I
was too busy devouring crème brûlée at Le Bernardin to pay attention when Anita
Hill accused Clarence Thomas of sexual harassment. I cared about money and
shopping, not pubic hairs on Coke cans. As a media buyer in my mid-twenties at
one of New York City's top ad agencies, I was still under the spell that
Virginia Slims had cast. I believed I'd “come a long way, baby!”
In
the City a mere nine months, I'd already changed jobs and gotten a huge salary
bump. I was being wined and dined at some of the best restaurants, treated to
Broadway shows and showered with presents. The power that came from controlling
budgets in the millions was exhilarating.
I
knew, however, that even as a media supervisor, my salary would top out well
below what I wanted to earn. Sales had unlimited income potential. It took me
four months to land a position with the company I really wanted to work for and
in June 1993, I started as a trainee making a third less because I was promised
the risk would be worth the return.
As
the only female on the team, I'll never know whether the salary increases I had
to beg for, the ridiculous amount of work dumped on me or the lack of support I
felt from management was hazing or based in gender. A case could be made for
both. I watched male trainees hired after me treated like boot camp recruits,
the same as I had been. Yet, there was a distinct, albeit subtle difference in
the energy, a level of respect given to them for having an Adam's apple.
During
my four-year contract I experienced a lot of what is today labeled inappropriate
behavior at best and sexual harassment at worst. In the beginning, I believed
that ignoring it was the only way to keep my job, so I accepted it rather than
questioning it or walking away.
Part
of the reason is my Emotional DNA. Women of my mother's generation and those who
came before were not taught to speak up for themselves. Most did as the men in
their lives told them and found ways to be satisfied – from finding the silver
lining in experiences to declaring it God's will. They were not permitted to
follow their dreams if they weren’t aligned with the patriarchal belief of a
woman's role.
That
Emotional DNA from my female ancestors lingers in me. It’s a part of why women
hesitate to speak up, and instead stay silent – sometimes forever. This and
cultural conditioning encouraged me to tolerate numerous incidents that ranged
from micro aggressions to full on harassment. Two instances stand out to
me.
Once
in a meeting with new clients, my national sales manager, Michael, asked each of
them to share their title and a little about themselves. The first two provided
perfunctory descriptions of their job duties, but the third...
“I
don't really have a title,” he grinned like Jack Nicholson’s Joker. “Why don't
we just call me a gynecologist?” He laughed. “Because I like to explore
things.”
The
tips of my ears burned. The acid burbled in my stomach. Michael's retinas were
laser focused on me, his message clear. I stayed quiet. The meeting continued,
and we discussed the competition and how to get bigger shares of budgets.
Later
in the meeting, Michael asked why they decided to have three representatives
from the station present at each meeting, to which the Gynecologist replied, “I
prefer to gang bang the buyers. We always get more money that way.”
I
lined up with my co-workers to shake hands when the meeting was over, then
quickly found sanctuary in the lady’s room. I sat on fully clothed on the toilet
for a very long time, pretending that what he said, and the fact that my
managers had allowed it, was acceptable. I fought the tears, chiding myself for
being too sensitive.
I
accompanied these men on sales calls for two days and wanted to shower after
each one. But I marched as ordered. For the team.
The
undercurrent was transparent. If I spoke up, I would be labeled a hysterical
woman who ruined it for everyone. My managers believed that, and I believed
them. It was never verbalized, but it was plain that how I felt was nothing
compared to the millions of dollars the station was worth to our company.
The
Gynecologist's behavior didn't improve. The difference was that by the final
year of my contract, I had come to understand my value in a new way. I was
responsible for a significant portion of our team's revenue. My buyers liked me,
and their supervisors respected me. I had some leverage, even though I was still
classified as a trainee, and I gradually began to put my foot down about
spending time with him when he came into town.
On
one of his visits, he was more insufferable than ever, insulting my buyer and
her media director with his coarse language and insensitive jokes. I refused to
go on the call I had scheduled with him that afternoon. Proud of myself for
finally taking a stand in the moment, in retrospect, it was the point where my
managers began to see me not as a fierce and skilled salesperson, but as a
whiner who couldn't take the heat.
The
second instance occurred toward the end of my tenure when Michael invited the
entire team out for dinner and drinks. It wasn't the norm for us to go out as a
team without a client, but we'd had a successful quarter and Michael wanted to
show his appreciation. We headed to a restaurant on the Avenue of the Americas
about four blocks from the office.
I
heard murmuring from three of my colleagues walking ahead of me and looked up to
see a gaggle of models – tall, thin, long hair, and all in nude, low-cut,
spandex micro-dresses that left little to the imagination. They looked as if
they'd just come from Robert Palmer's “Addicted to Love” video. The comments
zipped by like missiles.
Holy
shit!
I'll
take the one in the middle.
I
want to put my face between those tits!
I'd
like to bend her over a desk.
I
felt like I'd been hit with a stun gun. Everything moved in slow motion, and I
wanted to scream, “Shut up!” But I didn't. I couldn't. I was mute. Trapped in a
maelstrom of thoughts and emotions.
As
the women walked by, each of the guys turned around and walked backwards while
continuing their catcalls.
Look
at that ass! (this one was accompanied by mimed squeezing)
I
wonder if the carpet matches the drapes.
How
do I get my face between those legs?
The
women were long gone, but they kept hooting and hollering. Their chests swelled
like peacocks on the prowl, making it clear how proud they were of themselves,
of their witty banter and pithy repartee. It didn't matter that the women
ignored them. It didn't matter that I was silent. They were too oblivious to
realize that everything had changed between us.
I
broke my steadfast rule never to drink with co-workers or clients and ordered a
vodka tonic. I still couldn't speak, but no one seemed to notice. Or care.
Mid-way through my drink, I excused myself to the restroom. I stood in front of
the mirror washing my hands. I couldn't look myself in the eye. My silence was
passive participation. And I couldn't do it anymore.
I
went back to the table; told them I didn't feel well and that I was leaving.
Suddenly, they were concerned and raised their glasses to toast my feeling
better. I don't remember the ride home.
The
next day I called in sick. I swung between paralysis and anger. Nausea and
starvation. I didn’t get out of bed much. I called my mother. She was furious. I
still couldn’t feel much but I adopted her anger and sense of injustice, and it
fueled my decision to confront them. I rehearsed in the mirror how I would
demand an apology.
The
next day, before I even took my coat off, I went into my manager’s office and
shut the door. I wanted to be strong, but instead was emotional. I had been told
in many, many ways – both spoken and silent – emotion was unacceptable in this
environment. I tried to be stoic, but anger leaked out and the tears swelled
inside my eyes.
I
watched him wrestle with what he believed was his right as a man and the
unmistakable devastation their actions had caused. He turned red when I asked
him if he'd condone such behavior if his wife, mother, or daughter had been
there. I saw the fear in his eyes that I would cause a scene – an overwrought
female who couldn't put on her big girl panties. Or worse, take the incident up
the ladder. Too bad I didn't know how to leverage that at the time.
He
talked to the guys on the team, a father demanding his sons apologize for
snapping their sister’s bra. Like we were “family” and somehow that excused
their behavior. As if “boys” staring at their shoes saying, “I'm sorry” could
erase what had happened or how it made me feel.
Again,
I took one for the team. I didn't file a formal complaint and was rewarded with
a bonus at the end of the quarter that was twice the size of any other I'd
received. When my contract was up, I left.
The
new firm was the same and yet, completely different. I negotiated a decent
signing bonus because I had a better understanding of what I was worth. With a
bigger salary, I reveled in what I believed was well-earned confidence. It was
the opposite. Yes, my worth had been acknowledged financially but I still clung
to the powerlessness to which I'd grown accustomed. It just looked different. I
was arrogant and often demanding. I had little tolerance for mistakes, mine or
anyone else's.
I
exuded the worst of male energy – bullying, destructive, coercive. At the time,
I believed replicating those traits was the only way to succeed. And I was
successful. As it is defined by men.
I
hadn't even stopped to consider there could be another kind of success. One that
was softer yet filled with as much wealth. A success that included the
barometers of integrity, kindness, compassion, and peace. It's been twenty-five
years since I walked away from that career and all those experiences still
breathe inside me.
Part
of me regrets staying silent. Another understands why I did. Laws that were
ostensibly created to protect women and punish men who perpetrate this behavior
often end up injuring and humiliating the one who is harassed more than the one
who did the harassing.
Yes,
the environment in my sales job was emotionally debilitating. But I chose to
stay. The reasons are many but placing all the responsibility for the situation
on my co-workers siphons my power. To place a #metoo
hashtag as a P.S. on my story offers the illusion that I have taken my power
back when it's merely a mask that covers the truth – I didn’t speak up, no
matter the reason.
Because
of that choice, I can't help but think of how I am one stone in the path that
got us where we are today – where we still grant permission for “boys to boys,”
where we still pay women three-quarters of what men get for the same work, where
we elected a man to be president who bragged about being entitled to grab pussy
and still live in a country where a mere twenty-four words scared men so badly
that the Equal Rights Amendment still hasn't been ratified.
I
stayed in that job and remained silent, many times, out of fear that I would not
work again in the business in which I had invested so much and because I was
terrified of losing a job I'd worked so hard to get. I accepted the
powerlessness with very little push back. I didn't demand better. I didn't force
their hand. I didn't lead or offer them an opportunity for us to be better human
beings.
True
power is not just about speaking out or identifying those who did me wrong. It
must include acknowledgement of my role. I traded my dignity for a job when
there were other opportunities for me to earn a living. I also decided not to
pursue legal retribution. Those were my choices, whether I like them or not.
In
our pivot-and-blame society, it seems easier to point the finger because it
leaves us feeling righteous and superior. It garners us sympathy for enduring
the experience and accolades for having the courage to speak out. What we don't
realize is that it keeps us trapped, locked in a prison with no door where we
lick our wounds while taking comfort in the attention. True power arrived in my
life the day I looked in the mirror and accepted my silence as passive
participation.
Not
every woman is able to speak up and because of my experiences I refuse to judge.
Instead, I am committed to being the kind of woman other women feel safe with –
safe to discuss what’s going on, safe to navigate the emotional process created
by speaking about it, and safe to allow who they really are, without the fear,
to arise and flourish.
This
is how we eliminate this kind of behavior. One woman at a time until critical
mass makes change inevitable.
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I
hope you’re enjoying The Mosaic Platypus! My writing here is a piece of how I do
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World
Central Kitchen and Rainbow
Railroad, and serve as an ambassador to humanity by connecting people
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