My Edy-fication

"You can't be the tree shaker and the jelly maker," Edy would always tell me, using an expression from her childhood in east Texas. It was a saying she used often with me. I was in my mid-20s, ambitious and eager to prove myself and climb up the publishing ladder.

Edy's attempt to get me to understand the merits of division of labor were wasted on my young, malleable mind. I didn't appreciate the wisdom of those words until later in life, when I started to realize that wearing too many hats not only made me master of nothing but also made me folliclely challenged.

In my third year of living in DC, I got a temp assignment as a proofreader at the Transportation Research Board, a unit of the prestigious National Academy of Sciences. My only prior experience with transportation had been riding subways and buses, so I brought little expertise to the job. The person I reported to on my first day was a beautiful, elegant, impeccably dressed African-American woman, about 15 years older than I, named Edy.

I was both awed and intimidated by her professionalism and the way she coolly and calmly handled people. Her office was pin-neat and sprinkled with African violets and geraniums, her two favorite plants. She also had a large collection of dolls that people had brought her from their travels throughout the world. She often joked that she talked to her dolls and asked them to do things for her.

My proofreading assignment at the academy lasted 6 months, during which Edy and I established a wonderful rapport. She asked me what my career goals were, and I said I liked editorial and production equally. Most editors knew little about production and vice versa, but to me they were inseparable, and I wanted to learn as much as I could about both.

At the end of my assignment, Nancy, the director of the department, offered me a staff position for which Edy had recommended me. I remained a proofreader, and Edy began giving me small editing and writing assignments. By the end of the year, my first article, on intelligent vehicle-highway systems, was published, and the following year I edited three technical journals.

Edy continued to give me challenging assignments that were outside my normal job duties, and I was eager to do them. The editors in the department were extremely talented, and I had learned a great deal from them in the best possible way: hands-on.

Edy recommended me for a new position as production editor, responsible for coordinating typesetting and printing and scheduling. There would be some minor editing and writing, but the job was mostly production. I was nervous about the opportunity, but Edy said she wouldn't have offered it to me if she didn't think I could do it.

Another position, assistant editor, was also open. That job would involve editing and writing only. I knew I could do both, but the production editor's job sounded more intriguing, so I accepted it.

A month after I started my new job, still under Edy's tutelage, our office manager, Phyllis, told me that Nancy had promoted Edy in title but hadn't given her a raise. Nancy'd had a choice of promoting me and Phyllis or giving Edy a raise, and she'd chosen the former.

Edy was understandably upset by this snubbing, but she decided that instead of staying and being bitter about it, she would take the high road and look for a new job. Within 6 months she had found a job as director of a publishing department at an economic consulting firm in Arlington, VA.

At her farewell lunch, Edy pulled me aside. "Just give me a little time," she said. "Once I get established, you'll be hearing from me." I was flattered and excited that Edy wanted to hire me and not-so-secretly glad that Edy had given Nancy her comeuppance.

Politically Edy's new job was no less sticky than her job at the academy. Upper management consisted of middle-aged white men. Only one woman had ever broken through the glass ceiling. Although the president of the firm was a dyed-in-the-wool liberal, Edy's entry into management appeared to be quite progressive for the firm. She inherited a "publishing department" that was, in effect, a typing pool. The three middle-aged African-American women had been there so long they'd gotten complacent and intractable. They refused to work overtime, they didn't complete their work on time, and sometimes they just didn't show up.

"Where are these women's performance evaluations?" Edy asked the vice president.

"We don't have any," he said.

"How do you expect to change their performance if you're not even measuring it?" she challenged.

As part of her reorganization, Edy assessed what the company needed, wrote job descriptions, and kept evaluations of her charges. She set goals for them, monitored their performance, and held meetings with them to get them to improve.

By the end of 6 months, nothing had changed. Complicating matters was a human resources director, also an African-American woman, who was friends with the three typists. She was gunning for Edy, and Edy knew it.

In the end, though, Edy won out, she got the three women to quit without firing them, and that summer I got the call.

"It sucks that you had to go through that," I said.

"Oh, honey, trust me, it was worth it," Edy said. "Those women were never going to improve. I know it was easier for the firm to hire me. And I also knew it was too much sugar for a dime." That was another of Edy's Texas expressions, referring to something that was too good to be true.

It turned out that Edy had been vying for her position with a woman, not African-American, who had a bit more experience than Edy. Edy was reasonably certain that she'd been hired because the firm already knew they wanted to get rid of the typing pool. The firings would be easier coming from someone who wouldn't be accused of racial or gender bias.

It was my first exposure to such a harsh reality and blatant politics; after all, this was Washington. But I also knew that Edy was categorically competent in her job. She was matter-of-fact about her role at the firm, but she proved consistently that her qualifications were irreproachable.

When I started at the firm in 1990, the department consisted of me, Edy, and a young, African-American gay man named Kevin. Kevin was better suited to a more social position, and within 6 months he was gone. A few years later, when I finally came out to Edy, she told me that she'd hired Kevin because she'd suspected I was gay and thought having a kindred spirit as a colleague would make things easier for me.

In my position I became a full-fledged editor, writer, and designer. Edy encouraged me every step of the way, giving me opportunities I'd never had before. During the 12 years I worked for Edy, I acquired more skills than I could have ever gotten at a publishing house or anywhere else. I learned how to deal with difficult people, mostly by observing Edy skillfully deflect and defuse unexploded bombs with finesse and humor. Edy supported my idea in 1996 to design the firm's first Web site, years before it became de rigueur. I helped her produce and edit a video on the firm's 50th anniversary celebration. And in 1996 Edy sent me on a month-long assignment to Jakarta to produce a brochure for the Ministry of Trade. None of these things would have been possible without Edy's mentoring and support.

But everything wasn't always business. We laughed a lot, gossiped about our colleagues (often including her collection of dolls in our discussions), and played practical jokes on each other. We became good friends, and one of our favorite things to do was to try to plan birthday surprises, mostly unsuccessfully, with a few exceptions.

One year Edy asked me to lunch on my birthday. I'd chosen a restaurant that was a bit of a hike from the office. As we were walking to the restaurant, Edy complained that she'd worn the wrong shoes. She looked like she was having trouble walking. "I don't know if I'll be able to walk all that way," she said.

"OK," I said. "We can go someplace closer." The Little Cafe was right outside our building. "How about here?" she said.

"That's great," I said, as we breezed into the restaurant.

A sign at the door said there was a private party upstairs. The host asked how many people were in our group, and I said two. I looked around and noticed that Edy was marching up the stairs, and I called after her. "Edy!" I said, following her, "you can't go up there! There's a private party going on." But Edy just kept going, with me right behind her. She disappeared, and when I got to the top of the stairs, 20 of my colleagues yelled "Surprise!" I felt my knees go weak. She gave me a nicely wrapped box with a bow on it. Inside was a copy of the first proposal I'd ever worked on. It was a symbolic gift, but a touching gesture nonetheless.

One of my attempts at surprising Edy ended in near-disaster. A group of us were working well into the night on a proposal that had to go out the next day, an occurrence that was not so rare. Edy locked herself in her office to finish editing. I'd bought a chocolate layer cake from her favorite bakery and gathered the 10 or so other people in the office into a conference room while I figured out how to get Edy into the room.

I called Edy from the conference room and told her that our partners on the proposal, whom she was sick of dealing with, wanted her to come to the conference room to look at something. "Be right there," she said. With everyone gathered in the room, I lit the candles on the cake. Five minutes later, Edy still hadn't come. I ran over to her office and said the partners were getting impatient. "I'll be there in a minute," she said, not budging.

I went back to the conference room, where the candles had started not only burning into the cake but charring the acoustic tiles on the ceiling. Everyone politely stood around watching the room envelop with smoke because they hadn't wanted to ruin the cake. The vice president became alarmed and ran over to Edy's office. "Edy! You have to come right now!" he said.

Edy finally ran over while everyone stood around the cake, which was now dripping all over the table and about to cause a major fire. Edy screamed with laughter when she saw the dripping mess of frosting and what was left of the cake. "Why didn't you tell me?" she said. "I would have come sooner."

"Surprise," I said weakly.

In 1999 I decided to move back to New York. Shortly before my last day, I saw a beautiful bouquet on the receptionists' desk. "Wow! Who are those for?" I asked.

"You," she said. Puzzled, I read the card: "To Kieran, the best editor I've ever known. Love, Edy." I was floored and touched that the person who had nurtured me through my career thought so highly of me, but I was not surprised that Edy would do something so simple and so powerful.

When I moved back to New York, neither one of us wanted to be the first to say goodbye. Fortunately, we still chat every few weeks, just as if we see each other every day.

Today is Edy's birthday. She has made an indelible, lasting mark on my life, as a role model, a mentor, a friend, and a human being. I can only aspire to be that same kind of person; to Edy it just comes naturally. From Edy I have learned how to act with dignity, treat people with respect, work smart, be professional, and rise above adversity. Whenever I feel down, I remember another of her infinitely wise east Texas sayings: "The same things that make you laugh will make you cry." How true.

Happy Birthday, Edy!