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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