GRASPING FOR THE NEXT RUNG Published October 21, 1996 Previous columns by Harry Goldstein	After two years, I was fed up with doing the job of an associate editor while still being called an assistant. Two of my colleagues were hungry for the same promotion I wanted -- no more money, just a title that more accurately reflected our duties. We got together one evening after work and scrawled a strategy down on a bar napkin. As the assistant editor with the most seniority, it was up to me to pow-wow with our boss. We decided that a direct, united approach was best, but that the ground had to be prepared first. She might view all three of us marching into her office as an ultimatum, which could make rejecting us easier.
She unloaded things that made the back of my knees itch.	So I went it alone the next morning. I tried to be rational, diplomatic. I emphasized that we deserved the title change because our current titles didn't reflect the kind of work we did. Changing titles is free, and progress up the masthead would be good for morale. Her reaction surprised me. Instead of meeting stiff resistance, I got a load of praise for my performance. She told me she would try to promote me in the coming months, but not instantly. I read between the lines: ACME is relocating our office and the title change is the only carrot she could dangle to keep me on a little longer, as wage increases are pretty much tied to the Cost of Living Index and bonuses are practically unheard of. She would push for my promotion, but would not champion the whole group of us -- an approach which may or may not have been calculated to make me feel selfish and guilty at pressing her for a promotion sooner.
Our attitudes had started to reflect our emotional (dis)connection to work.	It was also clear that these decisions weren't hers alone to make. She had higher-ups to answer to, people who had set up a policy that tied title promotions to salary promotions within certain parameters -- a practice called banding. Even if we stipulated that the title change wasn't about money at all, even if we had actually refused a raise outright, the perception would be that we were leaping up the ladder. And those leaps cost -- a new title means something and that meaning has to be debated, fought for, and approved. For the first time, I saw my how my own boss was handcuffed by a corporate culture she herself perpetuated. Then she unloaded the kinds of things that make the back of your knees itch -- appraising the performance and attitudes of both my colleagues. Perhaps she sensed that morale was down and that we were all starting to put our careers way ahead of current jobs. It's true that our attitudes toward work had started to reflect our emotional (dis)connection to it -- we were more remote, cared less and less about quality and were becoming increasingly cynical in the open. It was a fait accompli: we were all going to be at another job in a few months anyway. Why should she help us out the door by beefing up our resumes? And why not use this opportunity to put us in our respective places, one last attempt to assert control over a situation that was moving inexorably beyond the force of her will. The weird thing is, she is one of the best bosses I've ever had. Despite her quirks, I've always had a high degree of respect and affection for her. I think that sentiment cut both ways. She was no doubt just venting, frustrated at the situation she found herself in.
I wished I could float away like a dust mote.	It was a confusing moment -- I appreciated her position and knew that she needed someone to confide in; and yet, I resented the fact that she was going off on my friends. I just wanted to broach the subject and then get all of us in there to work on her at once. She squelched that by blowing away the entire list of reasons I gave in support of promotions for all of us. That our duties qualified us to be associates was negated by the fact that Jayne was obviously not experienced enough at editing (even though she'd been here a year and had worked on magazines before she came here). She dismissed my assertion that morale would be significantly improved by pointing out that Pervis was apathetic, if not The Last Nihilist. It didn't matter if the jobs we were performing made us worthy of a higher place on the masthead; the bottom line was that this current crop of editors didn't come close to the crew she'd had under her three years ago. How could we compare to people like the editor whose slot I took, a person who was here for five years and never got a promotion? I wanted to say that it was that editor's fault for not demanding what she deserved, but instead I curled my feet under my chair, wishing I could fold myself into a tiny ball and float away like a dust mote. I nodded and uh-huhed my way through her laundry list of grievances, then restated my belief that we all needed to speak to her together. She shot that scenario down instantly, saying that she would discuss this with each of us individually -- which, in retrospect, is how we should have approached her in the first place. So much for strength in numbers. Once I was safely back in front of my computer, the e-mail started to fly. She wasn't going for it, I told my colleagues, and if the title means that much to you, then you've got to be ready to force her hand and threaten to quit. Anything short of brute force won't work. In Pervis's case, nothing was going to work. But I spared Pervis the grim details of the dissection she performed in front of me. The boss was right: he wouldn't have cared anyway. Now none of us do. Harry Goldstein is a writer and editor living in Manhattan. His work has appeared in Utne Reader, American Book Review, Promethean, AltX, word.com, and other periodicals. © 1996 Harry Goldstein, All Rights Reserved