A lefty organization sent me an email awhile back requesting that I end my relationship with big banks. I thought, why not? They've behaved really badly.
So despite my 40-year relationship with a really big, badly behaving bank, I closed my account and marched across the street with a wad of cash to a local bank, feeling virtuous for putting my money where my mouth is.
Now Occupy Wall Street is erupting with all the vibrancy of the '60s. I rejoiced with thousands of other Americans when one big bank had to back off charging for debit cards.
My relationship with these bad actors began when I needed a job in 1969. I arrived for an interview at Bank of America wearing a very short skirt, no pantyhose and hippie earrings. After hiring me, the interviewer said the dress code required pantyhose and skirts not more than two inches above the knee.
I became the receptionist in the San Francisco Employment Office. Alone in a windowless office, I greeted job seekers and answered five phone lines that rang constantly. My instructions: male college grads go to Management Training. Other men get an interview. Women take a typing test.