Page 24 of The Change
Harriett had spent her first years in advertising on one of those teams. That was back in the mid-nineties, a time she now recognized as a golden age in advertising, when television ads were often treated as short films and award-winning work could open the door to a career in screenwriting or directing. That was the dream—one Harriett could never have pursued directly. She’d gone to school with kids whose parents subsidized their careers in film or publishing. Harriett needed a job that would pay the bills.
That’s how she ended up writing tampon copy. Not for television ads, of course. Those were handled by a more senior team. Harriett’s first job was writing Q&A–style advertorials that would run in magazines aimed at teen girls. The ads encouraged readers to write in with their own questions, which would be answered in future issues.Will everyone know?the girls asked.Will I still be a virgin? What should I do if the worst happens?
Harriett had once wondered the same things herself, and for a while she was pleased to offer answers. No one ever needed toknow it was that time of the month, she’d tell her readers. The brand’s new line of compact tampons could be easily concealed in a pocket or the palm of a hand. They would leave your virginity intact—and were designed to be so absorbent that the worstwouldn’thappen. She considered it a testament to her talent that she’d managed to write about tampons for months without ever using the wordsmenstruation, period, vagina,orblood. At some point, she realized she’d been answering questions about periods for over a year. She’d invented new euphemisms. She’d devised new forms of camouflage. Still, the questions kept coming. Terrified, ashamed, miserable girls were scribbling their most mortifying questions on pieces of lined notebook paper and mailing them to a faceless corporation. That’s when Harriett realized she wasn’t providing solutions. She was part of the problem.
Then one day, she was handed a new question to answer.Why is this happening to me?asked Jennifer, age 13, Pittsburgh. The despair was so palpable that Harriett promptly burst into tears.You are NOT alone,she wrote back.It’s happening to me, too. It’s happening to every girl you know. It’s happening to the actress on television and the lady across the street. It is happening, has happened, or will happen to most women on earth, and it’s time we all stopped working so hard to hide it.
Harriett couldn’t stop writing to Jennifer, age 13, Pittsburgh. By the end of the week, she had a series of ads that she called the “Half the World” campaign. The executions spoke about menstruation as if dealing with your period was just as mundane as brushing your teeth. They used all the words Harriett had been trained to avoid. When fluid was shown, it was red, not blue. And most important, they encouraged girls to talk to each other and share what they knew.
Harriett took the campaign to her agency’s creative director. She’d set up a time to present to him alone, but when she reachedhis office, she found the new business director and a senior copywriter lounging on the couch.
The new business director, a closeted gay man named Nelson with a gentle soul and an old-fashioned fondness for three-martini lunches, winked at Harriett and nudged the copywriter. “Let’s leave,” he said. “Harriett’s here to knock his socks off.”
“No. Stay,” the creative director ordered flippantly, much to Harriett’s dismay. “She needs to get used to presenting to more than one person.”
So Harriett presented her “Half the World” campaign to three men, two of whom looked thoroughly disgusted by it.
“Did it ever occur to you that there might be a reason we use blue fluid instead of red?” the creative director asked when she was done. “No guy wants to think about what that shit really is or what hole it comes from,” he informed her.
“But these ads aren’tforguys,” Harriett had responded.
“We’reguys,” he responded. “So are most of the people who sell these tampons. Know your audience, Harriett.”
Her face was still burning an hour later when Nelson knocked on the side of her cube.
“Come work for me,” he said. “I need a right hand.”
“But I want to write,” she told him.
“I loved the honesty of what you wrote. That’s why I’m going to be equally honest with you. Do you know what happens to women creatives here?” he asked her. “Until you’re thirty-five, you’ll spend your time slaving away on shitty assignments and fending off men who want to fuck you.”
“And after thirty-five?” Harriett asked, thinking she might be able to stick it out.
“There are no women over thirty-five in the creative department,” he said. “Come with me. You’ll work on all the best business and see your ideas come to life. I’ll even throw in a good title anda raise.” He cupped a hand around his mouth and glanced theatrically in both directions. “And you won’t need to worry about me trying to fuck you.”
The next six years were the best of Harriett’s career. Together, she and Nelson made a formidable team. He did the schmoozing. Harriett did most of the thinking. Because she brought in the business, she knew every account in the agency. When an idea popped into her head, she would give it to a creative team who could make something out of it. She had a talent for convincing them they’d come up with it first. That was how she met Chase. He was one of two copywriters assigned to a pitch she was leading. The other guy was a prick, so Harriett slipped Chase an idea she’d been working on. She inserted it into a conversation, repeating it twice to make sure he caught hold of it. After that, Chase always talked through his work with her. When they were alone, he called her his good luck charm.
Harriett did well in advertising. At forty-eight, she was still employed, with a mid-six-figure salary. People whispered that she’d be the next president of the agency, though she never encouraged such idle chatter. Chase, though, was a phenomenon, racking up awards and pulling in millions each year. Harriett couldn’t quite pinpoint when he’d stopped thanking her in his acceptance speeches. Most likely around the same time he began an affair.
When Chase left her, Harriett had had every right to be furious, and she was. But she also felt oddly restored. She took three weeks off as an experiment. In twenty-five years, she’d never taken such a long vacation. She spent the time in her garden, ignoring the emails that continued to accumulate in her inbox. For the first time in ages, she shared none of herself. Only when her magic began to return did she realize just how much she’d given away.
It was almost six when Harriett was called into Max’s office. When she arrived, he gave her a hug.
“How are you, my dear?” he asked. “How was vacation? You’re looking tanned and rested.”
Harriett knew his game. Pretend nothing’s happened and shoot the shit for ten minutes until tempers cooled. She’d fallen for it so many times.
Two years earlier, she’d accepted Max’s job offer, hoping to replicate the work relationship she’d once had with Nelson. What Max lacked in talent, he more than made up for in charisma. Max was the kind of man who made other guys feel like they belonged to an exclusive club. Harriett wasn’t invited, of course, but that was fine with her. While Max and the clients fluffed each other’s egos, she could get good work done. When she’d arrived at the agency, it was hemorrhaging accounts. The two of them together had saved it. But Max still believed he was running a one-man show.
“What’s up, Max? I want to get home, and I know you didn’t call me in here to discuss my tan.”
“Chris came to see me earlier. He says you don’t like the Pura-Tea work.”
“It sounds like you’re asking for my honest opinion. Is that what you really want?”
“Of course,” he insisted.
“I saw four executions. Three left no impression. The fourth was one of the most offensively sexist spots I’ve ever seen. And I once pitched a beer brand from Brazil.”
