“I’d like to add an agenda item,” I spoke up. “A proposal from our employees concerning GCSC’s financial bookkeeping.”
Oddly, there was little reaction to my statement. No one seemed surprised. I tried to catch a supportive eye from the only other female in the room, but Berzon was looking intensely at Teller, who scribbled on the agenda in front of him. Berzon had earned her masters studying group therapy in the Big Sur-based Human Potential Movement promulgated by Carl Rogers. Despite her avant-garde psychotherapeutic career, she was still in the closet professionally. Even within the GCSC network, she didn’t identify with the lesbians; she was “gay.”
Marty Rocklin piped up. “I’d like to hear an update on that loyalty oath that the employees were supposed to sign. Does L.A. County Supervisor Edelman really need our employees to sign that thing? And, did they sign it?”
My mouth dropped open and the room turned suddenly very still as I saw Morris and Berzon look at me, the interloper. I was not supposed to hear what Marty wanted to know. Morris motioned to Marty, as if to dismiss his question. “We don’t have to talk about that,” he said.
The loyalty oath was last week’s latest intimidation maneuver. The night it was passed out to the staff I’d gone home to BeJo to talk about it. Over dinner I’d told her the bad news.
“Things are crap at the Center,” I’d murmured, my knife hovering listlessly over a pork chop. “Today the Board of Directors presented us employees with a loyalty oath.”
“A loyalty oath!” BeJo had been shocked. “Loyalty to who?”
“To the damn Board of the Gay Community Services Center!” I slammed my fist on the table. “Have you ever heard of anything more McCarthyite?”
I swallowed, trying to get a grip. “You know I’ve gone to the Board meetings, but no matter what I propose, I lose every vote.”
“Well, you taught me how to handle that,” BeJo said, “Expand the Board. Get new people on it to create a new majority.”
“I’ve tried that, BeJo. I huddled with the workers and came up with half a dozen really solid names like Johnnie Phelps from the National Organization for Women, and Judy Freespirit from the Westside Women’s Center. I proposed them and the Board voted them all down. They aren’t about to upset their precious majority of closet case professionals.”
I reached into my briefcase and pulled out a green-colored pamphlet. “A few weeks ago we got desperate and decided to print a worker’s newsletter called—It’s About Time.” I handed BeJo the copy. “See there under the masthead, it says our purpose is ‘to focus upon and create a feminist identity at the Gay Community Services Center (GCSC).’ Even straight corporations are beginning to adopt pro-woman reforms.”
BeJo ran her finger down the newsletter. “It says here that the new Board-selected management team is ‘a boss-imposed structure.’ So what’s happened since management read and hated this newsletter? And by the way, this is a really sloppy layout. Next time ask me—”
“BeJo, the layout is not the point! More and more staff is getting involved in our campaign. Even some of the more progressive gay men are with us now. But something went wrong. Someone leaked a copy of this to David Glasscock, the senior aide to L.A. County Board of Supervisors, Ed Edelman.”
“Doesn’t some of GCSC’s grant money come from the Board of Supervisors?”
“Yes! The Herself Health Clinic grant. That’s my salary and four other women’s jobs. This Glascock guy, who Morris placed in his job, appears this morning at the Center. He goes into a secret meeting with Morris and Bartley. Then Morris appears at the staff meeting this afternoon and tells us that Supervisor Edelman won’t sign the renewal of our grant money unless all the editors of It’s About Time sign a loyalty oath.”
“Oh goddess, no! Who leaked the newsletter?” BeJo asked, her mouth agape.
“I think it was Morris himself. It’s not like one of us accidentally mailed it to a County Supervisor’s office.”
“Sign the oath or else what?”
“Sign, or be fired.”
“Oh shit, just like the Navy!” BeJo exclaimed, letting out a deep sigh.
Seeing a familiar hurt in her eyes, I stopped my rant, went to kneel by her chair and took her hand. Out of high school in 1960, BeJo had joined the Navy. After almost a decade of service, she and a dozen others had been hunted and harassed to admit that they were “subversive lesbians.” Luck and refusal to admit guilt finally played in her favor as the U.S. made plans to invade Viet Nam and BeJo was offered a chance to get out of a trial and leave with an honorable discharge. It was one of the Navy’s many great lesbian purges. The trauma had been a turning point in her life.
BeJo’s soft eyes were now holding back tears. She reached for a roach, which was delicately straddling a curve in the ashtray. Tiny frags lay in almost every ashtray in the apartment. “Did they ask you to sign?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“We refused! All nine of us IAT editors.”
BeJo smiled softly. “That’s my baby. She goes down with the ship.” She leaned over and kissed me.
I stood up, straight shouldered. “This ship is not going down so long as I’m on it!”
I’d declared as we finished dinner.
And now a Board member, Marty the innocent, was about to spill the real beans in front of me.
Morris spoke to Marty sharply, “The dissident staff has refused to sign it. Let’s move on.”
Marty’s face was askew with confusion. “You mean Supervisor Edelman didn’t ask for the oath? It was only his aide’s idea?”
A hush fell over the room as Morris, Teller, and Berzon looked at me, and saw me realize that the loyalty oath had been a ruse. Supervisor Edelman had never seen It’s About Time. Morris had tried to bluff the workers! I swallowed twice, trying to stuff my shock and anger.
Suddenly Morris shifted tone and spoke to me in his coyly charming voice, “Córdoba, why don’t we deal with your agenda item now.”
All faces turned toward me.
Caught off guard, I managed to motion Sheldon to pass around the room my neatly stapled stack of copies of the latest worker’s proposal. I took a deep breath.
“Over the last couple of weeks,” I began, “the Center’s corporate treasurer, Alicia Maddox, has discovered that Ken Bartley is manipulating the books.” I paused. The room was so quiet that a tiny 3.5 could have rippled through the building and been clearly felt. The proposal papers were shaking in my hands.
“There are specific examples of what Bartley has done that are put forth in this proposal,” I continued, scanning the page. I dared not lift my eyes. “Basically, Alicia and the staff charge Bartley with fiscal mismanagement. There are thirty-nine workers who have signed this proposal, which represents two thirds of GCSC’s employees. This is something we can’t ignore any longer.”
A few chairs squeaked as people squirmed in their seats. I realized that I’d never get through the whole proposal by ad-libbing. I directed my fellow Board members to the last page, and summarized;
“We feel that the Board of Directors has opened itself up to a possible lawsuit from our funding agencies because Bartley the administrator has appropriated money for operations when such funds were given to us for other specific programs.” In the silence of my pause I feared that everyone in the room knew exactly what Bartley had been doing with the books.
I read on. “These misappropriations may be illegal. A non-profit agency shouldn’t mix federal and state grant money with other operating expenses. Many of the program directors, especially the Alcoholism Program for Women and Herself Health Clinic, are worried that the funding agencies will come here for a review, and see what Bartley is doing.” I looked up. “We are worried that the funding agencies will pull their grants and close the projects down. Some program directors are also concerned that there won’t be money available to pay their programs back for a long time because the priority is funding the new building on Highland Avenue.”
“This is absurd!” Morris interrupted.
“Completely inappropriate,” Berzon chimed in.
My voice became rushed. “Upon learning these things, Maddox didn’t know what to do. She and the staff have no access to the Board since our meetings have been closed. So she took her concerns to the management team. At that meeting Bartley called her a liar, and said what he was doing was standard operating procedure. He has since closed the books to her, even though she’s our corporate treasurer. After that, Maddox came to a workers’ collective meeting and to me, as a Board member, showing us the manipulated records, and how there are not enough private donations coming in for Bartley to cover his tracks. GCSC is spending much more than it’s bringing in—”
Morris cut me off. “Ms. Maddox is not empowered to show our fiscal records to employees!”
President Teller rapped his gavel.
“Finish reading the proposal,” Sheldon commanded.
“Maddox is our corporate treasurer,” I continued, my voice lower now. “She asked me to tell you that she feels she must resign. She says it’s either her or Bartley because she won’t be held liable for his misappropriations. Hearing this from Maddox, several project directors and a couple of management team members put together this proposal in which they call for Bartley’s resignation.” I bit my lip, recalling the original draft of the proposal, which had called for the Board of Directors itself to resign for allowing such irregularities. I’d been narrowly able to persuade the workers to delete this demand and call for Bartley’s resignation alone.
“Are you finished?” Berzon asked.
“In conclusion,” I read, “we the workers respectfully ask that the Board take further action to correct this fiscal mismanagement within thirty days. If the Board fails to take these steps we feel we will have no other recourse but to communicate with our funding agencies and tell them what is being done with their funds. At that point, we will take whatever legal actions may be deemed appropriate.”
Morris jumped to his feet. “This is outrageous!”
“You have no right to do such things,” Berzon added.
I looked around. The other Board members sat with their mouths agape.
Morris glared down at me. “Unacceptable!” he shouted, raising a closed fist.
Sheldon broke in. “Ms. Córdova, thank you for bringing these serious matters to our attention. I’m sure the entire Board agrees with you that we must do our own investigation. We must have Bartley come before us immediately. I call for a vote on this proposal, now!” Sheldon motioned to Teller.
“All in favor?” Teller said in a disembodied tone.
All six of us raised our hands. It was the first unanimous vote taken since I’d been seated among them. I drew a breath of relief. Now Bartley had to come before us and explain himself. It was a start.
Morris look at his watch and nudged Teller, who tapped his gavel for order, “Next, we will take up the last agenda item, Internal Business–Board Makeup.”
Feeling more relaxed; I dared to think that we were at last going to add some new people to the Board. I reached into my briefcase and found my list of heavyweight lesbian feminists who I planned to recommend. Teller also brought a stack of papers out of his briefcase and motioned to Morris to hand them around. As Sheldon handed me a copy, Teller began to speak.
“I have here a motion calling for the removal of Jeanne Córdova from the Board of Directors.”
“I second this motion,” Betty Berzon said.
I gasped, looking down at the papers in my hand.
Morris instructed Teller to continue. “Please read the motion into the record.”
I blinked hard, forcing my eyes to scan the words, as Teller nailed my coffin. Jeanne Córdova…her interests…hostile and adverse to the interests of GCSC Board of Directors…one of the editors of It’s About Time…a document which seeks to undermine volunteerism…”
“And I will add yet another reason,” Morris concluded, his voice trembling with rage. “Tonight she brought before us a proposal saying she would consider legal suit against us!”
Too dumbfounded to speak, it dawned on me that Teller’s motion was typed. They’d planned to dump me tonight even if I hadn’t brought the workers’ proposal. It wasn’t just a reaction to Maddox and the cooked books.
Finding my voice, I jumped to my feet and shouted, “You can’t do this!”
“The motion has been duly written, proposed and seconded.” Berzon’s face wrinkled with disdain. “I call for a vote!”
“What about discussion?” Sheldon broke in. “Shouldn’t there be some discussion?”
I studied Sheldon’s face as his eyes darted around the table. He was trying to figure out who backed the motion, and who didn’t. He was as shocked as I was. Morris hadn’t pre-enlisted his vote. Sheldon was the new kid on the block and he wasn’t in the loop.
Teller brought his gavel down hard on the table. “Hearing no discussion, all in favor of the motion as read, please raise your hands!”
Four hands shot up on cue. Damn. I looked at Marty Rochlin, but he wouldn’t look at me. They had his vote in the bag.
“All opposed?” Teller asked.
I lifted my hand. So did Sheldon Andelson.
“The motion carries, four to two,” Teller finished.
I was dumped off the Board and hadn’t even seen it coming.
Chapter 8
The Firings
[Los Angeles]
May 1, 1975
The ringing phone woke me from a deep sleep and I looked at the clock, knowing I would be late to The Freep again.
Pody’s voice on the answering machine filled the room. “Córdova? You gotta be there. Pick up the phone. PLEASE!” Her voice sounded broken, as though she’d been crying.
I grabbed the receiver. “Po,” I said, gently, “I’m here. What’s the matter?”
“Have you gotten your mail today?” Her breathing was erratic.
“Not yet, it comes in the afternoon.”
“Please, Córdova, go check your mail box.”
“I’m in my pajamas.”
“Please buddy. I just got something special delivery. I can’t believe I’m the only one. Go check yours, now!”
“All right, all right. I’ll call you right back.”
I scurried down the stairs in my pajamas, passed the carport and out to the building’s curbside wall where the metal boxes hung. Pody was right; there was a single envelope in my box. I pulled it out. Strange, no postmark. Someone must have hand-delivered it. Stranger still, the long, white envelope had the Gay Community Service Center’s return address and logo. My name and address were handwritten in ink.
I peeled the sealed flap. A single sheet, three folded. It felt like a Xerox, yes, a form letter, with my name handwritten in after the “Dear... blank.” It was dated, April 30. My eyes scanned the short paragraphs: “The Center’s Board of Directors has...made an investigation…the nature and effectiveness of your performance in the position of Blank. Someone had written in “Publicist—Medical Services”…you have been in severe breach…your employment is terminated, effective immediately.”
Terminated? GCSC was firing me? I stood paralyzed by disbelief and cold. The marine layer, L.A.’s moving blanket of heavy fog and smog, had come in off the ocean. Fear tightened the base of my throat. “In severe breach?” I choked out. This had to be a joke. My gay brothers were terminating me? It didn’t make sense. Every dyke in L.A. knew about the Herself Health Clinic. I routinely stayed overtime to finish my press releases, flyers, and interviews.
Standing in the street in washed out pajamas, I suddenly felt like a homeless person: terminated, adrift, cast out. A car engine ignited and I jumped back against a wall. The car pulled out of its space, approaching me slowly. A bearded man at the wheel rolled down his window and stared at me as if to say, “You don’t belong.”
A sob escaped my lips. I began to run, out of the carport, up the dingy staircase, and
down the hallway to BeJo’s door. Slamming it behind me, I pounded the back of my head against it. So this was why Morris kicked me off his damn Board last week. They’d planned to terminate me. Christ, I should have seen it coming! I should have been a better leader. Instead, I was careless.
“Careless, careless, careless,” I heard my father’s voice scolding as he towered over me on the front lawn. I was nine years old. Reaching down, he grabbed the splintered baseball bat out of my hands. “Look around you, Jeanne.” He grabbed my shoulders and flipped me around to face the street. “Do you think money grows on that apricot tree there? Or maybe you think I drive to work each day and God rains down money like manna at my office. So I can spend it on the things that you kids wreck. Answer me!”
I executed a sharp about-face like he’d trained us to, and saw his angry face. “No sir!” I saluted. “Money does not grow on trees, sir! Money does not drop from heaven, sir!”
The man who my mother said truly did love us, glowered down at me. “And take off your hat when you are addressing your superiors, soldier.”
My hand shot up to my sweaty forehead and grabbed the blue Dodger cap, “Yes, sir!” I emphasized the ‘sir’ like he said his classmates did at West Point. Every morning since kindergarten we’d had to stand inspection in our living room where we received our cadet training.
“Now tell me, cadet, why is your bat broken?”
“Mom called us into dinner last night,” I mumbled, feebly. “I didn’t see that a kid must have tossed it into the gutter. I forgot about it. I found the bat this morning. A car must have run over it…sir!” Tears streaked down my face and into my newly braced, crooked teeth.
“Are you equivocating with me, soldier?” he demanded, the veins in his neck as rigid as my splintered bat. “Are you trying to blame someone else for your mistakes? Tell me again. Why is your bat broken?”
I threw my shoulders back so the sobs wouldn’t break my reply. “No, sir! I have no excuse, sir!”
When We Were Outlaws Page 10
