(Written sitting in a hotel in Vancouver, B.C….)
The mate had a poker game Friday night, so I indulged myself by sitting down in our family room to quilt while watching “The Devil Wears Prada.” It was obvious from the direction that the audience is supposed to feel contemptuous of the Meryl Streep character. We’re supposed to laugh at her desperately trying to get home through a hurricane to get to her daughters’ recital. We’re supposed to snicker at her reeling off, to her assistants, what she needs done in the next ten minutes. And yet….
So. When I was in graduate school, occasionally we’d have in some really famous academic to give a bunch of campus lectures. (I don’t dare name names, because nowadays, I’m high enough up the ladder that some of those people might actually bother to invite me to speak, if I don’t slam them here.) And I remember thinking, as I listened to the fussing about their coming, how they were prima donnas. I mean, they insisted on all these specific requirements: how much rest they needed, how short they had to cut their trips, what they would eat. And I used to think, no matter how successful I became, I’d remain an easy-going, low maintenance guest.
And, ya know, I think I am an easy, low maintenance guest. I don’t make any demands I haven’t always made: I can’t eat milk; I need to keep the visit to a minimum length so I can get home to be with my kid; I would appreciate a short rest before my major lecture.
The funny thing is, back when I got paid $300 for a talk, this all sounded perfectly reasonable. I was just a junior academic trying to make it all work without getting sick and tired. But now that I typically get paid ten times that, I feel like I’m asking for nothing but pink M&Ms in the green room. As I ask, I cringe, and think, “they must think I’m prima donna.” Even though, the truth is, I’m just trying to make it all work without getting sick and tired.
So, needless to say, Friday night, I found myself strangely sympathetic to the Meryl Streep character. I’m not saying I am of that caliber. Heaven knows I don’t know how to put an outfit together like that (at least not without my gay boyfriends) and I’m still happier to sleep in a friend’s guest room/home office than to stay at some hotel, even if it is a four-star hotel. (Well, so long as the friend’s house has wifi.) But it’s kinda strange to find myself trying to calculate “what’s this gig worth to me?” and calculating what I used to think of as some giant sum, while sending along requirements like “I can’t eat milk and I can’t stay a minute longer than necessary.” And fantasizing about a personal assistant…so I could keep up with my mail and file all my reimbursements without wanting to pluck out my eyes.
I guess it helps me feel less awkward (less self-conscious about maybe being a pain) when I get post-gig unsolicited reviews like this one, written to my host at Westminster College, and passed on to me by him:
“I suspect and hope you’ve been hearing all day how amazing Alice Dreger was in her talk last night. I think it was the best talk I’ve heard during my time at Westminster, in its wisdom and sensitivity and frankness, and because she was so engaging. Thanks for pulling this together! The students I’ve spoken to were equally impressed.”
And for the record, while visiting the lovely Westminster College, I stayed at a bed and breakfast that was a real B&B: a woman’s home in a nearby town. The B&B’s wifi didn’t work; I didn’t complain one bit. The technology at my major lecture collapsed. And it was a great visit, and I think I earned what they paid me. But it was a long taxi ride from the airport in Vancouver to this hotel where I now find myself, and I’m thinking I’ll ask for a hired car next time….