Chapter 38 Women Worth Knowing #2
one thing. A friend can give you a leg up to see what’s on the other side of the wall, but you’ve got to pull yourself over
the top. Understand?”
Margaret nodded.
“Good girl,” Katharine said. “Now, get out there and mingle.”
* * *
That was easier said than done.
The other women were friendly, but they already knew one another well. Because Margaret knew so little about journalism and
wasn’t nearly as up to speed on current events as they were, she found herself hanging on the fringes of the conversation,
clutching her sherry and feeling superfluous—and hungry.
If she’d known lunch would be late, she’d have eaten before she came. Who were they waiting for anyway? And when would she deign to grace them with her presence?
Feeling a tap on her shoulder, Margaret turned around. A younger woman, perhaps twenty-five, with intelligent slate-gray eyes
and thick, dark hair cut in a pageboy style, stuck out her hand.
“I’m Susan Stamberg. You look like you could use rescuing, or a stronger drink.”
“Is it that obvious?” Margaret shook her hand. “I’m Margaret Ryan. What do you do, Susan?”
Margaret had already figured out that women journalists had little patience for small talk. They jumped in and got to the
point, no preambles, no nonsense.
“I work at WAMU, a public radio station located on the American University campus. I’m the program director. I know, I know,”
Susan said, shrugging. “I don’t look old enough. But the good thing about working for such a small station—it’s just four
thousand watts and we’ve only been on the air two years—is that you can learn a lot, move up quickly, and do some of everything.
In my case, that means program directing and reporting. I also cohost a show called Kaleidoscope. It’s like a magazine,” she explained, “but for radio.”
“I’ve listened to your show!” Margaret exclaimed. “I heard it in the car one day, a story on the history of the Hope Diamond
before it was donated to the Smithsonian. So interesting,”
Margaret’s admiration was genuine. Small station or not, she was impressed that Susan had carved a career for herself at such
a young age.
“Thanks,” Susan said. “And I read your piece. You definitely know how to write.”
Margaret was pleased but surprised. A smart, busy young career woman like Susan Stamberg didn’t seem to fit the readership
profile for A Woman’s Place.
“A friend clipped it out and sent it to me because we’d been discussing The Feminine Mystique,” Susan explained. “She thought you had some good insights, and I agree. But I’m curious. Katharine said you’re a freelancer,
but you bought ad space to publish that piece, didn’t you? Don’t take this the wrong way,” she said, looking Margaret up and
down, “but you don’t strike me as the kind of person who goes around writing big checks.”
“Trust me, I’m not. It was kind of a group project,” Margaret said, going on to give a condensed explanation of the events
that had brought her to this point.
“That is a great story,” Susan said when she was finished. “There’s not a writer in the world who hasn’t dreamed of making
an end run around her editor. But you actually did it!”
“Yes, for all the good it did. Months later I’m as unemployed as ever.”
Susan frowned sympathetically. “It’s a hard business to break into, especially for women. Getting the column was a lucky break,
but you need more credentials. Have you thought about going back to school? WAMU offers internships for journalism students.
It’s a great way to get experience.”
“Oh. Well . . .” Margaret shifted her shoulders. “We couldn’t afford it. Like you said, I’m not the kind that goes around
writing big checks. And with three kids at home—”
The door opened again. An unsmiling man in a dark suit stepped inside, scanning the room and bringing all conversation to
an abrupt halt. He glanced over his shoulder and nodded to an unseen someone, then flattened himself against the wall like
a sentry at a battlement.
Margaret looked toward Susan, thinking she might explain what was going on. But she was staring at the open door just like
everyone else.
An elegantly dressed, dark-haired woman with a willowy figure and a light step entered the room.
The jolt Margaret felt upon seeing her was so electric that she pressed her hand against her mouth to keep from gasping.
The woman scanned the assembly with smiling brown eyes before turning to their hostess, speaking in a familiar, slightly breathless voice.
“I’m terribly sorry to be so late. Katharine, can you ever forgive me?”
Mrs. Graham stepped forward, taking the woman’s delicate hands between her own. “There’s nothing to forgive, Mrs. Kennedy.
We’re so pleased you were able to come.”
The First Lady’s laugh was bright and fluid, like liquid gold.
“Oh, none of that now, not among so many familiar faces. Today I’m just Jackie. But I’m warning you, girls. From here on out,
everything is off the record.”
She took a seat in a cream-colored chair and pulled a pack of cigarettes from her purse.
“Does anyone have a light?”
* * *
The sideboard buffet of salad, crustless sandwiches, and petit fours went largely untouched. As soon as the stories started
flowing, everyone, including Margaret, forgot their hunger.
It seemed that the First Lady and many of those present really did know each other—had traveled in each other’s orbits well
before she became Mrs. Kennedy, back when she truly was “just Jackie,” an ambitious and talented young woman who wanted to
be a journalist.
As Susan had observed, it was a hard business to break into, even for a woman as socially well connected as Jacqueline Bouvier.
Those connections opened the door to a secretarial job at the Washington Times-Herald, but getting her boss to take her seriously, and eventually give her a byline, took hard work, ingenuity, and more than a
little nerve.
When Princess Elizabeth of England came to Washington in 1951, the uncredentialed Jackie crashed an invitation-only press event, hoping to land an interview—or even just a quote—that she could craft into a career-catapulting story.
She failed on all counts, earning a loud lecture from her boss, who reminded her in no uncertain terms that she was “not a reporter!”
Even so, when a freelance stringer quit and no one else wanted to take over the unbylined “Inquiring Photographer” column—a
man-on-the-street feature requiring the reporter to take photos and pose questions to random citizens—the assignment went
to Miss Bouvier. The question for her first column was, “Is Princess Elizabeth as pretty as her picture?”
“I was paid twenty-five dollars a week to take photographs and write interviews with six different people, six days a week—144
interviews a month. I ran all over Washington lugging a huge Graflex camera and accosting perfect strangers on the street.”
Everyone laughed. Mrs. Kennedy lit a second cigarette.
“Nobody wanted that column, but I threw everything I had into making it the kind of feature people looked forward to reading,
and it worked. They changed the name to ‘Inquiring Camera Girl,’ gave me a byline, and raised my pay to a whopping $42.50
a week.”
There it was again, that self-deprecating, liquid gold laugh. But something in Mrs. Kennedy’s eyes told Margaret that despite
all she’d seen and done since, the First Lady looked back on her stint as the Inquiring Camera Girl with fondness and not
a little pride.
Nearly every woman there had a story about seizing some meager opportunity that came her way and turning it into a ladder
to get from where she was to where she wanted to be.
Veteran political reporter Mary McGrory spent years writing book reviews and “dog stories”—human interest features that male
reporters dismissed as puff pieces—before finally getting a chance to cover the McCarthy hearings, referring to the junior
senator from Wisconsin as “an Irish bully” and making a name for herself in the process.
After spending years writing for Midwestern papers, Bess Furman was offered a job in the DC offices of the Associated Press covering political wives.
The most prominent was then First Lady Lou Hoover, who “loathed reporters.” Masquerading as a troop leader at a White House reception for the Girl Scouts, Bess charmed Mrs. Hoover. Soon
a legitimate invitation was extended to her, kicking off a decades-long career spent reporting on presidential wives.
Their stories were incredibly inspiring. But what Margaret loved most about the women was the way they talked to one another—sharing
advice, counsel, and camaraderie, along with the occasional snarky comment. Their exchanges felt comfortable to Margaret,
and familiar.
Oh yes, she thought to herself, they could be Bettys.
The party went by much too quickly. As Mrs. Kennedy was telling the story of how, in 1952, still seeking opportunities to
write features in addition to her column, she bluffed her way into Griffith Stadium and stationed herself right next to the
locker room in hopes of scoring an interview with Ted Williams, the door opened. The man in the dark suit stepped into the
library. Mrs. Kennedy crushed out her cigarette.
“Ladies, this has been lovely, but I’m afraid I have to go. There’s a judicial reception this evening, and then I’ve got to
pack.”
She stood and gathered her things. Mrs. Graham walked her to the door. As the two women passed by, Margaret heard the First
Lady’s promise to Mrs. Graham.
“Let’s get together soon, Katharine. Maybe we can sneak in lunch before Thanksgiving. I’ll call you on Saturday as soon as
Jack and I get back from Dallas.”