Poison Penmanship: The Gentle Art of Muckraking

by Jessica Mitford

  As usual, I had considerable difficulty with the first paragraph, which I worked over, wrote and rewrote, for several days. In the end the editor, with my reluctant concurrence, cut out that paragraph, so that the published version began “It all started in May, 1973 ...” Perhaps it is better that way? A borderline case of a murdered darling, sacrificed for a quicker lead-in to the story? But having gone to all that trouble I have put it back in for this collection. The editor also deleted the description of Dr. Bunzel at the end of the fourth paragraph, and the reference to the order from Chancellor Dumke’s office to strike the muckraking on page 197. He told me he felt I had been hard enough on the university administration without these extra pinpricks. Again I reluctantly agreed to the cuts, although I detected a certain squeamishness on the part of the editor, who evidently did not want to go too far in offending those eminences.

  After the piece was published, the Atlantic ran a long letter from Dean Robert Sasseen, together with my reply. Mr. Sasseen’s letter was full of deanish attempts at biting sarcasm: “Surely all but the most insensitive must suffer with a Lady-in-Exile, thrill to her heroic struggle, wonder at her enchanting ways and rejoice in her eventual triumph over the evils of fingerprinting. Surely one must envy the fortunate students who were enrolled in her ‘variety show’....” But of the fingerprinting requirement he said, “The requirement was found to be valid....”

  I replied that the Dean was wrong about this, that the decision was general in its application and by no means confined to my case; and that the ACLU lawyers who filed amicus briefs could find no ambiguity in Judge Ingram’s ruling that the university’s fingerprinting requirement is unsupported “by any validly adopted statute, rule or regulation.”

  The university trustees made no move to appeal from Judge Ingram’s decision, presumably fearing that it would be upheld in the appellate court. Consequently the Ingram ruling invalidating the print requirement stands to this day as the law governing this issue. But it seems that college administrators, like prison officials, consider themselves exempt from the laws which ordinary mortals are expected to obey. Curious to know whether the Finger-Flap, the clear-cut judicial decision, and my article relating all this had resulted in any policy changes, I checked recently (in October, 1978) with the personnel officers at San Jose and San Francisco State to find out what is happening on the finger front.

  Sam Milioto, San Jose personnel officer, said, “We still have the same policy, the only difference is that since your case we don’t let anyone start working until they’ve been fingerprinted.” And Joseph Glynn of San Francisco State told me, “Before your case came along, although fingerprinting was required we didn’t enforce it, because we hadn’t enough staff to monitor and follow up, so we were unable to insure compliance. We now send the newly hired employees to the Public Safety Office, and Public Safety sends us back a notice confirming that fingerprinting is completed.”

  Thus, unhappily, it seems that the net result of my effort was a tightening up of the illegal fingerprint procedure at San Jose State, enforcement of the illegal policy at San Francisco State where it was formerly ignored, and the creation at San Francisco State of that prize grotesquerie the “Public Safety Office.” This, an example of muckraking that not only fizzled but backfired, illustrates the limitations of the genre: absent an ongoing protest movement, which in this case failed to materialize, the mere exposure of bureaucratic absurdities is insufficient in and of itself to force change.

  For me there was, however, a considerable consolation prize. A month after “My Short and Happy Life” was published, I had a letter from the dean of Calhoun College at Yale, saying that he had read the piece and proposing that I teach a seminar on “Muckraking and Investigative Journalism.” “Let me assure you at the outset that neither a loyalty oath nor fingerprints are considered to be prerequisites or requirements for the position,” he wrote. Thus was initiated a most fascinating and illuminating experience: a semester at Yale in the spring of 1976, during which I not only had the pleasure of teaching some exceptionally bright and inventive students, but also of learning from them something of the politics of power, money, and corruption that lurks in the corridors of Ivy League Academe. That, of course, would be another story, more appropriately told by the students themselves.

  THE BEST OF FRENEMIES

  DAILY MAIL / August, 1977

  English newspaper readers were accorded a rare treat this summer when the press discovered that Mr. Ted Heath, former British Prime Minister, maintained a “Friends List” of 110 names, with revealing notations to enable his secretary to identify callers. Among his graphic comments: “Smooth stockbroker,” “Old lady, not too nice,” “Sends goodies,” “Very rich—fork lift trucks,” “We owe dinner.”

  Reading in far-off California about Mr. Heath’s Friends List, I visualize that it must have created a new parlour game being played nightly in sitting-rooms all over England: the capsule characterisation of Friends. I know it sent me scurrying for my address book, to scrutinize the names therein for appropriate one-line comment on each: “Lunch, not dinner, too drunk by then.” “Good for $100 contribution Prisoners Support Committee if approached right.” “Gone guru, alas.” “Into ceramics, health foods. Bother.” [Into? Yes, unfortunately—a new and deplorable shorthand for interested in or working at.] “An adorable creature, pity lives New York.” “Moderately good Scrabble, not much cop anything else.”

  Actually, I soon discovered that a substantial number of the names listed in my address book belong in the category of Frenemy, an incredibly useful word that should be in every dictionary, coined by one of my sisters when she was a small child to describe a rather dull little girl who lived near us. My sister and the Frenemy played together constantly, invited each other to tea at least once a week, were inseparable companions, all the time disliking each other heartily.

  I wonder whether most of us do not, in fact, spend more time with frenemies than with actual friends or outright enemies? Those fringy folks whose proximity, either territorial or work-related, demands the frequent dinner invitation and acceptance of their return hospitality? Pondering the potential guest list, dear reader, how often have you and your spouse bickered on in this fashion: “Well, if we ask Geraldine, we’ll have to ask Mary and her awful boy-friend.” “We can’t just ask Peter from my office and not the others—makes for bad blood. If we ask Peter, we’ve got to have the lot.”

  The return invitation of the frenemy is always cause for alarm, although generally not immediate alarm: “It’s three weeks off, darling, and anyway it’s a free dinner so let’s go,” one says hopefully. In our neighbourhood, the evening too often involves the showing of slides of the frenemies’ trip to Europe. In California, where the threat of earthquakes is ever present, one can take out “slide insurance” on one’s house; but this does not, as I have ascertained from my insurance agent, apply to such gatherings. “There is no such thing as a free dinner,” my husband once gloomily remarked as we staggered, exhausted, from the interminable click-click of the slides being put into their slot: “Oh, sorry, upside down, but this is Maudie at the Kremlin—you can just see her skirt on the left....”

  But real friends—ah! Who are they? Mostly people, boys and girls, whom we knew and laughed with and loved passionately circa age twenty. Only rarely does one make new friends in later life; I have some, and I cherish them dearly. The point about the friends of our youth, though, is that no matter how divergent our interests, viewpoints, ways of life have become over the years we can pick straight up with them and carry on as before: “Your pugs, darling, they are too smashing,” I will exclaim to such a friend who knows I actually loathe pugs, and she will counter with “Well darling I haven’t actually read your book [she actually loathes books] but I do think it’s marvellous anyway ...” and from then on it is very plain sailing: a sort of basking in mutual fondness that has nothing to do with her pugs or my books, just the heaven of each other’s company for the sak
e of it.

  Enemies are, to me, as important as friends in my life, and when they die I mourn their passing. For example, when I was writing The American Way of Death, some of my very best quotations of the funeral industry spokesmen were those of Mr. Wilber Krieger, Managing Director of the National Selected Morticians. His pronouncements were always absolutely sure-fire, marvellous copy. I could never have done without him; his “selection room for Merchandising Research to demonstrate lighting to show arrangements and decoration through the 25-unit balanced line of caskets,” and so on; he made my book. After the book came out, his denunciations of it in Casket & Sunnyside made my day. How very sad, then, to read in Mortuary Management that Mr. Krieger has gone on to a balanced-line casket. The news filled me with gloom; lifelong enemies are, I think, as hard to make and as important to one’s well-being as lifelong friends.

  Our former President, Mr. Richard Nixon, evidently recognizing this universal human need, maintained an official Enemies List. Surely Mr. Heath could produce one of those? But perhaps it would turn out to be not all that different from his old Friends List, with the same occasional notation “We Owe Dinner.”

  COMMENT

  There is no muck in this one. I include it because of the difficulties it presented as a commissioned piece on a subject far afield from my normal proclivities.

  The telephone rang at 6:30 a.m., London calling. Because of the eight-hour time difference, the Londoner who telephones to California generally contrives to rouse one from that deep and satisfying sleep that comes just before dawn. It was the editor of the Daily Mail, who in a charming Scottish accent explained what was wanted: Ted Heath’s “Friends List” had made headlines all over England. Would I do a short essay for the Mail on the subject of Friendship? Well, no, I said, I’d be hopeless on the subject of Friendship, that sort of thing isn’t my speed at all. But the editor would not take no for an answer; with many an “Och!” and “Ay!” he pressed on, and let drop the fact that the fee would be substantial. He did sound sweet, and so did the substantial fee; so I weakly said all right, I’ll have a try. When will the piece be due?

  “Och, today, my dear lady.” Today? In that case, said I, I cannot possibly do it, I am a very slow writer, it would take me at least a week.

  “Ay, but the Mail is a daily paper, we should have it in hand no later than tomorrow morning at this time, ye can telephone it in.”

  “Och, then, O.K., I’ll do my best.”

  Friendship. Friendship. Friendship. I had some coffee (always a good mind-jolter), and hung around miserably until about 10:30; nothing came to mind. I had a hot bath (another effective stimulant) and thought again. Still nothing. I am not an essayist by nature; the word evokes high-level scholarship and rich, thoughtful prose on some abstract subject—like Friendship. But for the Daily Mail, Yellow Press personified with one of the largest circulations in England, I reflected that I would virtually have to turn into Dear Abby or Erma Bombeck to produce the kind of comment on Friendship they would want. Either way, it was beyond my capabilities.

  At noon, I wrote out a telegram to the editor: “TERRIBLY SORRY TO HAVE INCONVENIENCED YOU BUT CANNOT WRITE FRIENDSHIP PIECE.” I dialed Western Union and got a recorded announcement that all lines were busy. Reading over my telegram while waiting for Western Union to become un-busy, I thought that this was really an extremely unprofessional thing to do, and hung up.

  Friendship. What about enemies, in some ways far more interesting and memorable than friends? Or Frenemies? I remembered my sister’s Frenemy and got to work. By nightfall I had finished.

  Promptly at 6:30 a.m. I telephoned to the Daily Mail and dictated the article to a typist. There is something rather pleasurable in calling London collect and lolling all relaxed in one’s dressing gown with a cup of coffee and a cigarette while the huge bill inexorably ticks up minute by minute.

  After the piece appeared in the Daily Mail, my canny braw agent, Scott Meredith, flogged it to The New York Times Op-Ed page, thus garnering yet another fee—whereupon numerous New York friends wrote to say they recognized themselves as the “adorable creature, pity lives New York.”

  All in all, a lucrative and satisfying day’s work.

  CHECKS AND BALANCES AT THE SIGN OF THE DOVE

  NEW YORK / May 30, 1977

  This is a cautionary tale in five acts for out-of-towners, as New Yorkers call provincials, like me, who venture into Manhattan only once in a great while. (I should hasten to hedge: some of my happiest moments have been spent in New York restaurants, from plain to fancy.)

  Act I. I invite a friend who works in the fashion industry to have dinner with me. As she is (I presume) a sophisticate who knows the city, I ask her to choose the restaurant. “Let’s go somewhere really nice,” I say expansively. She proposes the Sign of the Dove, once recommended to her by somebody; so thither we repair at 8 p.m.

  Act II. We are seated in an absurdly done-up place, its décor like a pink wedding scene, but, determined to enjoy ourselves, we remark how very elegant it is. Menus arrive; rather to my sorrow, I note the entrées are in the range of $16 to $18.50. We order frugally: one drink each; my friend gets the $18.50 lamb chops, I get the plat du jour (not on the menu), which is shad roe; half a bottle of Chablis to share; no starters or desserts. She has two small coffees, I none. The shad roe is overcooked, with a charred piece of bacon on top; my friend’s potatoes are cold. We ask for some proper bacon and some string beans to replace the cold potatoes. After a longish interval, these are brought. The restaurant, fairly empty when we first arrived, is filling up rapidly with persons of the gold-brocade-pantsuit type and their male counterparts, who blend nicely with the décor.

  Act III. The bill comes; it is for $76.10. I am inwardly fuming, especially since the two entrées are lumped as $50, with no further explanation. (Was the unlisted shad roe $31.50? Had the restaurant charged extra for the new piece of bacon? For the string beans in lieu of the unacceptable potatoes?) The two drinks are $5.50; the half-bottle of Chablis, $10.50; my friend’s coffee, $3.50. Cover charge and sales tax account for the balance. Not wishing to embarrass my friend—TSOTD having been her suggestion —I choke down my fury, say nothing, and write a check (with a measly $9 tip) for $85. My only desire now is to get out of this beastly place and write the whole thing off as one of life’s more dismal experiences.

  Act IV. Waiter says he cannot accept a personal check. I counter crossly that I haven’t got that much cash. Manager looms; have I no credit card? No, but I have tons of identification. He says on no account will he take personal checks—a check is just a piece of paper. So is a dollar bill, I point out. He beckons us into the lobby, where we are surrounded by menacing waiters, acting with the precision of trained guards. The manager, directing this B-movie scene, says he is going to call the police. I furiously demand that he should do so immediately; we’ll wait until they come and then he’ll find out what trouble is. He changes his mind about the police but swoops up our coat checks and says we won’t get our coats until we pay cash. I snatch back my $85 check, which he is holding, and we storm out, coatless, into the cold night.

  Act V. Back at the apartment, we start telephoning, first to a lawyer renowned for his consistent, militant defense of the underdog, then to a famous food columnist. The lawyer grumpily says I should have realized there’s no law requiring a businessman to accept a personal check, and there’s nothing he can do. The food columnist says I should have known better than to go there, that the place is notorious for its absurd prices and awful food. I am beginning to feel like the rape victim who is told she asked for it.

  Epilogue. My friend, who went back the next day bearing cash to ransom our coats, demanded an itemized breakdown of the $76.10 bill. After a long, whispered huddle between manager and waiters, this was produced. Except for its total, it bore no relation to our original bill. The “two entrées, $50” had disappeared, replaced by chops and roe at $18.50 apiece. Coffee, previously charged at $3.50, was now $4.50, and
two desserts had been added for $10. My persevering friend managed to make them knock off the unordered, unserved desserts plus a dollar for the coffee. The new total, including tax and cover charge, was $63.72, already a saving of $12.38 over the original bill. But this time my friend proffered not even the mingiest tip; thus, if one deducts $63.72 from the $85 I tried to pay, I saved a grand total of $21.28—thanks entirely to the inhospitable behavior of the management. What a windfall! Nevertheless, I think I shall not soon return to the Sign of the Dove.

  THE DOVE STRIKES BACK—A MORALITY PLAY IN FIVE ACTS

  NEW YORK / September 19, 1977

  Now I will show myself to have more of the serpent than the dove; that is, more knave than fool.

  Christopher Marlowe

  Prologue: Some weeks ago (New York magazine, May 30th) I described an unhappy evening at the Sign of the Dove, located at 1110 Third Avenue. To recapitulate for Faithless Readers who do not read, or remember, every golden word we writers inflict upon them: I had invited a woman friend to dine there with me. Seeing the prices on the menu, we ordered frugally, one pre-dinner drink apiece, a half-bottle of Chablis to share, two entrées, one coffee. The food was pretty awful, but the bill was worse: $76.10, including “cover charge” and tax, the two entrées lumped as $50. Not having that much cash on me, I tried to pay by check, refused by waiter. The manager threatened to call police unless I produced cash or credit card; he changed his mind about the police but, holding our coats as hostage, sent us shivering into the cold night air. The next day my friend, who went back bearing cash to ransom our coats, demanded a breakdown of the $76.10 bill. This was eventually produced; except for its total, it bore no relation to our original bill. Entrées were now listed at $18.50 apiece, desserts and extra coffee had been added. My friend made them knock off the unordered, unserved items, reducing the total to $63.72. In short, an unpleasant and debilitating experience.