The recent spate of accusations of
sexual harassment has me assessing where I fit into this conversation. I can’t
claim to have been sexually harassed. Discriminated against because of my sex,
certainly. But harassed? I don’t think so. A few cases in the media seem like an
over-reaction to me, with the indignation out of proportion to the offenses. I’m
sorry if that doesn’t sound very feminist. I deplore sexual harassment, but I also
see some gray areas in the #metoo campaign.
Truth be told, I may have
contributed to language and behavior that some women are now calling
harassment. I enjoyed—and shared—raunchy jokes as much as my male colleagues
did. I worked in marketing for a Fortune 500 corporation and frequently traveled
with the field sales force. Raunchy came with the territory, but I didn’t feel
forced into listening. I thought of myself as “one of the guys.”
In my twenties and thirties, I was
what could have been described as hot. I began my career during the sexual
revolution. Even though I worked in “sophisticated” Manhattan, I was partial to
miniskirts. At just shy of five-feet-two, I didn’t have length to work with
when it came to my legs, but their shape more than made up for it.
I remember one lunchtime when I was
walking past a construction crew in midtown. As I passed their work site, one
of them called out: “I think I’m gonna
come in my pants.” Since I wasn’t 100% certain there wasn’t someone hotter behind
me (with a shorter skirt, if that had been possible), I kept walking and said
nothing. What I wanted to do was to answer back: “Better in yours than in mine.” We would have all laughed and I
would have won that exchange. I didn’t feel harassed; I was flattered. I suspect
most #metooers would take issue with my feelings about cat calls.
I’m now in my seventies and
definitely more fat than phat (look it up). Which is probably why I look back
fondly on the attention I received in my salad days, especially compared to
today. You could graph my receptivity as an inverse bell curve. The attention
itself, however, is a steeply declining straight line. Does the fact that I could
feel flattered while others might be offended make me complicit?
That sexual revolution I mentioned
had us all feeling our way in the business world. I was young and naïve, as
were many of my sisters, all of us plodding along in professions that were
often men’s domains. I was probably a tad too flirtatious, but I deflected
unwanted advances deftly. I didn’t slap someone after an unsolicited kiss (received
more than once, but never from the same man). I stated simply and firmly that
it was not to happen again. And it didn’t.
If I found myself on the receiving
end of an ambiguous touch, I moved away and let my body language and facial
expression convey my displeasure. That worked for me. I’m not sure why. Perhaps
being “one of the guys” earned me special consideration. Once I moved into a
position of power myself, this type of behavior stopped.
What does all of this say about my
role in the culture that produced #metoo? In today’s work environment, it seems
that nothing sexual is permissible in language or behavior. I don’t know where
the line should have been drawn between harmless flirtation and predatory
behavior in the sixties and seventies. A young man who worked for me once gave
me a box of condoms to take on my vacation to a Club Med. He handed it to me in
a brown paper bag and my entire team thought it was hilarious. Would that make
him a harasser today? Or me one, for accepting the gift? (Never used, by the
way.)
I think we should save our outrage (and
media coverage) for the truly dangerous predators. Unfortunately, there’s no
shortage of those. Here are my clear signs it’s harassment. You keep saying
“stop it” and he keeps doing it. His position of power makes you afraid to say
“stop it.” You start comparing notes in the ladies room and discover you’ve all
had similar encounters. Persistence. Power. A pattern of behavior. These can
all be indications that there’s a predator in your midst.
But if he stops when you tell him
to, can’t we just move on instead of texting #one-strike-you’re-out? And if
he’s ninety and in a wheelchair when he pats you on your fanny? How about instead
of telling the media about it, you pat him back (gently) and sidle out of
reach. When you get to be my age, it might be one of your fonder memories.
No comments:
Post a Comment