Nashville
My first job after divinity school involved a move to Nashville. I was 28 years old.
I relocated from Birmingham to work with IVCF in their Graduate and Faculty Ministry at Vanderbilt. To have the job, I began to fundraise my salary. When only 50% had been pledged by my move date, I decided to be parttime with IVCF and support myself with another job to pay my bills.
My first few days of adulting in Nashville resulted in tears as I realized I could not get a lease without a job, but any employer wanted my current Nashville address. My IVCF supervisor eventually found a home for me in Green Hills – an MDiv student at Vandy needed a roommate to help split the cost of a parsonage at an extremely reasonable rate for Green Hills and Nashville generally.
Then the temporary agency had the address they needed to slot me into positions that needed secretarial help.
Lex Brodie’s Fast Gas became my first employer in Nashville. Lex Brodie grew up on the islands and started a surf shop catering the rich and famous of the 1930’s, moving to gas and tires in the 1950’s. He eventually retired in 1991, and a tire shop owner from Nashville met Lex and bought him out of his business. When I worked with this owner, he had returned to Nashville to raise funds for an ambitious new project in Hawaii.
Jay (not his real name) loved wheeling and dealing. He enjoyed the shock of extravagance and no task seemed too large. He provided a sizeable income to his wife each month (who had remained in Nashville), and he let anyone who listened know about it.
I say this because he eventually took me and two other employees for a 2-week business trip to Hawaii – I think in part because he wanted to brag about it later. Mind you, I was an employee of the temporary agency during all of this. I remember Tony (not his real name), my “recruiter” telling me about this position with an air of disbelief. He had never heard of the business and looked it up on the S&P 500 to verify its legitimacy. When he was told Lex Brodie’s Fast Gas wanted to pay for a trip to Hawaii while also paying my salary, he verified the details again, making sure that I did not have reservations about taking the trip. Maybe I should have.
Arriving in Honolulu, my suite at the Princess Kaiulani on Waikiki Beach had a balcony overlooking the heart of Waikiki. The next day, going to office, included a ride in Jay’s McLaren Spider (or some other sports car) and meeting the office manager on-site. Sue (not her real name) reminded me of a gas and tire version of Flo from the TV series “Alice.” Cigarette hanging from her lip, returning shmack as easily as the guys gave it, she wore fitted clothes and make-up amongst petroleum products and grease stains. She kept Jay in line, too, a testament to her cleverness.
I only remember bits and pieces of those 2 weeks – while not every temp gets a free trip to Hawaii, I longed to be there with people I loved and who loved me. Jay, while affording me the same respect as Sue, enjoyed attracting the attention of women with the cars and the money he spent. One evening early in the trip, I realized why I got the suite at the Princess Kaiulani when 2 young 20-somethings were escorted into the room to admire the view and, I’m assuming, be reassured that some of the stories Jay told were true.
In order to see the islands or have the promised paid for meals, I had to go wherever Jay and his business associates wanted to go. One night that landed me in Hooter’s with one of these associates telling me that if the waitresses rubbed on him enough, he would give them a larger tip. I was insulted then by the objectification of the women, but recounting this, I am appalled.
In my memory, I attempt to buffer these experiences with some of the items I enjoyed seeing or in which I participated: a luau; a flight to the Big Island and viewing the volcanoes; watching the Honolulu Marathon from my balcony and exploring the finisher’s area on foot (A favorite shirt came from that race.); walking along Waikiki beach.
Yet, as I write this, the emotional response to that experience is anger, sadness, disgust. Anger because of a culture that sanctions the objectification of women. Anger that no one taught me that kind of behavior was wrong or disrespectful or unjust as I grew up – or supported my feminist views (read – women-need-to-be-treated-as-equal-humans view). I am sad that so little has changed even with the exposures of the Harry Weinsteins or Matthew Lauers. I am sad to have not done more to fight against what I saw in Hawaii and disgusted to have been a part of the cycle – to have been a pawn to make someone else look less predatorial – to have been scared to say something because of the ramifications to my job.
So this is a confession after all – and a request for forgiveness. May I not be silent.
(Nashville, 3/29/23)