— You love committees. They make you feel important. Part of a community. Where did you get that defamation. Why do you discriminate against me. Because I make fun of your committees. But I like to come, I tell you that. I love political orgasms. So, yes, I will serve on your committees. If I can get a political orgasm. Why not, ah, why not.
— Multiculturalism is dead, the fact that we teach it in universities is proof enough. What about the GAP adds, featuring Asian, African, Gay models. It’s not an African in African garb. It’s just an African model. It’s all GAP. That’s what is killing Europe. Unification in the name of marketing. To think all the great diversity of cheese in France is gone, long gone. Maybe they had five thousand cheeses, now they have five hundred because the specialty brie maker cannot compete, my darling, because in order to survive he must unify with all the other little brie makers to mass market one cheese to export to all of Europe, and the unification kills diversity of flavors, and languages, just like McDonalds is cutting down the rain forests in Brazil for the sake of raising hamburger meat — fifty, eighty indigenous languages a day drop off the face of the earth. For the sake of hamburgers. Why go to France if I have to carry a computer that spies on me, blinking Email messages throughout the night, telephones, faxes, and computers tracking my every breath.
— You love France.
— We go way back.
— I always thought of France as England’s wife. Germany’s tragedy was that it married Italy instead of Spain. Spain would have been the perfect match for Germany. Anti-Semitism began in Spain.
— My darling, the most racist country in Europe is France. They measured two thousand, three thousand skulls a day in the name of white supremacy.
— I thought those were the Germans.
— No, my darling, the Germans hurried harm along with statistics.
— And the British.
— We are too careless, my darling, to even balance our checkbooks. We would not trouble ourselves with statistics. Every Frenchman, on the other hand, is an accountant. When I was studying in Paris, my landlord measured the soap with a string, and charged me for every millimeter of soap I used. And when the refugees were leaving France, dying of thirst, the French lined up at the borders, offering them glasses of water, but when they were about to drink the water, the bloody bastards charged them. If they had no money, they would have no water. The only thing left in France is the mime.
— Y en Inglaterra ni mimos hay.
— Albeit, I would have never been seduced by England. That is why I escaped to France when I was fifteen years old. I fell in love with Paris. London grows on one, but one does not fall in love with London. London does not want anyone to fall in love with it.
— That’s why I always say England and France are spouses. But don’t deny me that the British are not racist. You obliviated the Indians.
— Those were the puritan fanatics that England rejected. The harmless ones stayed home. We said, go fanatics, go to the wilderness of monkeys. And look at the mess they created. You call that Multiculturalism. They obliviated the Indians. And they continue to do so in the name of Big Mac. Eighty, ninety languages a day. Poof. Gone. Look at Toni Morrison, Maxine Hong Kingston, and Amy Tan — writing about their lost culture — long dead. No wonder the bloody Americans celebrate them — because now they are no longer black or Chinese, they’re all GAP. Fifty years ago this was unheard of. American soccer players on the Brazilian team. French players on the British team. They sell themselves to the highest bidder. Is that diversity? No, now all the teams are the same!
— Y entonces my boss Ian, with the gap between his teeth — said to me:
— Can you picture Homar banging Kinney in Madrid. Repulsive, isn’t it. I like to picture Kinney bent over the kitchen sink in flannel slippers. How do you like to picture it?
— I prefer not to—I said.
And then, Kinney brings me back a lesbo porn magazine. Joanie told me to report it to personnel — it’s sexual harassment.
— Kinney—I said—I’m not a lesbian.
— I didn’t say you were—he laughed—but you can’t deny you’re a raving feminist. Ian and I thought this magazine would help you find yourself.
— No, no thank you—I answered, and Joanie told me:
— File a grievance. I’ll testify I saw the magazine.
— But I don’t know, what can happen to you. You gave Russell my book, and pasted a Playboy pin-up inside.
— I was teasing my Russell. It’s not the same. Did I fire anybody with only two weeks pay, two weeks before Christmas? It is insane, inhumane, don’t you see, if the guy hates New York why is he the head of the New York practice. Firing people with only two weeks pay, while he spends five grand on a Christmas party after Mr. Madonna sent a memo to the entire staff saying there should be no Christmas party this year, and then he spends the rest of what would be my compensation on Mont Blanc pens for all the clients, kiss-ass, but he wouldn’t even lend his secretary a Bic. I have a major problem with that. And when Kinney told me:
— Come to the Village with me and my boyfriend Homar. We would like you to be frank about your sexual preference. Why don’t you wear skirts to work?
— I wear them—I said—in the summer. And if you keep harassing me, I’ll sue you and the firm for sexual harassment.
Ian used to bellow from one hall to the other: Get me more coffee! Is that a way to treat your secretary. Nothing is ever enough.
— And it should never be enough. If they can keep pulling bunnies out of your hat. There was a moment when you should have put your foot down.
— I tried to transfer to another unit, but they were scared I would squeal. I saw what they were doing with the drug addict.
— A double standard — treating you so bad, while the coke-head was snorting nose-candy off the desk — dick privilege, coño, what an injustice.
— And you remember when they wanted to fire Joanie. They told me to testify that she distracts other secretaries by talking on the phone all day.
— No way—I said—she’s a typist. All she has to do is type. She can talk on the phone as long as there are no typos.
I am planning to tell La China:
— Keep trying to be white, they will always see you as yellow, and someday, they’ll fire you too, and you deserve it.
And Charlie, who said:
— What an unfortunate case! Why didn’t anyone tell me she was a perfect employee? I would have saved her job.
Why didn’t he check my personnel file himself. I have a problem with that. I told him:
— Promise me you will investigate their files. They have a long history of harassing women. I’m not the first.
— The firm takes your allegations very seriously. Promise to come to the office tomorrow and put them in writing.
They raped my spirit. How will I put that in writing. Me gustaría desgarrarme la camisa, entera, y gritar:
— I am a woman! Sexual harassment!
— And that’s precisely what I love about Mishi. I mean, during the L.A. race riots, before the looting and the shooting had even stopped, when everything was hot and sticky in New York, she jumped right into a subway mugging and defended an old Mexican from four black guys.
— Give us everything you got, or else we’ll turn you in to La Imigra. We know you don’t have papers.