As proof-reader in the multigraph department of the International Y. M. C. A. my wage was twelve dollars a week, and I found it the most uninteresting of all the positions held during my four years in the underbrush. This was doubtless because it was something I had done before. Not only had I read proof, but I had worked in a crowded dark basement under electric lights, and for long hours. Reading the annual reports of the Y. M. C. A. secretaries from about every country of the world was something of a novelty, though many of them were far from interesting.
What I did enjoy was the atmosphere, the spirit of the place—everybody spoke to everybody, and always with smiling courtesy. It was charming. Also it was comfortable to know that however ignorant you might be you would not be snubbed nor sneered at. The war had increased the work so much that the building on East Twenty-eighth Street swarmed with workers. Practically every day a new department was organized, only to be moved out the next day for the sake of getting larger quarters, and to make room for yet another new branch of work.
For a good many years I had heard the two “Ys” sneered at for being “sectarian.” While at the Jane Leonard, Miss Stafford had retorted to my praise of the Y. W.: “Being a Catholic you know what I think of the Young Woman’s Christian Association.” She then assured me that both the Y. W. and the Y. M. were so “dead against Catholics” that they even refused to list them in their employment departments.
In the multigraph department at the International Headquarters of the Y. M. I worked shoulder to shoulder with a young Catholic woman. Though she was not particularly efficient, she had held the position for several years; indeed, ever since she left school. Her younger sister was the private secretary of the head of one of the departments. Both these Catholic women had gotten their positions through the employment department of the Y. W.
In the lunch-room of the International Headquarters I met several other Catholic women, all earning their daily bread working for the Y. M. I neither saw nor heard of their being discriminated against. One of them boasted to me:
“Being a Catholic I’m not expected to go to prayers. That gives me an extra half-hour to do with as I please. I usually run out and do a little shopping or looking around, the stores are so convenient.”
Now, I hold no brief for any Church—I believe in Justice. In all my dealings with the two “Ys” I never saw the slightest indication that any creed was discriminated against.
Is it because the two “Ys” stand for progress that Catholics abuse them, belittle their work?
It may have been because of my long hours in the basement of the International Headquarters, or it may have been subsisting on such scanty meals—in any event soon after giving up my position in the multigraph department I was taken with a heavy cold. I know I had fever, for twice a day my pillows and sheets were saturated with perspiration. My head felt as big as a bushel measure, and was chockful of ache.
Struggle as hard as I might, and I did struggle, I couldn’t get up sufficient strength to get down-stairs, even though after hours of struggle I succeeded in putting on my clothes. The first Sunday of this illness I think I must have been in a measure delirious, for I was obsessed by the idea that no hospital would take me in, that I must wait until Monday.