by Megyn Kelly
I moved to the Windy City in August 1995. I had rented an apartment in a high-rise near Oprah’s apartment building on Navy Pier. The night I moved in, I remember looking out the window in an apartment furnished with a bed, a love seat, a TV, and two milk crates, drinking white Franzia boxed wine and playing Tina Turner’s “I Don’t Wanna Fight” on CD. I did it, I thought. My “real life” was starting. I was somewhere, and on my way to being someone.
I had never lived in an urban center before. The sheer number of restaurants, bars, museums, and parks was spectacular. Lake Michigan was lovely—vast and clean, more like an ocean. It was also a hotbed of social activity. On the weekends the locals would Rollerblade, bike and walk lakeside, and the parks were filled with adults playing softball and baseball. I fell in love with it instantly.
At work I was the only female lawyer, but I was surrounded by a great group of guys. I never was one to call BS on salty language or off-color jokes (use of the former I inherited from Nana, affinity for the latter came directly from Linda), and that made things easier from the get-go. I adored my colleagues, who were very smart lawyers, and they set the bar high for me in this, my first professional job.
One early brief I turned in was less than stellar, and a senior associate sat me down.
“Look,” he said, “we are American Airlines First Class. Our clients expect the cloth napkins and the glass cups and the real silverware. You can’t half-ass things here.”
I worked like a dog. Many nights I stayed past midnight. Saturdays were not a day off as much as a chance to catch up on work you hadn’t managed to get to during the week. On Sundays we worked a laid-back noon to 6:00 p.m.
I didn’t mind. I understood the enormous opportunity I had been given—the chance to prove myself, to make something of my life.
Around this time, I shared a cab with a lawyer who’d been in the game about eight years. We struck up a conversation. “Do you hate it yet?” he asked.
“No!” I said. “I love it!”
“Just wait,” he said to me. “About eight years in is when you decide you’re either in it for the long haul or ready to make a change.” If that were true, I had seven years left on my clock.
Even though I was the only female lawyer in our Chicago office, I didn’t deal with much in the way of sexism, though occasionally there was a waft of it. For example, when Brewer came up to the Chicago office from Dallas, all of the women in the office—yours truly plus the support staff—had to change from our pants into skirts. We weren’t supposed to be wearing pants at all, ever, but the rule wasn’t enforced unless Bickel or Brewer came through.
It seemed ridiculous to me. The guys could wear pants, but we had to freeze our asses off in the dead of winter in Chicago because the boss thought our bare legs were more professional? It wasn’t like I wanted to go casual—I just didn’t want to be cold. But I researched it and learned that it was perfectly legal.
So I didn’t push back on that, but later there was a dust-up about something else.
The senior partner in our Chicago office was a very well respected attorney. I’ll call him Michael. I learned a great deal from Michael. He terrified most of the office back then, as he had zero tolerance for mistakes and did not like being challenged. He was the elder statesman, in his sixties as compared to our twenties and young thirties. Everyone usually deferred to him, which was clearly the path of least resistance and led to the least brain damage.
When Michael got mad, he got really mad—red in the face, clipped words, and he would yell. To a young associate like me, it was downright intimidating. I thought any mistake I made could wind up costing me my job. Having said that, Michael was a talented lawyer, and I knew how lucky I was to have him as a mentor. He used me quite a bit for legal research on the office’s big cases. He also used me for photocopying. A lot. All the time, actually.
Now, the problem with this is that copying cases is not the job of a junior associate. It’s staff work. Clients shouldn’t be paying for a lawyer’s time doing menial tasks, and lawyers shouldn’t be wasting their legal education standing at the Xerox machine hitting copy.
But Michael wanted his cases when he wanted them, and if his assistant wasn’t around, he figured I was his next best option.
I didn’t complain at first, because I realized that I was low on the totem pole, and my general philosophy was to say yes to everything when trying to prove myself in a job. However, it soon became clear that I was the only attorney in the firm who Michael used for copying cases. There was another junior associate—a man—who was never asked. There were plenty of other associates—all men—who were never asked. And then there was me. It bothered me a little at first, and then it bothered me a lot. It actually also bothered the male associates in the office.
Gender, typically, is not something I spend much time thinking about. When I was a kid, I wanted to play baseball at a time, roughly 1978, when there were no baseball or softball teams for girls in my town. I wasn’t trying to break a gender barrier, or make a statement—I just wanted to play. And not surprisingly, it’s how I was raised.
“There are only teams for boys,” my mom said when I told her I wanted to play.
“Okay, I’ll do that,” I said.
My mom didn’t push back and say, “You sure?” She just went and signed me up.
I showed up for the first day, and I was the only girl anywhere. There were no girls on my team or on the other teams. I wasn’t fazed by it. And no one gave me too hard a time.
Throughout that season, I was never focused on being the only girl. And that was how I’d been ever since—often finding myself in situations where I was the only girl or woman, but never feeling the need to give too much thought to it.
Finally, though, the situation with Michael became too much. I resolved that I was going to address it. I was twenty-five years old at this point, and not very sophisticated or experienced in dealing with powerful men. And I certainly needed the job. But your ethical code is your ethical code, and I knew there was only one path forward. I worked out in advance how I would handle it. I walked through in my head what I would say and how he was likely to respond, and then planned out my rebuttal.
To this day, I believe planning out confrontations in detail is key. It prevents regrets in the moment (e.g., your temper getting away from you) and lets you control the exchange.
Well, the day arrived: Michael asked me to copy another case. He said it in passing as he walked by me in the hall and into his office.
“Meggie! I need you to copy a case for me.” He called all of us in the office by some similar nickname (Johnny, Jeffy, Stevie . . . ).
I turned and followed him into his office, where he was now sitting behind his desk. My heart was beating hard, and I was conscious of it pounding in my chest, but I tried to sound calm and authoritative.
“Michael,” I said. “I’m done copying cases for you. It’s not an appropriate use of an associate’s time.”
“What?”
“I said I’m done copying cases for you. If you would like to discuss a case with me, I’m happy to retrieve it and have that talk. But if you just want me to do secretarial work for you, I won’t.”
Michael’s face was getting red. He was clipping his words.
“Do you think John Bickel copies his own cases?” he demanded. “Do you think Bill Brewer copies his own cases?”
“No,” I answered. “I think they have their paralegals or secretaries do it.”
The universe did me a little favor in this moment; just as he was edging toward genuine anger, his phone rang, and it was an important client. I took my cue and scurried out of there, but it was not over.
I later learned, from one of the senior associates, that Michael called up John Bickel to complain about our interaction. God love Bickel, because I was later told he responded: “Not only is she right, but if you ever ask an associate of this firm to waste her time doing your secretarial work, it’ll be the last thing
you do at Bickel and Brewer.”
Michael never asked me to copy a case for him again. The story went viral through our office, and it gave me some street cred there. I didn’t do it for any accolades—indeed, I was expecting the opposite—but I did learn that standing by your principles is always the right call, even when dealing with people in positions of power.
I realize many people are not in the position to always choose principles over a paycheck. Sometimes there really is not another job out there, especially in the job market we’ve had in this country for the past few years. This is why it’s important to build up your value. You need to make yourself indispensable in whatever post you have, whether it’s the cashier at the grocery store or a burger flipper at McDonald’s. The harder you work, the better attitude you have, the more your colleagues come to feel they need you, the greater job security you earn, and the more risks you can take.
In my heart I knew this firm was not going to fire me for pushing back on a sexist request. Like the matchmaking senior partner at that Albany firm where I once interned, Michael was not a bad guy, he was just of a different generation. I actually liked him quite a bit and remain fond of him to this day. (I changed his name only because he is not a public figure, and I don’t want to cause him any embarrassment here.) I had every reason to believe that, when challenged, Michael—and our bosses Bickel & Brewer—would do the right thing.
In spite of that issue over photocopying, life at Bickel & Brewer went well—until a couple of years in, when it dawned on me that I had very little in my life but work. I remember hearing that some firms had cots and showers for the associates, and feeling jealous because we needed that. I had no friends outside of work—there was zero time to cultivate any. And the kill-or-be-killed nature of the firm that at first I had found so attractive? The shine was wearing off that too. The constant acrimony was tiresome, and more than a little soul-killing.
There was no question I was staying in law, but I thought that if I switched to another firm, I could bring some balance to my life. At the time, I naively believed the hours were inherent to the firm and not to the industry, or to me. (I would later come to understand that quote: “Wherever you go, that’s where you are.”) And so, despite many fond memories, I ultimately decided to leave Bickel & Brewer.
I figured a change of scenery would be nice. I loved Chicago, but having done all right in a city of that size for a couple of years, I felt optimistic that I could handle something even bigger—and Manhattan would bring me much closer to my mom, my family, and most of my friends. At first I hired a headhunter to shop my résumé around.
One firm (solid, but second-tier) interviewed me several times—I went for two callback interviews and felt certain I was likely to get an offer. Instead they told the head hunter they were passing. I’ll never forget his report: “They think you’re a little too perfect.”
What nonsense. He said he was being honest, that’s what they said, and urged me to write a letter begging them to reconsider. I knew I couldn’t do that. As badly as I wanted the job, I didn’t have it in me to beg for it from a firm that had just rejected me. So I refused. And then the head hunter got angry, because he wasn’t going to get paid. We parted on unfortunate terms, and I was left without any offers.
I decided to go back to square one. I had a law school professor who had worked at the prestigious international law firm Jones Day, and I called him and asked him if he would forward my résumé to the hiring partner. He did so, and within a week I was walking through Jones Day’s New York office. This felt like real Big Law practice. There were Warhols in the conference rooms. The receptionists were attractive and well dressed. The lawyers looked busy and important, with tastefully appointed offices and great views. It felt like a promotion in every way.
As it turned out, they made me an offer, and so did two other Big Law firms. I couldn’t believe it. I went from “Why don’t you try begging?” to three great offers, none of which would have happened if I hadn’t taken a risk and called my law school professor about forwarding my résumé to Jones Day. I chose Jones Day because I believed it was one of the best law firms in the world. I knew that if I could succeed there, my legal pedigree would be unassailable. Just like that, I was heading to New York City.
As I prepared to leave Chicago in August 1997, I met a young medical student named Dan Kendall while out dancing. It was the night Princess Diana died, and I’ll never forget coming home and seeing the makeshift memorials to her in front of Buckingham Palace and the sea of people gathering to mourn her. Another reminder of the fragility of life. I went to sleep in my Lake Shore Drive high-rise, wondering about the road ahead and what my life in New York would look like. The future Dr. Kendall made it very clear he was determined to be a part of it.
7
Self-Pity Is Not Attractive
I arrived in New York in the afternoon, long before any of my boxes would show up. Thus I entered my new apartment on the southern tip of Manhattan to find it empty, with no phone line, no electricity, and no warmth. It felt a little scary. I waited all day for my things to arrive, and when they finally did, I felt more overwhelmed than before they got there. All I could think of was a conversation I’d had with my brother:
“I’m moving to New York City!” I said.
“Why?” said Pete.
“What do you mean?” I said. “It’s the big city of dreams!”
“Yeah,” said Pete. “Scary, nasty, wake-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night-screaming dreams.”
Hmph.
But I was starting to come around to Pete’s way of thinking. I felt overwhelmed and alone. By nightfall, I left the apartment to find a phone. I wound up walking a few blocks in the darkness to the Millenium Hilton hotel. The Financial District was deserted at night, not at all the “city that never sleeps” you see in the West Village or Midtown. There were no stores, no restaurants, nothing going on except some street cleaning.
From the hotel lobby, I called my mom. As soon as I heard her voice, I burst into tears.
“I don’t know anyone,” I told her. “It feels so cold here, so harsh.”
“You’ll meet people,” she reassured me. “Put up some family pictures as soon as you unpack. First thing tomorrow, figure out where your grocery store, your dry cleaner, and your post office are. Start getting to know your neighborhood. And Peter and I will be there soon to visit.”
Mostly she listened as I had a good cry. I wondered if I’d made a terrible mistake leaving a town I loved for a job so far away.
The next morning, I felt better. I tackled the boxes. The phone guy showed up. The electricity came on. Still, I came up empty in my search for the neighborhood staples my mom had recommended. Even by day, there was nothing going on downtown other than Wall Street business. I also took note of how unfriendly everyone seemed. The clerk at the Duane Reade pharmacy didn’t make eye contact when she rang me up. I smiled at people on the street. No one smiled back. How did people live like this?
I went into the office at Jones Day one morning to get my bearings. The secretaries sat in pods outside of the attorney offices. Not a single one of them said good morning when I walked by them; some were silent even in response to my hellos. What had I gotten myself into?
I called my mom again that night and again broke down in tears, feeling sorry for myself. I told her about the coldness, my loneliness, my self-doubt. She listened, was supportive, and gave me another few ideas for how to help things a little.
The third day wasn’t much better. Some guy in a hurry nearly knocked me down without so much as an “Excuse me.” I took the subway to and from work; it smelled like urine and vomit, and there were rats on the tracks. No one seemed to care.
Still very unsure about Manhattan, I called my mom once again and cried. She listened to me: “There are no people at night in my neighborhood! It feels desolate! It smells bad! The secretaries are unfriendly!”
Finally, she said, “Megyn, stop playing the victim. No
t attractive.”
Man, what a wake-up call.
I felt embarrassed. I, who had a great job, a great family, a nice, safe apartment, and everything going for me, had been wasting time wallowing. True to form, my mom’s honesty snapped me out of my pity party and gave me some perspective: Seriously? You’re crying three days in a row because your apartment feels “cold” and you have to take a subway to get groceries and the secretaries didn’t smile at you? Grow up.
This is one of the many things I love about my mom. She’s empathetic, but always has a good perspective on what’s worth a wallow and what’s not. And she’s gentle but brave about sharing it.
So I toughened up and stuck it out, and soon my legal career took off. The most significant case I tried while in New York was against our client, a luxury jeweler. A woman who ran their salon was let go by the firm and sued, alleging wrongful termination. We had a December trial date, and went in that November for a conference. The judge in the case did not suffer fools gladly. I had appeared before him many times.
Like most trial judges in the New York State Supreme Court system, he was overworked and understaffed. When he heard that we had a December trial date, the judge made it clear he did not want to hear the case.
My co-counsel pressed the judge hard on how important that date was to our client. The judge said the case sounded boring. I marveled that this was apparently relevant. That’s when my co-counsel started to dazzle the judge with the most salacious details of the case.
“Judge,” he said, “this case is not boring! This case involves a beautiful blond plaintiff who claims that one of the most respected jewelers in the world wrongfully fired her.”
