Immortalist Manifesto

The article I submitted to the Jobs of the Damned writing contest.

Hello, my name is Kate, and I’m a prostitute.

–Hi, Kate.–

Recovering prostitute, I should say.

Straight out of school and scared of the streets, I took the first and only job offer that came my way: an ever shriveling title with an ever swelling list of responsibilities.

I had graduated with the last wave of idealistic print journalists. Even my college advisor tried to dissuade me: “You realize you’ll never make any money, right?”

Determined to alter reality by wielding the written word, I was prepared to sacrifice the lush life. What I didn’t anticipate was the daily degradation that began the instant I signed on the dotted line.

I should have known this church communication department was no place for me when my boss, a 6-ft-6 spineless wonder, mincingly told me to leave my already-minimal jewelry at home. I would also have to accept payroll under the title of Secretary (22 years old + female = Secretary) but do the combined work of a writer, proofreader, video editor and graphic designer, and attend at least two worship and prayer sessions each day. And to make things especially awkward, my boss took pains to remind me almost daily that I was his subordinate, that I was too young to understand the intricate workings of office politics, and that he felt like I was a sort of daughter to him.

I found I could be fired for drinking alcohol and possibly even caffeine, buying so much as a lottery ticket (lottery = gambling = fun = vice), being involved in a homosexual relationship, being involved in a heterosexual but unmarried relationship, or failing to pay 10% of my paycheck back to the Church–a.k.a. my pimp.

Within this barbed-wire cage, I was expected to operate. For $11 an hour. And I tried. I had sacrificed the lush life, perhaps I could sacrifice personal boundaries too–but I would wield the written word, damn it!

As part of my duties, I commissioned a youth counselor to write an article on the under-addressed issues of sexual abuse. It was one of my single-digit list of tasks I was proud of. Yet as I proofread the copy, I noticed the Spineless Wonder had changed the author’s perfectly professional reference to the female sex organ from “vagina” to “private parts.”

Private parts.

Whisky, Tango, Foxtrot.

I crossed that out and restored “vagina.”

And so began a week-long fight and one of the many times I cursed my lack of savings for keeping me in this paradox of a Godforsaken religious organization.

The Spineless Wonder could scarcely pronounce the word vagina. It came out as three distinct words: vah gine uh. (Vagina = female = run for hills, clutching balls.)

I worked the word into every sentence of my argument: Vagina is not a dirty word. Vagina is the proper term. Doctors say vagina. Vagina, vagina, vagina.

He retorted, “We’re not publishing a medical journal.”

Oh, Sherlock, your powers of observation are truly staggering.

His logic thinning, he finally broke eye contact, lifted his nose and played the ever-ready trump card: he was the boss. The article must be spayed.

While my ideals and good intentions were stubbed at every turn (assisting the blind at sister organization = not answering office-wide phones = screw the blind, that’s why God invented Braille), my skills were exploited. The silver-haired, empty-headed organization president, who regularly regaled us with photos of his grandchildren while forgetting our names, and once compared one of his meager good deeds to the crucified Christ, made me scan, edit and lay out photos for his personal Christmas letter because he was too lazy and stupid to use his own software.

I protested that though I was admittedly a maddening amalgam of secretary, receptionist, writer, proofreader, video editor and graphic designer, I was not the president’s Photoshop whore.

The Spineless Wonder said, “Well, that Christmas letter will probably go out to someone in our magazine audience too, so . . .”

Stroke, suck and swallow.

Once while digging around with him in the musty basement for photography equipment, I literally crossed my fingers that the Spineless Wonder would try something.

I mean really try something.

I was fairly confident I could fend him off. As tall as he was, he had to weigh all of 12 pounds; he was a suited tight ass on stilts. But even if I misjudged my scrappiness–even so! A modest “PLEASE don’t tell, we don’t want to look like the Catholics” settlement would get me hastily the hell out of Dodge. And it would be worth it.

That’s when it hit me.

Sex = money.

This church had turned me into a prostitute.

I fantasized for months about suing for age and gender discrimination, or at least securing a higher-paying job, waiting for the perfect, misogynistic moment, and storming out in a flurry of profanity.

But this was Nebraska, and after months of dead-end interviews, I simply married out. My then-fiancé got a job in the Twin Cities and I used that as a don’t-ask-don’t-tell excuse for exodus.

To bring the cliché full circle, my replacement was a male who was fawned over and worriedly asked if he, having a penis, would mind being called Secretary. He entered at the pay bracket I had begged, threatened and clawed to work up to.
I’ve been in recovery ever since. I still wake up screaming, but the shakes are subsiding. One day at a time, I guess.

Thanks for letting me share.

–Thanks for sharing.–