“Why not?”
“Look around you. They call pro-life people anti-choice or anti-women’s rights. It’s difficult to have a conversation when that’s your starting point.”
“Right,” Tarek agreed. “Optics are everything in this city.”
“But all they’re really doing is telling women that they can’t make their own decisions. They can’t decide when they have sex, that they’re always forced to do it, so they need help.” I paused for a second. “Some people say that abortion is necessary because many women can’t afford contraception.”
“But they can get it free at several places.”
“Yes, that’s one argument.”
“And they can also say no.”
“And that’s another argument. All women have free will.”
Our train arrived. We boarded and found two seats together. At this time of night, it usually wasn’t that crowded.
“Interesting,” Tarek murmured.
“What?” I could feel my eyebrows furrow together.
Tarek smiled. “I haven’t met very many women who agreed with me on that.”
I couldn’t help smiling then. “Oh, we’re out there. We just can’t say anything.”
We looked at each other for a moment. His eyes held mine for longer than I would have liked.
I eventually broke the silence. “There’s more, too,” I said provocatively.
“Oh?” He leaned toward me, feigning great interest.
I proceeded to tell him about the bake sale, where they were going to charge women 72 cents and men $1 for the goods. I told him why they were doing that, and then I explained what my mother had said to me several years ago.
“Yes, I see that,” Tarek agreed.
“I don’t necessarily think that it’s fair—”
“But that’s the economic reality of it,” Tarek finished.
“And, life isn’t always fair anyway.”
“That’s true.”
I laughed.
“What’s so funny?” he asked me.
“I’m so used to arguing with people all the time. I’m not used to people agreeing with me.”
“Would it make you feel more comfortable if I argued with you?”
I was still smiling. “If you want. I can take it.”
The next stop was Pentagon City.
“Have a good night,” Tarek told me.
“You too.”
“Can I ask you something? It’s kind of like a favor.”
I was instantly nervous. What would he ask? “Sure.”
“Will you text me when you get home? So that I know that you got home OK.”
“Sure.”
“OK.” The train stopped. “See you tomorrow, Isabel.”
“See you tomorrow.”
I got home in one piece and made a sandwich. It was too late for anything heavy. I was so tired. Then I remembered. I took out my phone and sent Tarek a message.
I’m home. And I forgot to tell you, good luck on the interview tomorrow!
After a couple of minutes my phone blipped.
Thanks. I’ll let you know how it goes. Good night, Isabel.
Later, I lay in bed, thinking. Then I started daydreaming about Tarek. I thought about kissing him. Oh, my God. This is NOT helping me sleep.
I took a few deep breaths and eventually fell asleep.
FOURTH WEEK: THURSDAY
My alarm clock went off on Thursday morning and woke me out of a deep sleep. I had slept like the dead that night, with no dreams. I felt oddly rested.
My first thought was for coffee.
My second thought was about Tarek and our conversation at the end of the night before. I then realized that I hadn’t thanked him for waiting for me and escorting me on the metro. I should have thanked him.
Well, I would see him later today. I was excited.
I grabbed a sleeveless black sheath-type dress with an embellished collar and a black jacket. All black again. It was easier.
I put my hair back in a bun. I was going to shower later at the gym anyway and would wash my hair then.
As I headed out the door, I saw my neighbor John with his little dog. Next door there lived a young couple. They were younger than me, probably. They had a cute Beagle. Beagles could be temperamental and, the first time I had seen him, I had wondered how he dealt with apartment living. But, apparently, he was OK with it since I didn’t hear him bark that much. Sometimes he howled, but he was usually fairly quiet at night. Of course, I wasn’t home during the day, so I didn’t know if he barked then.
I bent down and petted him. His ears went back and he stretched out his neck toward me. He loved attention. I liked to think that he had a soft spot for me.
“How’s it going?” I asked John.
“Pretty good. How’s school?”
“It’s going OK.”
“I can’t believe you’re in law school and working. That’s crazy.” He shook his head.
Everyone said that.
“It’s not so bad. Plus, I only have this year and next year, and I’ll be done.”
“And then the bar,” John said.
Ugh, don’t remind me. I wasn’t even sure where I was going to take the bar. I didn’t even know where I was going to end up.
“Yeah, well,” I hedged, “I don’t have to worry about that for a little while longer.”
We said goodbye and I left to walk over to the metro.
Seeing that little dog was the only good thing that happened that entire day. As we say where my family is from, el dia fue de Guatemala a Guatepeor.
Work started out like any normal day, but then Martin called me into his office.
Martin was a nice guy, and a decent boss. I respected him because he was a good translator, but, in my opinion, he needed to be more assertive.
Every time he called me to his office, I got a boot-in-the-gut feeling. 99 percent of the time, it was something positive, or something entirely innocuous. I had no logical reason to feel that way when he called me; I guess I was conditioned ever since I had attended Catholic school as a little girl and the nuns would call me into the main office for poor handwriting, daydreaming too much or other such horrible crimes. When my father died, since my mother didn’t work at the time, we didn’t have enough money for my sisters and me to continue in Catholic school. We had all started going to public school then. That had been a rude awakening. I had had to deal with my father’s death and with the transition from Catholic school to public school. It wasn’t a good mix for an introvert like me. We had worn uniforms in Catholic school, so I hadn’t had an extensive wardrobe. In public school, it was all about the clothes that you wore. I had had a really difficult time the first couple of years. After that, I had cared less.
Remembering all this at the time, I tried to stay calm when Martin called me into his office.
I walked inside and he told me to close the door. That’s not a good sign.
Martin was about fifty years old and had dark hair with a lot of gray. He was attractive and I was sure that he had been a real looker when he was younger.
“Isabel, Tim came to talk to me,” Martin began.
“OK.” I decided to listen for a moment. Plus, he hadn’t asked a question.
“He didn’t agree with some of your revisions.”
That was an understatement.
“OK,” I nodded.
“He thinks you’re abnormally hard on him.”
Was that a double entendre? Martin and I went way back, and I almost made a joke, but thought better of it.
“I’m not. I treat him and his work the same way I treat the others and their work.”
“I know.”
“OK.” I was confused. “So what’s the issue?”
Martin sighed. “A couple of the others have made similar comments.”
I cringed. Tim wasn’t the only younger Spanish or French translator working there.
“Martin, you’ve seen their work. Am I wrong?”
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“No, I don’t necessarily think so.”
“OK, so—?” I left it hanging.
“Isabel, you’re one of the best translators here, and certainly the go-to person for Spanish. The others aren’t up to the same standard as you.”
“OK.” I agreed. I wasn’t seeing where this was going, though.
“But you should try to be diplomatic with them.”
I was confused and now beginning to get upset.
“I am diplomatic with them.” Of course, Martin hadn’t witnessed any of my conversations with these people. Who knows what Tim and the others had told him?
“I’m sure you are, just—just try to go easy on them.”
“Martin, look,” I began, frustrated, “I’ll try but I have to be honest with them too. To do otherwise is a disservice to them and to our clients.”
“I know,” Martin said. Then he began to look a bit sheepish. I wondered what was coming.
He continued. “Isabel, there’s something else too.”
I waited, without saying anything.
“I’m going to shift some of Tim’s clients over to you.”
I was in shock for a few seconds. “Wait,” I said. “Martin, you know I’m bogged down as it is. I have my own workload plus I’m reviewing other people’s work.”
“I know, Isabel, but I don’t have anyone else, and—and Tim isn’t as experienced as you.”
“You mean he can’t keep up?” Maybe that was overreaching but Martin wasn’t going to fire me over it.
Martin gave me a strange look. “Something like that.”
“So, maybe you should fire him and hire someone else, or send him for more training.”
“You know how difficult it is to get people who are qualified and who pass the background checks. If I let Tim go, it will be a while before someone else can start.”
I was starting to get downright angry. “Let me get this straight.” My hands went to my hips. “I perform better work than Tim, and my reward is that I get dumped on and he has less work to do. Is that right?”
“I need to provide high-quality work to the end clients,” Martin was exasperated and he knew this wasn’t fair. It was a business need.
“So you’re saying that we should all strive for mediocrity?”
“No, but you should be more diplomatic with the others and just try to get the work done.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to do,” I said, seething inside but remaining calm for now. I had to say something else. “OK, well, I hope that this will be reflected in my performance review.”
“Of course. Don’t worry about that.”
I wasn’t convinced, however.
I left our meeting thinking that I should give glowing reviews to the others when I reviewed their work. That way, no one would complain. But then I wouldn’t be doing a good job and I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night. And if one of the clients at some point had a real complaint, and it was discovered that I hadn’t caught it, then it would be on me, and I couldn’t deal with that.
Despite what I had said to Martin, I didn’t mind so much that he was dumping Tim’s work on me. That was a business necessity. However, I did mind that Martin was putting up with inferior work from Tim without replacing him. Because that wasn’t good for the company. I was trying to help the company by producing quality work, and Martin should be doing the same. He was the boss, after all.
I was going to have to seriously start looking for another job.
At lunchtime I grabbed my bag and headed over to the gym. I got on the treadmill and cranked it up, blaring my own playlist of electro Latino/techno music in my ears. I pretended that I was running away from something that was chasing me. Before I knew it, I had run for forty minutes and my legs were sore. I stretched and then showered. I immediately felt better after running. I guess the good thing about being pissed off was that you worked out harder.
I left my hair wet and slathered mousse through it. I put on some eyeliner, foundation and mascara, just the basics.
I was calmer when I got back to the office. I went to the kitchen to nuke my lunch and again encountered my Middle Eastern coworkers. This time, Tim and a couple of girls were in the kitchen as well.
I walked right in and smiled generically at everyone.
“Like this one!” Abdul said that, motioning an arm toward me.
I turned toward him. What the—
“She is?” another of the men asked.
Is what? But I didn’t say anything.
“Yes, haven’t you seen her bumper stickers?” Abdul said.
Aw, fuck. I knew I would get into trouble for that here someday.
Abdul continued, much to my chagrin. “She has all these conservative bumper stickers! She probably even likes George W. Bush!”
“Of course she does,” one of the girls said. I looked at them.
Tim and the girls were smiling at me with condescension. It was enough to make me want to go over there and punch them all in their faces. God, I wanted to so badly.
I had never felt so alone. At least when my father had died, I had been surrounded by family members for a while after that. I had stewed in my own thoughts during the night, but during the day I had been with people who loved me. Here, in this city, except for Lara, I was alone, and I didn’t see Lara as much as I needed to.
This was a city where I could never really be myself. It sucked. All day, every day, I had to listen to my coworkers and fellow law students belittle my beliefs, and talk about how great the welfare state was, and how capitalism was on its way out the door. And all I could think about was how my parents had fled totalitarian regimes so that they could have the opportunity for success, an opportunity that only capitalism could offer. And it made me utterly depressed. My family had been successful, and for what? To be taxed to death. I was glad that I was wearing all black today.
All of a sudden, I felt like I wanted to totally lose control. I wanted to just flail around like mad and duke all these people. For a moment I thought that it may be worth it not to ever be able to practice law. Several assault charges would probably prevent me from being barred in any state, unless I could maybe plea temporary insanity.
Then the logical part of my brain kicked in. These people are so not worth it. I would feel good after punching them, but then what?
No way. I’m not going to give them the satisfaction of having me arrested, or of seeing me lose my job, or even of seeing me lose control. This game isn’t over yet.
I put on a nonchalant look and looked at Abdul. “When did you see my car?” I almost always took the metro.
“When you drove in one day,” he answered. I hoped he wasn’t stalking me.
“And?” I said with an annoyed look. “So what?”
“You must be the only person in this city that likes Bush!”
I heard Tim snicker. Of course. She likes bush. What a jackass.
I turned on Tim then. “How the fuck old are you?”
Everyone in the kitchen was immediately silent at my use of the f-word.
He thought it was a real question, the idiot. “I’m twenty-six,” he said.
“Well, you act like you’re fucking ten years old, with an IQ of about four.” Then I went on looking at everyone else, “And if you’re all liberal ‘progressives,’ ” using my air quotes, “as you say you are, then aren’t you supposed to embrace tolerance?” I was raising my voice, but still trying to control my anger. “You guys are a bunch of intolerant bigots.”
As usual, Peter saved me. He came into the kitchen right at that moment.
“Why is everyone so silent?” he said in his usual carefree manner. “Were you all talking about me?”
“Well, they were talking about Bush,” I motioned to Abdul and the others. Then I remembered to grab my lunch from the fridge. I shoved it in the microwave.
“Esta todo bien?” Peter asked me, sliding in next to me.
“Mas o menos,” I said, lowering my voice s
ince Tim and the girls spoke Spanish.
No one said anything else after that. Peter and I left together.
Peter and I were of the same political ilk. That was another reason why we got along so well. We walked back to my desk together and I told him what had happened in hushed tones.
“Don’t worry about them,” he told me.
“I know, but—it’s the same old thing every time.” And now everyone here would know my political bent.
That didn’t seem to bother Peter. Peter talked about politics all the time with almost everyone; where he stood was no secret. I loved him for it. I wanted to be more private, but I guess that was over now.
I was going to leave at about 3:15 to make it to class by 3:50. Before I left I checked my personal email. I had more bad news.
I had two emails from law firms. I had had initial interviews with both of them. Now I had rejections from both of them. Both emails said more or less the same thing.
Thank you for interviewing with such-and-such firm. So-and-so enjoyed meeting with you. Unfortunately, we will not be able to invite you for further interviews.
They should have just said the truth. If they had, the emails would have gone something like this:
You have an outstanding resume and we could certainly use your language and analytical skills. You also have excellent grades and significant work experience, much more so than the average first-year associate. The fact that you belong to a minority group is also a plus since hiring another minority law student would look good for our firm, especially since we hold out as making an effort to hire minority candidates.
However, you are too old to be a first-year associate. We want someone that we can grind into the floor, making them work eighty hours a week. We also want someone who will accept menial, thankless work without complaining. We don’t want to hire first-year associates with too much experience, because they are less willing to take our crap.
And although we say that we prefer to hire diverse candidates, by “diverse” we mean the typical first-year associate who will be about twenty-five to twenty-six years old, who was on Law Review, who likely did a summer associateship with our firm for a summer (because why would we hire someone without trying them out first?) and who happens to be from a traditional minority group.
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