In journalism school, we learned how to shape a story into an inverted pyramid, ask open-ended questions and be fair-minded. What if we wanted to get a big important man to talk and we were female?
Well, I learned that lesson in my fourth-year investigative reporting class after I was told to interview Liberal Senator Colin Kenny for a book being written by one of my instructors, John Sawatsky.
I was nervous and Kenny was impatient and gave short, unhelpful answers. Although it was bitterly cold outside, he opened his window and seemed to lean into the howling winter wind. My tape recorder barely picked up his answers.
Back on campus, I told Sawatsky and Professor Joe Scanlon, co-instructor of the course, that I didn’t get much out of Kenny. The always-intimidating Scanlon looked me up and down and asked, “Was that what you were wearing?”
I was in the height of discount eighties fashion. Burnt orange corduroy jodhpurs and a matching checked shirt, made by Espirit, with boots from a vintage store. My clothes were clean, while he’d been wearing was wearing his usual uniform, a crumpled grey suit.
“You shouldn’t have worn that to the interview. You needed a skirt, heels, something more . . . professional,” he said. “Mind if I bring this up in class tonight?”
I spent the next few hours working myself into a lather, which was easy to do because my prednisone had only been tapered down to 40 mg from the 80 mg I was taking at the start of the school year. I downed a beer in the nearby campus restaurant and tried to convince passing female classmates to back me if I challenged the sexist notion that we needed to dress like ladies to get a good interview.
In class, Scanlon explained that I’d blown my interview because I didn’t wear a skirt or a dress.
I had my hand in the air before he finished sharing tips on how women should dress for success, and when he finally called on me, I sputtered, “I’m not baring my ankles for anybody” before ranting about the cleanliness of his suit and double standards.
Looking back, an essential lesson for female journalism students should have been how to deal with sexist notions that our almost entirely male professors held, and that existed in the newsrooms we would soon walk into. A bonus would have been teaching us how to handle the gender power imbalances that existed between us and our interview subjects, the men that ran the world, from top to bottom.
Later that year, as a summer student at the Toronto Star, I spent a month writing summer fun fluff for a special supplement with another female student, while the other students wrote news. Some already had a dozen or more bylines on me.
Although we’d all been told that only the three returning students from last year would be hired at the end of the summer, we were all hoping to stand out in case that changed.
Trying to catch up, I took the advice of a kindly veteran reporter and tried to turn every assignment sent my way into gold in the hopes that something shone.
My assigned mentor, the Poison Dwarf, wasn’t much help. He invariably criticized my writing and then asked me out for lunch, his version of treat ‘em mean to keep ‘em keen. While other students were having lunch with their mentors and drinking together in the Print Room bar, I tried to fend the PD off by talking about my dad.
The PD took to insulting me on a regular basis and marking up my copy with a vicious red pen.
So I worked on my off-hours turning my honours research project from Carleton University into an investigative feature. I followed up on leads at home and found stories on my way to work, like two twins posing as living mannequins in a store window.
Then I noticed Ontario’s doctors were at a national meeting in Winnipeg, while labour negotiations were also going on with the provincial government back home. I found out what hotel they were staying at and managed to interview the MDs” executives about their concerns, which were headline worthy. At last, a front-page scoop. For two days.
I realized the best way to catch up was to work from home and come into the office to file stories before my afternoon shift started. I think I had reserves of energy from being on prednisone. The drug that finally stopped a horrible lupus flare that had attacked my joints, heart and lungs, was also my secret sauce.
Then something odd happened. The PD started taking me seriously. After reviewing my stories one week, he told me he’d decided I was really talented and he was going to help me get hired. I had no idea if this was a phantom job, or a real job might exist.
“Lunch?” asked the PD.
I’d earned his respect. It seemed safe enough.
The lunch was amicable. There was much discussion of cars and stereos. I saw a veteran female journalist also having lunch and worried she thought I was using my feminine wiles to win a job. For the record, I was wearing pants and loafers.
On the drive back, the PD said, “I have a confession to make, and an apology.”
I couldn’t imagine what was coming.
“I have been really unfair to you and I know I’ve treated you poorly. I want to explain why.”
In that moment, I felt vindicated. But he had to keep talking.
“I was just really attracted to you and I was afraid that something might happen, so I thought it best just to keep it professional. And be really hard on you so I didn’t play favourites.”
What do you say to this? Make light of it? Offer a sweet smile of understanding? Oh, you poor conflicted man. Or, Hey, I wore pants to work, how dare you!
Then we stopped at a traffic light. I imagined pulling an ejection switch and blasting out of the car to get out of the situation. Instead, I opened the door and without a word, I got out to walk back to One Yonge.
To hell with the job. Or the alleged job.