SEVEN #2
That year, the year I was ten, our washing machine had broken down one night.
My mother called Sears and, after being on hold for the better part of an hour, explained in her halting, accented English what had happened and when she had purchased the machine.
I was sitting at the kitchen table, doing my fraction problems, half-listening to my mother’s end of the conversation.
The customer service representative curtly replied that Sears was not obligated to repair anything, then hung up on my mother.
My mother saved everything. She found the original sales receipt for the washing machine we’d gotten at Sears and asked me to read the warranty language. The warranty was good for a whole year, and it had only been ten months since we’d gotten it.
That week when my mother took me to the library, she asked at the desk for a book on how to write an official business letter.
The librarian seemed overjoyed to have been asked a question.
She led my mother over to the stacks and removed a shiny yellow paperback, dusted off the cover, and handed it to her: Business Letters That Work!
I studied and studied that book. I carefully read the explanations of each component of a formal letter. Many of them were new words to me, but they seemed so grown-up and important. I loved the sound of them. Salutation. Greeting. Body. Closing. Signature.
With this book and the crumpled, yellowing Sears receipt lying on the table, I prepared to type on my father’s Smith-Corona typewriter. I used a jar of Skippy peanut butter to hold open the book’s pages.
First, I typed the date. Next, the recipient’s name and address.
“Sears Customer Service Center.” I carefully copied the address from the warranty slip.
Then came the salutation. “To Whom It May Concern,” I typed, following the example in the library book.
Finally, I reread the directions for composing the body of the letter.
“Step One: Clearly state the purpose of your letter. Your tone should be courteous but firm. Step Two: Give the supporting information the recipient will need to evaluate your request. Step Three: Restate your request, and thank the recipient for his or her time and consideration.”
Carefully, I typed:
The purpose of this letter is to inform you that my washing machine from your store is broken and to ask you to please fix it for free.
The machine was purchased at your store in Rockville, Maryland, on December 4. The warranty stapled to my receipt says that “Repairs and service are guaranteed until one year from date of purchase,” and the year is not up yet. (I still have the receipt because I save everything.)
I will now restate my request. Please send someone to fix my washing machine, because the year is not up yet. Thank you for your time and consideration.
Fondly,
Mrs. ElinorYan-MeiYung
My mother read it, smiled at me, and pronounced that it was perfect. She signed her name at the bottom in careful script and mailed it. Three and a half weeks later, a man in a Sears van pulled into our driveway and repaired our washing machine at no charge.
My parents had never been prouder of me.
Beaming, my mother hugged me and said that I was her very smart girl.
And that I should grow up and become a lawyer, and that way my mother and father would always be sure that no one could push them around just because they looked or talked differently from anyone else.
Nobody bosses my Ingrid around, my mother had said, in Chinese. I thought about that quite a lot, even now. Especially now.
I looked across the desk and shrugged at Dr. Rossi. “I don’t know, it beats flipping burgers,” I said.
Dr. Rossi was looking carefully at me. He leaned way back in his chair, placed his right foot on his left knee, and crossed his arms. “Ingrid,” he said.
I blinked at him.
“I can’t help you if you won’t help me,” he said.
“I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t remember asking anyone for any help.”
Dr. Rossi leaned forward again in his chair. “Look,” he said in a lowered voice. “This may surprise you, but I completely appreciate the position you’re in. I realize you’re up for partner in a few short weeks, and I’ve heard the scuttlebutt that your chances are thought to be excellent.”
I perked up a little. Scuttlebutt? There was scuttlebutt? I cleared my throat. “Where have you heard this?”
Dr. Rossi gave me a sidelong look. “You forget that I’ve been having lunch with various groups of partners here all week. People talk.”
This was good. This was very good. I looked down at my lap so he wouldn’t see the broad grin spreading across my face.
“So you see,” he continued, “I appreciate why you might have very little incentive to speak candidly with me about diversity and inclusion at this firm. I mean, so what if the system’s broken, it’s working all right for you, is that it?”
I didn’t nod, but I didn’t correct him, either.
“You’ve obviously been very successful in your career here, and that’s terrific. But could I invite you to speculate on why there’s only one of you who’s made it this far? That is to say, why there aren’t more women of color up for partnership?”
While I tried to think of a diplomatic response, Dr. Rossi held up an Excel spreadsheet.
“For example, I see that in your entering class, there was another Asian American woman, but she quit within the first year and a half. I’m curious to hear your thoughts about why she might have left.
Why do you feel the firm was unable to retain her? ”
I remembered this woman—Zhang Liu—very clearly, though I’d tried to forget.
For the first few months after our new associate orientation, a lot of the partners and secretaries had had trouble telling us apart, even though we looked nothing alike.
Zhang wore her hair short with bangs. Mine was long and layered.
She also stood a head taller than me. But a year later, we still got each other’s interoffice mail.
Zhang Liu was from Beijing and had come to the States at the age of eighteen to attend MIT.
She had aced the bar exam and every other standardized test known to civilization.
Rumor had it she was brilliant, but it was hard to tell, since she spoke English that was technically correct but strongly accented.
Her blunt-cut hair always looked like it needed shampooing, and she wore shapeless, ill-fitting suits that obscured what was actually a pretty decent figure.
She was extremely shy, and almost never joined in when a group of us went out to grab lunch or drinks.
On the rare occasions she did come out, Zhang hovered silently on the outer fringes of our group, nursing a 7-Up, while the rest of us tossed back martinis and traded dirty jokes and gossip.
And when she did speak, her voice was so soft and low it barely rose above a whisper.
Once, at a Corporate Department meeting, I’d seen Marty Adler lose his patience and snap, “Speak up, Zhang, for God’s sake.
” I’d never heard Adler speak to an associate like that before or since; it had stuck with me.
Another time, Harold Rubinstein had actually praised her for an excellent research memo she had prepared on some new securities disclosure regs.
“It was extremely well done, Zhang,” he had said, in front of all of us.
“Great job.” Zhang had blushed, and murmured something in protest about how it had really been a group effort and that, really, two summer associates had done most of the research.
I shook my head. She just wasn’t getting it.
Everyone knew that on the rare occasion when a partner publicly praised your work, the only right answer was Thank you.
About a year after we started, Zhang ventured to my office late one night. She knocked tentatively on my door, and I looked up, startled, from the stack of corporate minutes I’d been reviewing and marking with a yellow highlighter. Apropos of nothing, she asked me if I knew how to speak Chinese.
“No,” I lied.
I knew how much courage this must have taken on her part; I knew just how much it must have cost her. And yet, to my embarrassment, I could not summon the courage in myself to do the kind thing.
It had only been my first year. My own position at the firm was not yet so secure that I could afford to be associated with Zhang Liu any more than I already was. I was terrified she’d drag me down.
I was passing, and she was not.
Zhang stuck it out at Parsons Valentine a few more months, collected her December bonus, and quit. I had no idea where she’d gone.
I thought about Zhang Liu from time to time, especially last winter, when I’d reread one of my favorite books from college—The Woman Warrior, by Maxine Hong Kingston.
I got stuck on one scene in which the tough, rebellious heroine terrorizes a Chinese American classmate in the girls’ bathroom, pulling on her pigtails and pinching her cheeks to force her to speak English.
I looked into her face so I could hate it close up, she wrote.
I realized, with a sharp stab of guilt, that that was exactly what I had done—looked into Zhang Liu’s lost, lonely face and hated it close up.
“All right, look,” I sighed. “Let’s just say that, in my experience, most white men are still a lot more comfortable working with guys who look, talk, and act just like them.”
“But what about the various initiatives of the Diversity and Inclusion Committee?” prodded Dr. Rossi.
I snorted. As far as I could tell, until the incident at the firm outing, the Diversity and Inclusion Committee had been all but defunct.
Their “initiatives” had consisted of taking the associates to see The Lion King on Broadway, throwing a margarita happy hour on Cinco de Mayo, and serving spring rolls and dumplings in the Jury Box during Asian Pacific American Heritage Month.