Would I be interested in finishing up a special project for an attorney? Could I be borrowed from the message desk to help out in word processing? I said yes to it all. I was hungry for knowledge and focused on availing myself to the free learning being offered to me.
The problem was, Gina was being continually overlooked for these other projects. In addition to that, something was horribly strange at the message desk. After the first few months, I had begun to detect a mysterious and foul odor.
Gina began to aggressively express dismay over my receiving these special assignments. She felt it was unfair as she had served the firm longer than I and was therefore logically in line next to graduate from the message dungeon. I totally agreed with her and let her know it. Gina had become very difficult and vocal in the fourth month, lashing out verbally at attorneys and blaming me for her problems. She made it clear that our situation was yet another example of racism - I was a young, white male and it was clear to her to whom the firm's loyalty fell. As her resentment grew, she became louder and more vulgar. For example, Gina would often recount her time in the military at full volume in our reception area, telling me about her ability to get in full make-up and uniform in two minutes. The key, she stated, was to learn how to shower and only address the "hot spots" on her body. Anyone passing by or sitting in the lobby became uncomfortable and she made no effort to change.
Soon, management began to pull her aside and recount the complaints they had received. They also began to pull me aside and ask me questions, too. I always defended Gina and began refusing special assignments insisting they ask her, first. The firm's human resources supervisor informed me that they had been having trouble with Gina before my employment. It was clear that they would continue to utilize me for other work, and not Gina. I became trapped in the middle between this young woman who believed she was the victim of racism and my need to take care of myself as my refusal to accept new assignments began to place my job in jeopardy. And of course, Gina came to believe that I was the root of all of her problems. In her own words, she had confided and trusted a white devil and I had used it to my advantage, which in her mind was what white people were about. Nothing I could say could convince her otherwise and her hatred of me grew exponentially everyday we spent together at the desk. The days of laughing and talking together were over - we sat in silence, two feet from one another, 40 hours per week for at least two weeks, enveloped in an unidentifiable stench. I was beginning to long for unemployment.
Then finally, one day, the most awkward question of all: management wanted to know if I knew the origin of the odor emanating from the message desk. I was taken aback that it had been noticed but I should have realized it had become extremely noticeable. I explained that for the last month, I had been cleaning out cupboards, wiping the countertops and searching for the source. I told them I didn't know.
The next week, on Monday, Gina called in sick. I was finally alone at the message desk. There were two chairs at the desk, the chair I always sat upon, and Gina's. This day, I idly sat down in her chair to grab the phone. That's when I noticed it. The smell was coming from her seat. I couldn't figure out what it was, but I felt sorry for her. Had she been too upset to ask for a new chair? Had she been suffering and not knowing what to say? I wasn't sure, so I shoved the chair into a closet and shut the door. It was wonderful to work a day at the desk free from the smell. If she wouldn't ask for a new seat for herself, I would ask for her - but I would tell her first when she returned.
On Tuesday, Gina stomped into the lobby. When she entered, she immediately shot a dagger-like look at me and asked what in the hell had I done with her chair. I explained that I had discovered the source of the odor everyone had been commenting upon and that I would assist her in requesting a new seat. Gina belly-laughed and pulled the chair out of the closet. She sat down in full view of the lobby and explained that sometimes, if she forgot her feminine supplies, she would simply just pull up her skirt and use the chair. She then demonstrated her technique. Gina showed me this as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I could not disguise the appalled look on my face. What neither of us knew was that the message desk had been under surveillance for months. There was a small, closed-circuit camera hidden in the ceiling of the lobby. The chair, and Gina, were quickly replaced.
Gina never spoke to me again. I was given a position on another floor and began my steady climb up, ultimately becoming a corporate paralegal some years later. I only saw Gina one last time - walking on one of the raised foot bridges of downtown Los Angeles. I meekly smiled at her and she looked right through me. It was obvious that I would always be the white devil who cost the African-American the job and her losing the job would never, in her mind, have anything to do her habits or attitude. It was painful to be cast in this role and this experience has remained an awkward and delicate memory for me.
posted by Lord Erstwhile Hopton at 10:31 AM
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