From Donna’ s class: prompt, write about a humiliaiton. It became more than that. Need to find a feminist journal to send this to when it’s done. (It really happened. ick) Been working on this the past 2 weeks.

Great White Father

Tall, big-shouldered

snow-white hair,

bank president

always addressed

as Mister Hudson.

Behind his back they called him

The Great White Father

The dress code:

skirts (shorter the better),

hose and heels.

My first job out of college

Public Relations Manager,

I’m invited to the bank officers’ dinner

to take pictures,

my co-workers are jealous

of the fancy meal, a night out.

Country Club dinner

martinis, olives on frill picks,

rare steaks, man-talk,

back-slapping laughter.

Invited for after-dinner drinks

at the President’s house

you get to come too, the officers say,

so I go.

It gets late, we find our coats

The Great White Father

grabs me with strong arms, holds me tight

red bulbous nose nuzzles my neck

boozy breath slurs

let me have a little kiss.

Next to me, the vice president stands idly.

I break away,

run out the door.

Next day

is work as usual.

REWORKED into a prose poem, I incorporated your suggestions, also added more de taills and time/place. Is it took l ong? (281 words)

Great White Father

Twenty-two and naïve, my first career job out of college. As the new Public Relations Manager, I’m asked to take pictures at the bank officers’ dinner. Long-term tellers, and women co-workers are jealous of the fancy meal, a night out, for one who has only worked there a few months. Country Club dinner, martinis, olives on frill picks, rare steaks, man-talk, back-slapping laughter. I capture retirement moments on film for the honored officer. Invited for after-dinner drinks, we leave the country club for the President’s home, you get to come too, the officers say, so I go. The president, an imposing man; tall, big-shouldered, snow-white hair is always addressed as Mister Hudson. Behind his back the tellers call him The Great White Father. Officers sit along outside edge of the lobby behind big wooden desks, lamps with green shades spotlight loan applications and ledgers on desk blotters. 1972 female dress code: skirts (shorter the better), hose, and heels. As female staff walk across the cathedral-style lobby, officers stare at creamy-slim legs, skirts above the knee, silky hair cascading to mid-back. After more drinks at the president’s house, it gets late, we find our coats to leave, The Great White Father grabs me with sturdy arms in a tight hold. He’s surprisingly strong; red bulbous nose nuzzles my neck, boozy breath slurs, let me have a little kiss, jus’ a little kiss. The vice president stands idly at my side. A grab from the boss never occurred to me. How could I let this happen? I break away, run out the door. Next day is work as usual.