BG is ready. “People are going to go whether we reimburse or not. It’s where men want to go to have a good time and it’s mostly men who run these accounts. They don’t want to go to the ballet. These are men who work hard all day, who are under pressure all the time. What’s the harm in letting off steam? There’s nothing more bonding than when we entertain our clients and when we do that, in either banking or trading, guess who bonds with our trading floor? Guess what you get to bond with? Your bank account. If some women are that sensitive, they’ll never cut it in this business and don’t belong here.”
Seeing that this conversation is too narrow, a star currency trader named Caleigh Caruso shifts gears. “Tell me how I should deal with a situation like this: I have a major Boston account that I cover with a man. I’m the senior person on the account. One day I’m on the phone to the account and they say something to the effect that we’ve got a great day for the Feagin golf outing. I know nothing about this golf outing and I’m a scratch golfer. This was done behind my back because it was being held at an all-male club in Boston.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s your handicap?” Gruss laughs and then turns serious. “Look, ladies, all I’m saying is that we have to get along and be the most productive we can be. If that includes adjusting yourself so you work better with the person sitting next to you, so be it.”
“Nobody should have to compromise their morals so that they can have a job,” I retort.
“I haven’t heard anything today that sounds remotely like a moral or ethical issue.” He pushes back on his chair, making an expensive scraping sound on the floor, and continues. “My door is always open and I welcome the chance to chat individually.”
With this he rises from his chair and, without touching his lunch, he leaves. The cigar/pacifier is still being fondled in his hand. He’s leaving? This is just the beginning. I look at my list of items to cover and realize we’ve barely touched one of them. His legal counsel is left there alone, awkwardly recleaning her red spectacles.
“How can you stand to defend that?” I burst out, motioning to the closing door.
Without responding, Blythe stands. “Look, every firm has issues normal to the course of their doing business. We are thriving here despite your criticisms. I too have an open door, and invite each of you to walk through it and visit me.”
“Why visit you when we’re all here now? When will all of us in the same room ever happen again?” I ask. “Look, some of you have come from California, Chicago, and even London to discuss this. There’s been no discussion so let’s have a discussion right now, with or without management!” I feel energized, like some community organizer. Defiance is suddenly the most liberating drug and it’s surging through my system. I expect to hear a chorus of “Hell yah!”
Except I don’t.
Nobody says anything and all eyes are staring at the microphone jacks on the table, the ones that are probably recording every bit of my rant. But I’m crazed and don’t care.
“Ask Chungda what it feels like to be back at work when she gave birth four weeks ago,” I beg. “That is not normal.”
Chungda makes clear that she disowns me and wishes I would shut up.
“Ask Kiera why she still isn’t a senior managing director after winning the Institutional Investor poll seven years in a row?”
I am referring to Kiera Goodfriend, a wiz accounting analyst who sits rigidly, staring into space.
I continue, “There isn’t a person in this whole firm who has been so consistently recognized by the outside world as her, yet she still hasn’t been promoted to partner.”
Kiera twists her very styled hair and looks away, letting it be known that she too is separating herself from anything I say.
“And Kathryn, how is it that you’re a director on the mortgage desk and have no say in the portfolio holdings in our subprime packages? There are no women on our risk committee, no women on the executive board. These bonds come with ratings we tell our clients are triple-A but the holdings look like crap. How are they getting these ratings? Who will take the fall for these when they crash? Do you know how much risk that puts all of us in?”
A few quiet seconds pass and I start to look around the room. Everyone is frozen. It’s as if I’m at an intervention for a dysfunctional family, all squirming with pain but unable to find any words. Whatever sisterhood thing I was feeling is not being felt both ways. It’s not just a lack of love that I’m picking up on, I’m feeling downright disowned. The individual shuffling, the electrical glances they exchange with each other say it all. Nobody wants to be associated with me. In just minutes I’ve switched from being a golden girl just like them to an ugly, ranting, contagious disease. I stuck my neck out for these women and I don’t even like them.