Naturally Tan Read online

  We had one last HR meeting in order for me to be officially fired. I sat there and listened to her grievances; she basically told me I was the worst employee the world had ever seen as the HR manager (her close friend) sat and took notes while looking at me with a smirk on her face. Finally, I said, “Are we done with this portion of the conversation? I’d like to tell you my part.” I told her I was taking legal action against them. “I know you think you’re firing me, but I’m going to get you fired,” I told her. “What you’re doing is actually illegal, and you should have done your research.”

  She was livid. Livid! “You’ve always been the most hateful person. You got us to send you something in writing just so you could use it against us!”

  And I said, “Yes, because you’re both fucking bullies, and you’ve got your comeuppance. I told you that you were stupid, and you’ve proven it here today.”

  I never sued them. In fact, I never even planned on suing them. But I wanted that bully to get what was coming to her. Sure enough, two weeks later, she was out of a job.

  Do I regret it? Absolutely not. Do I think it’s okay to bully someone at work? No. If you do that, you deserve to lose your job. If I can help take you down, after I’ve given you multiple warnings that your bullying behaviour won’t be tolerated, then all the better. I love an “I told you so” more than anyone I know.

  All these jobs taught me how to be the best manager and the best boss that I could be. When you have bad managers, you learn from them and you think, I’ll never do this. I’ll never make someone feel like this. I’m very happy I did all those jobs, and I have no regrets.

  I think that when people are in a position of power, they can really affect a person’s mental health, happiness, and career. They don’t realize what an effect they have on their subordinates. Every action you take truly has an effect on your employees, both at work and outside the office.

  One of my favourite jobs was a part-time job as a barman that lasted only one summer. It was at a bar in the gay village in Manchester, on a street where there are about thirty or so gay bars. This was a wine bar with jazz music and an affluent clientele. It wasn’t a clubby bar; it was the kind of place you’d go to have a nice drink and a chat with friends.

  I didn’t drink alcohol at the time—in fact, at the time, I hadn’t even tasted alcohol—but I was the highest earner at the bar because people found me (and my complete incompetence) charming. I got more tips than any other bartender, but the reason was because I had no idea what they wanted. I’d say, “You point to what you want, and I’ll go get it!” Then I’d ask, “How much of this do you want? How much of that should I pour?” They were making their own drinks. And of course, I would always over-pour. I should have been fired, but everyone thought it was so cute, so I continued to collect high tips for us all to pool and benefit from at the end of the shift.

  I loved that job, but I quit that one, too. In fact, I quit one day with no notice. Gosh, I really was just the worst when it came to leaving a job. I should really work on that.

  Anyway, I was working during Manchester Pride, the village’s annual gay pride event, and I had never been to pride before. Everyone was having so much fun, and the streets of the village were packed. There were so many people everywhere, you couldn’t move. My friends were like, “How are you working? Let’s do this!” I was suffering the worst FOMO, so I turned to my boss and said, “I’m sorry. I quit. I’m so sorry.” Then I jumped over the bar and left. Total dick move. Don’t hate me for it. I was young and just wanted to live my best gay life that weekend. Ugh.

  I lived it up for the weekend, and then I never went back.

  Of all the jobs I’ve left, that is the one I feel the worst about. If I could contact them now and say I’m so sorry, I would. That was totally shitty, I know. But if there are any gays out there reading this, you’ll understand all too well. Your first pride is a big deal.

  Perhaps the craziest job I had was the time I was a flight attendant. It was meant to be a six-month seasonal job, but I only lasted two months. Here’s how convincing I was in an interview: I managed to get the job with absolutely no experience. I had no right to be there, but I sold myself well. And so, I managed to get the only flight attendant job I’d ever applied for.

  I wanted to travel but didn’t have the funds to travel, and I thought, I’m going to do this. It can’t be that difficult. All they’re doing is serving tea and coffee and a bit of something else. I was about nineteen at the time. Obviously, I had no idea what was actually involved.

  Being a flight attendant is no joke. They do not get the credit they deserve. The thirty-day training included some of the hardest moments of my life. It was very difficult, and many people failed. I have a very, very, very good memory—all throughout school, I could just read something once and get a good grade on the exam. For this job, I studied and studied and even then only scraped by. The safety texts were just so freaking complicated.

  I thought it was going to be super glamorous. It was not. I felt like a glorified waiter. Having to open the trash chute and tidy up the restrooms on a long-haul flight, well, there was nothing glamorous about it.

  The least glamorous thing of all was that I got assigned to many flights from England to Spain. In England, we call it the eighteen-to-thirty crowd, which in America is kind of like the spring breakers. The passengers were often drunk, and when they were drunk, they weren’t concerned about censoring racism. This was a couple of years after 9/11, and they had no qualms about openly referring to my people as terrorists. The flight would start off well enough, but by the end of the flight, it would be clear they weren’t so happy that I was the one serving them.

  I remember my last day very distinctly. It was a flight back to England from Ibiza, and this bunch of rowdy people were being aggressive. They wanted more alcohol; they were really forceful about it. I didn’t know how to deal with men in particular who were drunk and who wanted more alcohol.

  At one point, they got super angry and started asking for coffee because I wouldn’t give them alcohol anymore. Because they had been so rude to me the whole time, I finally barked back, “Get your own fucking coffee.” I walked back to the galley (which is at the back of the plane) and said to the main flight attendant, “I quit. I’m not putting up with this anymore.”

  The moment the plane was parked, I walked off and handed in my wings—which is the little badge they give you—and didn’t go back to work there ever again.

  Being a flight attendant is tough because people take out their aggression on you. You’re the face of the business and also the front line. If something’s not right, they’re angry at you. It’s incredibly difficult to manage in a confined space. I have mad respect for flight attendants for putting up with so much.

  Of course, sometimes, leaving these jobs, I didn’t feel guilty. This was particularly true when the people I worked for were horrible and they didn’t seem to be decent, kind folks. But the majority of the time, I would feel such guilt. I’d think, They hired me when they could have hired somebody else. But the guilt was never enough to make me stay. I knew that once I had made up my mind about a job, it could never be turned around.

  If I hadn’t built a personal connection, I was less apologetic. If I liked the people and they seemed great, I would stick around. I stayed at a data entry job where the people were lovely for much longer than I should have because I felt like an integral part of the team. If ever I built a relationship, I would feel real guilt about leaving them.

  Would I go back and do it all again? Absolutely not. I wish I had the knowledge as a twenty-three-year-old to say, “Save the money from the job you have and take the time to think about what you want to do, as opposed to job hunting out of desperation because you just need a paycheck.”

  Even though I truly had over thirty jobs between the ages of sixteen and twenty-seven (which is when I started my business), I only listed three jobs on my résumé. I included the ones where I did well an
d had stayed for over a year. To address the gaps, I would explain that I was traveling and going to the school of life. No, I didn’t ever really say school of life, but could you imagine if I did?

  You have to lie on your résumé, right? Everyone does it. I was just highlighting the best parts of my career. Besides, I thought, just because I quit a lot of jobs doesn’t mean I won’t be good at this job!

  Moral of the story: you just never know what you’re getting when you hire Tan France.

  SLIPPERS

  When I was twenty-five, I visited Salt Lake City on vacation. I had been going there regularly for a couple of years after initially visiting on a trip with my co-worker, who’d convinced me to come check out his home state. The very first evening, as I sat there at a Chili’s, I said to him, “I’m going to make this my home one day.” He thought I was joking. I wasn’t.

  The city was gorgeous, and the people were so, so friendly, I knew that I eventually wanted to call this place home. Don’t ask me why … unless you seriously want a very long, drawn-out love letter to Salt Lake City, which I’ve composed in my head over the last decade or so. The short of it is that the city is beautiful, surrounded by mountains, and the people are incredibly friendly and made me feel more welcome than I’d ever felt before (and they continue to do so). It’s my happy place. So along the way, I made it my goal to make a few friends there.

  It was January of 2008, and whenever I’d go out to bars and clubs with my Utah friends, they would get frustrated that the people they were attracted to would flirt with me because I was the only brown British person in town and quite possibly in the whole state of Utah. “I’ve been trying to get with this person for so long,” they would whine, “and you just roll in and take them.”

  So they decided to do a little experiment. They set me up with a profile on Connexion, which was like a gay version of Facebook. It wasn’t like the apps we have now—you would never dream of sending someone an inappropriate photo. It was meant for making friends and actually dating-dating. “With just your photo, they won’t know you have an accent!” they said, which is basically saying I’m not attractive enough without my British accent, thankyouverymuch. Like, ew. So rude. They clearly weren’t the best of friends to me, and if you’re wondering if they’re still around, the answer is a hell no. They were more fair-weather, club friends, it turns out. I can’t really judge them for it, as we were all in our early twenties and out to have a good time. They were all native Utahns, born and bred, and so to have an “exotic” friend worked well for them in the small gay community.

  Am I maybe a little bitter that they assumed that the only way I could get a guy was by using my most extra version of my accent? Yep. Do I need to get over it and realize we were kids and they were probably too drunk to realize they were being hurtful? Uh-huh.

  So anyway, they put me on this site, and that first day, I got a few messages. Rob was one of them. His line was, “You don’t look like you’re from around here,” to which I replied, “No shit, Sherlock.” And then we got into a light conversation. My sassy side really worked for me, it seems.

  What I did not realize at the time is that he hadn’t had much exposure to people of colour, having only lived in Utah and Wyoming, and he assumed I was Mexican. Now, calm down, you crazy liberals. No, he is not a big fat racist. He just didn’t think for a second that a South Asian guy from the UK would have chosen Salt Lake City as a vacation destination. But, also, yeah, it was all looks-based and clearly that twat saw all of us brownies as the same … Mexican. Burn that bitch at the stake!

  We continued to chat, but I didn’t tell him I was from the UK.

  After chatting for a few days, he asked if we could go out. I said we could have lunch, because lunch isn’t really a date. It’s perfectly noncommittal. I also told him I would like to go to the Olive Garden.

  Bear with me on this one.

  On the show Will & Grace (which I was obsessed with in high school), Will and Grace are friends with a couple named Rob and Ellen, whose only attributes are that they are very, very boring. Rob and Ellen always want to get dinner at a place called the Olive Garden, which Will and Grace find frightfully dull. I had never been to an Olive Garden, but this seemed like a good test. If this person could keep me entertained in what was apparently the most boring place in the world, then I would be highly impressed.

  The day of our lunch arrived, and I put on an outfit I liked and felt comfortable in. It was classic and simple. Slim-cut indigo jeans. Fitted grey cashmere sweater. Beautiful dark brown shoes and a killer black knee-length trench that fit to perfection.

  Rob got out of his truck—because he’s a good rancher’s son—and he had this look on his face like, Oh, shit. He’s not Mexican.

  I looked at him and saw he was wearing … slippers. They were shearling lined, brown leather, and they were very, very nice around-the-house slippers, but they were not appropriate for a date. In his defense, they were actually not house slippers. They were designed to be worn out and about, as a fashionable, comfortable shoe. Did I care for them any more after learning this? No.

  Slippers aside, he had this quirky style I really appreciated. I had seen on his Connexion profile that he’d wear these slightly shiny ’70s printed shirts, which he would tuck into his nicely fitted jeans. It was weird, but just seeing that, I could tell he had personality and that he was making an effort. He didn’t want to be a basic bitch. He liked to stand out from the crowd and experiment with style, which I really gravitated toward.

  The Olive Garden, on the other hand, was exactly what I’d pictured. I don’t know if I had an image in mind of what it would look like, but as soon as I walked in, I thought, This feels right. How else would it be decorated? The walls were covered in Venetian plaster, and the chairs had wheels on the bottom. I thought, Oh god, this is what they think Italy looks like. And then I thought, The person who created this has obviously never been to Italy, or even Little Italy in New York. The food I had tasted of nothing.

  Since then, however, I’ve discovered that the Olive Garden has one of my favourite meals. Mind you, it’s not Italian food; they fired fast and loose with that phrasing. But they have Alfredo sauce, and their breadsticks are killer. If you are forced to go to the Olive Garden, get the breadsticks and the Alfredo sauce. It’s salty, it’s carb-y, it has so many calories—but it is truly incredible.

  The best thing about the Olive Garden is that when you arrive, they always ask, “Are you celebrating anything today?” The question they should ask is, “What happened to your life that you’re ending up at the Olive Garden? What ailment are these breadsticks and Alfredo sauce attempting to cure?” Please know: I am throwing no shade at anybody who’s thinking, That’s all I can afford. Because let me tell you, Olive Garden ain’t cheap. I swear to Lucifer, you can go to a real Italian restaurant and you’ll pay less than you would at the Olive Garden, and for something more authentic. I’d rather you go to the Cheesecake Factory. At least they know what they are.

  Anyway, back to the date. At the time, Rob was very newly out, at the tender age of thirty, and hadn’t been on many gay dates before. Anyone who really knows me knows that I could talk to a brick wall for hours and hours before I realize it hasn’t said a word back. So I was sitting at the table like, “Chat, chat, chat,” and he was blushing the whole time. He went to the restroom a couple of times, which I later found out was so that he could calm himself down. I know, man. Swoon.

  We started wrapping up our lunch, but we weren’t ready to say goodbye yet. We agreed that we should continue on with the date, which I hadn’t expected I’d want to do, at all, as I had never had a date that I wanted to extend and which also involved a location change. I said I would happily see a movie with him. We headed over to the cinema and planned to watch whatever was playing next. Unfortunately, the only thing playing was Bride Wars, quite possibly the worst movie ever, starring Kate Hudson and Anne Hathaway. I love the two actresses, and lord knows I love a rom-com,
but that was a tough pill to swallow on a first date.

  At the cinema, he leaned over to get his glasses from his bag, and I touched him lightly on his back. He turned to me and said, “You like me?” I simply smiled back at him.

  We held hands as we watched the movie, and when it was over, I still didn’t want it to end. So, we got coffee, and finally—six hours later—I said I had dinner plans. He insisted on driving me back to where I was staying. It was the perfect first date.

  During this date, I learned that, up until that point in his life, Rob was Mormon. I didn’t really understand what Mormons were all about. Before I came to Utah, I assumed they were the same as the Amish. I was very, very much mistaken. Rob told me that he didn’t drink alcohol, and I wanted to sing hallelujah from the fucking rooftop. I had always thought that if you date a white guy, he’s going to be a drinker. Growing up in England, I’d never met a person outside of my own community who didn’t drink … a lot. I had always disliked drinking and the way it made me feel, and I assumed that was just my lot in life. I’d have to put up with it if I wanted to keep a partner. So, the fact that there was a whole bunch of people out here in this (magical-freaking-Eden) state blew my mind. That nugget of information alone brought Rob to the front of the dating pack.

  He texted me right away, which I loved. (I hate those fucking games. If you like someone, text them.) “Do you want to hang out tomorrow?” he asked. He worked at a children’s hospital, where he got one thirty-minute break during his twelve-hour shift. And during his break, he drove the ten minutes to come see me. He made sure he saw me every day that week, until it was time for me to head back home to England.

  We had only been seeing each other for a week, and as we were saying goodbye, he said, “I think this is the worst thing you can say, but I think I’m falling in love with you.”